I reach out, gripping her elbows and taking her weight. Her skin feels electric. “All right there, sweetheart?”
Steadying herself, she slowly lifts her head, her lips parting as she stares at my mouth with the strangest look. A mixture of intrigue and disbelief.
“You’ve got to be shitting me.”
I exhale a laugh. “I never quite understood that expression. What exactly does ‘shitting me’ mean? Seems like a bad thing, yeah?”
“Bad?” She smiles, just the slightest, dangerously slow pull of her lips, as if she’s already planned out this interaction and is ten steps ahead, waiting for me to catch up. “No, not bad, just didn’t think it was possible you could get any hotter. Then, boom, you have to go and open your hot Australian mouth and completely blow my mind. ‘Shitting me,’ in this case, is a very, very good thing.”
“But, it could also be used negatively.”
“Of course. If you dropped your shorts and I discovered you were in the process of going through gender reassignment surgery. In that unfortunate scenario, my ‘you’ve got to be shitting me’ would carry a whole new connotation.”
“Ah, well, I assure you,” I begin, leaning closer. “That wouldn’t be the case.”
Her eyebrow arches. “Prove it.”
“You’re serious.”
She tips her chin up, waiting.
Jesus Christ. This little thing could destroy me.
Drop my shorts, right here? No, obviously I wouldn’t, but fuck if I don’t want to maybe pull her inside and shock her a little. Show off my cock to a woman who looks like she’s ready to eat me alive.
A soft laugh erupts from her. She’s amused. I feel like I’m watching a wolf circle an innocent flock of sheep.
Eyeing up one very tempted sheep in particular.
Dimples, possibly the only cute thing about her, draw my attention from one side of her face to the other, and then my eyes can’t seem to stop roaming over her features, drinking her in. Dark, soft curls. Large hazel eyes. Her skin, olive and pink in the cheeks.
Now I’m the one doing my own fair share of staring. I clear my head and look down, realizing then I still have my hold on her.
“Sorry.” I let my hands fall away. “I’m Mason, by the way.”
“Brooke. And no need to apologize. I’d never complain if your hands were on me.”
I almost step back, if only to keep myself from pulling her into my arms and testing that theory. Groping a woman I just met in broad daylight isn’t normally a desire I find myself battling against.
But it’s never been this woman challenging me.
“Is that so?” I ask, smiling. “You’d never complain? No matter what I was doing?”
“Mm. Only one way to find out.”
I grip the base of my neck. “Christ. I fear I’ve just met the devil. Figures she’s a woman.”
“Ah, but does the devil come bearing gifts of delicious treats?” Brooke flips back the lid on the box in her hands. She holds them away from her. “I made them myself.”
The pride in her voice is unmistakable. A sweet warmth coating her words, giving me a glimpse of the woman behind the shameless exterior. Possibly the real, true version of herself.
I see you, Brooke.
I look down at the four cupcakes, sliding my hand over hers so we’re both now holding the box.
Maybe she needs help holding it.
Maybe I just want to feel her skin against mine again.
I stare into her eyes. “If they’re laced with poison, then sure. I imagine not many men being able to resist a beautiful woman with baked goods. The devil is notoriously both dangerous and alluring, is she not?”
“So I’ve been told.”
“From previous victims?”
“Victims?” She laughs, throwing her head back and revealing the graceful line of her neck. “You make me sound like a man-eater. I’m not that bad. Here.” Her finger dips into the frosting, then slides into her mouth.
Her eyes close through a moan.
Jesus fuck.