HANS: Alliance Series Book Four(13)

She lets out a squeak of surprise, but she doesn’t try to stop me. Doesn’t do anything except back up.

“What the fuck are these?” My voice is quieter than before. “Who took them?”

“Wh-what?” Cassandra blinks up at me.

Her eyes are wide, and her cheeks are flushed, and she looks so much like that first photo I want to shove her to her knees to teach her a lesson about playing with fire.

“Who did you take these for?” I seethe, still stepping forward.

I don’t care who the fuck the man is. I’m going to kill him.

Cassandra continues to back away from me, moving into the living room.

“Hans, what are you—” Her question cuts off when she bumps into the back of her couch.

“This.” I hold up the book. “This is what I’m talking about, little Butterfly. Who did you fucking take these for?”

She drops her eyes to the little black book in my hand, and her brows furrow for a moment before her eyes widen.

Guilty.

“Oh my god!”

Her gasp goes straight to my dick, which has been hard as stone since I first opened this fucking book.

She reaches for it, but I hold it up.

She’s average height, but I’m not, so it’s out of her reach.

“Tell me.” My demand is ridiculous. She doesn’t owe me anything. I have no rightful claim over her.

But I’m past being reasonable. And she’s pushed me here.

“Where did you get that?” Her eyes bounce between me and the book.

“It was delivered to my house.” I step closer, leaving only an inch of space between our bodies. “Now answer the question, Cassandra. Who took these?” Shifting my grip on the cover, I let the book flop open.





CHAPTER 13





Cassie





My mouth drops open as I take in the image hanging from my neighbor’s large hand.

It’s me, but it’s…

Wow.

The flush crawling up my cheeks deepens.

It’s me, laid out on the prop bed from the photo shoot, with the fluffy comforter bunched up beneath me and my hands above my head, one of my knees bent to the side.

I had fun that day, pretending to be a model. Pretending I was a total sexpot. But I didn’t get to see any of the photos. That’s the deal. Trust the photographer, and she picks the best ones to put in the book.

And goddamn, that photographer earned every single dollar I paid her.

Hans shifts his grip, and the page flips, a new, equally provocative image revealing itself.

Then my brain glitches back into reality, and I remember what’s happening.

Hans is holding the book.

He is here.

He’s seen the photos.

And for some reason… he’s mad.

I reach for the book, but his free hand darts out and grips my wrist, holding it between us.

He lowers his gaze from mine, and I know the moment he looks past the hand he’s holding captive and to my chest.

His nostrils flare, and I swear his jaw clenches.

And in reaction, my already tight nipples harden further against my thin shirt. The fabric feels like sweet torture, and knowing he’s looking sends a jolt down my belly to between my legs.

I try to remember what he was saying. I’m pretty sure Hans asked me a question.

But all I can concentrate on is his nearness. The heat of his body so close to mine. The way the skin on my wrist feels under his grip.

I inhale, trying to clear my thoughts, but it doesn’t work. Because it just fills my final sense with him. This man and pine scent. The one that haunts me through this house whenever I think too much about him.

“Hans.” His name comes out as a whisper.

He shifts closer, our hands now pressed between our bodies. “Who took the photos, Cassandra?”

Cassandra.

My name said in his voice… Why is it so sinful?

“Who?” he repeats.

“It was a photographer,” I answer like a moron.

“Give me his name.” Hans leans closer.

And I feel…

My body arches on its own against him.

He’s hard.

For me.

Satisfied pride swamps me.

I don’t know what’s going on. This is the most Hans has ever said to me.

He’s in my house. Barged in without an invitation. Shouting my name. Because he’s turned on. And…

Wait.

“Are you jealous?” I can’t keep the inappropriate excitement out of my tone.

He lowers the hand holding the book.

I don’t turn away from him, but I watch from the corner of my eye as he tucks the book behind the back cushion on my couch.

Then, with his hand empty, he reaches up and grips the base of my ponytail. “Don’t push me, Butterfly.”

His hold is tight, and with the smallest tug, he tips my head back.

My body lights all the way up.

He shifts forward again, not stopping until our bodies are flush and I’m thoroughly trapped between him and the back of the couch. “Tell me who took them and who you took them for. I won’t ask you again.”

With the hand not in his grip, I reach out and grab at his black T-shirt to steady myself.