Page 253 of Faking the Goal

Well.

Hello, caveman.

The guy finally lifts his hand. "Jesus. Fine."

Kentaro immediately catches me around the waist and pulls me against him, his palm spreading possessively over my hip as he stares the guy down.

"Good."

The guy raises both hands. "Message received."

Apparently not enough for Kentaro, because his arm tightens around me.

"Next time you put your hands on someone's girlfriend, make damn sure she isn't mine."

Fuck.

My inner voice is screaming at me to stop encouraging this.

My hormones have apparently staged a hostile takeover.

The guy mutters something I can't hear and disappears into the crowd. Kentaro watches him go before finally looking down at me, and the irritation in his face eases into concern.

"Are you okay?"

I stare up at him, absurdly entertained by the fact that this man just crossed half a nightclub looking ready to commit a felony because someone touched me, and his first concern is whether I'm fine.

"I'm fantastic."

His eyes narrow at my grin.

"Actually," I add, sliding my hands up his chest, "that was kind of hot."

"Trouble."

"What? You went full caveman. You know I like that side of you."

His arm stays firmly around my waist, and for a few seconds I'm perfectly content to stand there enjoying the fact that all of his attention is back on me.

Then, because apparently my brain hates happiness, I remember Emma.

The jealousy returns, quieter than before but still there. I glance toward the booth without meaning to, and Kentaro follows my gaze.

"Something wrong?"

"Nope."

He studies me with that annoyingly perceptive expression of his. "You sure?"

"Absolutely."

Before he can start asking questions I have no intention of answering, I smile, turn in his arms, and tug him farther onto the dance floor.

Kentaro resists for approximately two steps.

"Trouble."

"Dance with me."