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“Calm down, sis. I’m not hitting on you. Although, you should be so lucky. I’m a great fucking catch.” I really am. But only for a night or two. Then I’d throw my own self back overboard.
He’s more. He’s living, electric art. And not just because of the vivid tattoos sprawled over his skin. He’s so . . . vibrant. Drawn in broad, bold strokes that demand attention. Painted in screaming slashes of color that refuse to be ignored.
Two large inked hands bracket mine, and I stare at the differences in size, in complexion, in strength. For an instant, I’m damn near entranced by them. Fingers and palms almost twice the length and width. Light to dark. He could easily enclose my hands in his, covering them, squeezing them, pressing them together. Now, he does none of those. Just braces me.
Yeah, I’m no stranger to being looked at as a mistake. But I’m fucking tired of being hers.
You weren’t expecting me, and that scares the hell out of you. And that’s okay, because you terrify me too. But the difference between me and you? I’m not running away from you. I’m running toward you.”
“I think she just had a breakthrough,” Levi says to Zora, though his gaze is pinned on me. “And I didn’t even have to threaten Jordan.” He shrugs. “Damn.” Zora snorts, although her soft smile lights up her eyes. “Don’t kid yourself, Leviticus. Jordan Ransom would bench-press you.”
“Sweetheart.” It’s all I can get out as I set her on her feet, cup her face, and tip her head back. Sweeping my thumbs over her cheekbones, the corners of her mouth, I shake my head and loose an admittedly shaky laugh. “What’re you doing here? Well, besides giving me the best rom-com grand-gesture moment created?”
