I glared down at him. “Not remotely. I’m manipulated . . . violated . . . mortified—” “Now you’re just trying to turn me on.” Trying? I followed the hectic flush as it slipped down his throat and under the wing collar of his dress shirt. “Oh, yes. I’m not going to suffer alone.” “I might’ve—” he choked on an indrawn breath “—misjudged this.”
