it didn’t mean anything more. His free hand slides up the back of my neck and into my hair, his fingers cradling my skull. Even with warning, I find I am not prepared for the intimacy of his touch, and I go rigid, my spine rising off the doorframe. “Easy, lass,” he says, as if I were a restless mare. “I’ll be gentle.” His eyes stay locked on mine as his fingers conduct their search, carefully and thoroughly examining every strand by touch. With his other hand gripping my hip, I have no choice but to endure. Unable to withstand the accusing heat in his eyes, I lower my gaze and find it snagging
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