Into Their Woods (The Eerie, #1)(102)

I just might.

I shift on the couch and avoid his eyes as I mutter, “How’s a girl supposed to freak out around here when these damn shifter hormones keep interfering with my well-deserved breakdown?”

I can hear the smug smirk in his voice when he counters, “Maybe your hormones are telling you how to deal with that breakdown.”

An incredulous snort sneaks out of me.

Gannon’s judgy eyebrow flicks up. “Weren’t you the one who wanted to fuck things out earlier? Does that only work for one kind of tension?”

I roll my eyes but can feel his stare burning into me as his proposal takes root in a very naughty, tempting way.

“Blink already,” I order when his staring grows even more intense. “Stop gawking at me like you’re trying to figure out how to crack my head open and play around in my thoughts.”

“I’m just trying to figure you out, kitten,” he retorts calmly.

“You and me both,” I mumble. “Well, Ace, you could simply ask me a question. Or are big boy words too hard for you?” I mock lightly, falling back into our antagonistic pattern without any of the previous animosity that fueled it.

Gannon smiles an arrogant smile that’s entirely too attractive for such a pain in the ass. His dark hair drifts down over his ear, and he shoves it impatiently back in a move that would make me look like a hot mess, but simply makes him look—well, hot.

I clear my throat and try to stave off the flush I feel climbing up my chest.

“Are you doing okay with everything?” he asks me, genuine concern radiating in his eyes and tone.

I’m touched by the earnest warmth he’s showing me, but I’m annoyed by the question all the same. I shove the blanket off me and gather up my empty donut bowl.

“I wish people would stop asking me that,” I grumble, abandoning him in the living room and wandering into the kitchen in search of something to do other than fester under his intense stare. “What does it even mean anyway?” I lob over my shoulder while I turn on the sink and start rinsing the dishes.

“Well, last time I looked in my big boy dictionary, it’s a question that checks someone’s emotional temperature,” Gannon answers, ditching his comfy seat in the living room to follow me into the kitchen. His bare feet make almost no sound on the wood floors, even to my newly sensitive ears.

I scoff and roll my eyes. “You want to check my emotional temperature?”

“I figured this would be easier than the old-fashioned method of shoving a feelings thermometer up your ass, but if you’re old school, I’m up for it.”

I shoot Gannon an unamused look and leave my dishes in the sink, turning on the water and plucking a sponge from its fancy little holder on the counter. Leave it to Ruger to have a top-of-the-line setup just for washing dishes.

“You’d be the last person I’d let shove anything up my ass,” I snark, soaping up my bowl and then a mixing bowl that was left to soak in the sink.

“You keep telling yourself that, kitten,” he counters without missing a beat.

Gannon moves closer, much closer, and I stiffen when he brushes up against me. I open my mouth, ready to tear into the presumptuous prick, when he reaches up and opens a cabinet next to me. His torso skims my back in a way that’s hella fucking distracting. My breath catches just as he presses in further, pinning my hips to the counter.

What’s he doing? Images of him grabbing my hips, spinning me around, and kissing the life out of me flicker through my head.

He pulls out a rolled drying mat and sets it next to the sink.

Bastard.

I expect him to step away then, anticipating the separation. I ignore the disappointment that flickers through me at that thought. But his body continues to bracket mine.

Awareness heightened, those shifter hormones that have been flaring all day start buzzing impatiently. His left arm reaches around in front of me…

And joins his right arm as he unrolls the drying mat.

“Ruger doesn’t like water spots on his counters,” he practically whispers in my ear, and goose bumps skitter up my arms at his tantalizing tone and proximity, the words themselves irrelevant. My fingers grasp the bowl so tightly that I’m surprised it doesn’t crack.

My eyes become glued to the way the veins in his forearm move and his muscles stretch as he takes the bowl out of my hands and puts it onto the mat.

I’m panting by the time he steps back.

Spraying a can of Raid on the butterflies fluttering around my stomach, I take a deep breath to center myself and try to think of something else other than how good he smells.

“How did that wolf in the woods mindspeak to me?” I ask, proud of how steady my tone is as I scoop my mind out of the gutter it’s trying to slink into. My libido hisses at me. That wanton hussy doesn’t want to crawl out of that trench, she wants to swim in it, lounge around in every debauched, obscene moment she can think of.

Not on my watch.

I turn to study Gannon, who’s leaning back against the island countertop, arms crossed over his wrinkle-free white T-shirt that’s clearly been ironed to perfection. Weirdo.

His brow furrows at my question as if he’s confused.

“I thought you all said mindspeak didn’t work with just anyone,” I explain. “We can use it because your den bit me. But I thought it required a connection between wolves. Unless you’re the alpha. How did that wolf talk to me today? Is he an alpha?”