Page 40 of Almost Enough

“Careful,” he says, and I swear there’s amusement lurking in his voice.

The contact sends a jolt straight through me. Suddenly, I’m right back in that hot tub, trembling in his lap while he⁠—

Nope. Not going there. Not now.

Except my brain is already thinking up the images, rewinding the memory and fast forwarding to worse ideas. He’s too close. His body, his scent, his slow, steady hands…yeah. He’s got me right where he wants me, just by existing.

“You okay?” he asks, releasing my arm.

I nod, but I don’t step away. Instead, I step just a fraction closer because he’s ridiculously, unfairly, jaw-droppingly sexy, and I can’t help myself. I lay my hand on his chest. “I’m fine…but I’d be more than fine if you put your hands on me again.”

Beau’s eyes flash with something primal, and before I can blink, his hand shoots out, gripping my wrist so tightly it sends a shock of heat straight through me. His thumb presses into my pulse, the pressure making my heart race faster.

His voice comes out in a growl. “Take a step back, Whitley.”

The promise in his tone is lethal, dangerous, and absolutely electrifying. He doesn’t raise his voice because he doesn’t need to. The command in his words is enough to paralyze me, locking me in place.

I find myself unable to breathe, as though the words he just spoke have stolen all the oxygen from the room. My mind is spinning, the fight for control in me warring with my body’s instinct to obey.

I freeze, just inches away from him, my pulse hammering. I can’t move, can’t speak. I just stand there, completely at his mercy.

“You know what happens to brats who don’t listen?”

I’m guessing it would only make it worse if I told him that calling me a brat just fuels my fire? Yeah, probably.

I could step back, but as he said, there’s a part of me that wants to know exactly what happens to brats who don’t listen.

“No,” I drawl. “Why don’t you tell me?”

The muscle in his jaw ticks as he leans in, his lips brushing against my ear. “They get punished.”

My knees nearly buckle. Putty. That’s me. Absolutely, unequivocally putty in his hands. The promise in those three words makes everything inside me liquefy.

“Is that supposed to scare me?” I manage, even as a shiver runs through my body.

His thumb traces a slow circle over my pulse point. “No. It’s supposed to warn you.”

He releases my wrist and steps back, creating a respectable distance between us. The loss of contact is immediate and jarring.

“This isn’t the time or place,” he says, his voice returning to that controlled, even tone. His eyes continue to burn with something dark and hungry. “Not with everyone watching.”

I fight the urge to reach for him, to close the distance, but I keep myself in check. There’s a part of me that feels the pull of that darkness, the intensity that always seems to follow him, and it makes my skin burn with want.

I force a breath out, trying to gather my composure. “Right,” I agree. “Definitely not the time or place.”

Satisfaction flickers across his features before he masks it again with that passive expression I’m beginning to both hate and crave.

“Good girl,” he mutters under his breath as he walks away.

Jesus Christ. My panties are soaked.

I stand there, knees weak, watching him walk away with that confidence that somehow makes me want to both slap him and beg him to touch me again. Two words. That’s all it takes to turn me into a puddle on this fancy resort floor.

“Whitley!” Violet’s voice cuts through my daze. She’s waving from across the room, gesturing for me to join her. “I need a picture with you!”

I smooth my hands down my dress, take a steadying breath, and plaster on a smile. “Coming!”

The photographer arranges us in front of the fireplace. I stand to Violet’s right, focusing on the moment and being present for my best friend at her rehearsal dinner.