DOM: Alliance Series Book Three (3)

An embarrassing squeak bursts from my lips, and I splay my arms, desperately trying to catch myself.

I wish my eyes would shut, but they’re stuck wide open, watching all the people who are watching me and hoping to witness the klutzy girl wipe out in the airport terminal.

Except I don’t fall.

What has to be a freakishly strong arm encircles my waist and pulls me back against a hard body.

“I got you.” The same masculine voice from before speaks into my ear, only this time it’s quiet. A whisper. A growl. A something.

Swallowing, I let my arms drop and force my body to relax. The need for bracing no longer there.

“Thanks,” I breathe out before I notice that his big hand is splayed across my stomach.

A stranger is touching my stomach. My soft, squishy stomach.

I can only pray that he’s not as attractive as he sounds.

“Don’t be thanking me, Angel.” His hand slides across my tummy to my waist as he moves from behind me to next to me. “If that asshole hadn’t bumped into me, I wouldn’t have knocked into you.”

“Oh, it’s okay. I…” I start to say more, but then my eyes flick up to the tall man beside me, and my ability to form words vanishes.

Holy fuck-me eyes.

I blink.

Scratch that. Holy fuck-me everything.

His piercing blue irises are only the beginning.

A man in a suit, with closely buzzed dark hair, a matching trimmed beard, and shoulders wide enough to sit on, is smiling down at me like he’s truly happy to be inconvenienced by crashing into me.

His lips move.

They’re a shade darker, a shade pinker than his tanned skin.

His lips moved.

“Sorry?” My cheeks heat as I admit I didn’t hear him, even though we’re standing face-to-face.

His smile widens. “Did I hurt you?”

My brain is straight-up short-circuiting because my mind dives headfirst into the gutter, picturing him asking me that when we’re both sweaty and naked—in bed.

“No,” I croak. Jesus, Val. Get it together. “Did I hurt you?”

Did I hurt you?

I want to slap a hand over my mouth. Or crawl under the nearest bench and pretend I’m dead.

The man’s mouth tips into a smirk. “Don’t think a little thing like you could, even if you tried.”

Little?

Is it hot in here?

It’s really hot in here.

The pressure on my back shifts, and I realize his big palm is still there, holding me in place.

He lowers his face.

Is he going to kiss me?

My eyes start to close before they snap back open.

He’s not going to kiss me. This isn’t a Hallmark movie. Or a porno.

He keeps lowering, though, bending down, and my eyes drop to the floor.

Oh, right, my backpack.

And my cookie.

My face heats even more.

Seriously, my brain cannot pick a lane.

I’m blushing over his closeness. Flustered over him calling me little. Self-conscious about how his hand was touching my stomach. Feeling fat over being caught eating a cookie. And just over-freaking-heated over him.

The hand that was resting against my back brushes over my butt as he drops into a crouch at my feet.

And that accidental touch is enough to frazzle me even more.

It’s been way too long if an innocent graze of fingers against my butt cheek is enough to have my core tightening.

I force myself to snap out of my trance and squat down next to him.

“I got it,” I say, but I don’t even reach for the bag. Because I’m too busy staring at his tattooed fingers.

Tattooed. Fingers.

I almost mewl. But thank god I don’t. That’s a level of mortification I don’t think I could recover from.

I love tattoos. There’s something about them that’s just so… hot. So brave.

I’ve always wanted them, but I’ve been too chicken to get one. Afraid the pain will be too much and I’ll cry the whole way through. Or worse, bail after two minutes and end up with half a design.

But this man…

I press my lips together as I watch him pick up my broken chocolate chip cookie and wrap the pieces in the tiny brown paper bag it came in. And I really just can’t stop staring.

His whole hand is tattooed. Fingers, the back of the hand, all of it. And when he reaches for the napkin I also dropped, the bright white cuff of his sleeve pulls back, exposing an expensive watch and more tattoos.

I sway.

“Steady, Shorty.” The hand not holding the cookie grips my elbow.

His fingers against my bare skin are somehow grounding, but the use of a second endearment throws me right off balance again.

I didn’t miss the way he called me Angel before. I just couldn’t process it.

No one has ever called me anything other than Val. No one even uses my full name anymore.

“You okay?” The man’s voice is softer now. Less amusement, more concern.

And it’s all too damn much.

Crouched next to each other, we’re closer to the same height. But even like this, he’s taller than me. Wider than me. Bigger than me. And I need to flee. If I spend another moment in his presence, I’m going to melt into a goopy puddle of hormones on the floor. And nobody wants to witness that.