“I know why you’re out of control,” he murmured. “I probably would be, too.” Probably? No freakin’ doubt about it. His own leash neared the snapping point.
Her eyes reflected her confusion “You do?”
Motherfucker! Had he said that out loud? Even if he’d correctly guessed why she’d been acting out, the dingy club corridor didn’t exactly come equipped with an armchair psychoanalyst’s couch. Not that he was in any position to play how-do-you-feel-about-that with her.
He shook his head, trying to clear it. Don’t fucking lose it now, pal. Get a grip. Regain control. Rein yourself the fuck in. More difficult when she stood so close. Im-fucking-possible. But by the unholy get of Lilith, she smelled good. Like the Cinnabon stand at the mall. His guilty weakness whenever a regal assignment took him topside to the human plane.
But better than that. Spicier. Muskier. As if trickles of rich mocha, dark chocolate, a hint of pepper, and brain-melting sex had been swirled into the alluring bun recipe. His mouth practically watered. He wanted to devour her.