Page 111 of None Of Your Business

When he finally sets the frame back on the shelf, some of the weight lifts off his shoulders.

The house goes quiet as it fades, and I’m suddenly aware of everything—the late hour, his house, my dress, the way he’s looking at me.

The gallery comes rushing back.

He feels it too. I know he does.

His eyes trace the line of my collarbone before locking back onto my face. His gaze is possessive and completely devoid of his usual professional distance. My skin tingles under its weight.

He clears his throat. “I should take you home,” he says, but he doesn’t step back.

My heart hammers against my ribs.

Home.

Back to my cold, quiet studio.

God, I don’t want to go home.

Be selfish, Rowan.

The thought rings loud and clear, drowning out every instinct to play it safe, to deflect with a joke, to protect myself from wanting too much.

“Should you?” I ask softly.

“Ro—”

I don’t let him finish. I step out from the shadow of the shelf, get up on my tiptoes, and catch his mouth with mine.

The heat is instant. I tangle my fingers in his hair, pulling him down and tasting the sweet syrup on his tongue.

For a second, he freezes beneath my touch.

Oh God, I misread the entire situation, didn’t I?

I pull back sharply. “I—I’m sorry,” I stammer. “Jesus, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—that was—I’ll go.”

I turn to bolt for the kitchen, but Hudson’s hand shoots out, his fingers wrapping around my arm and yanking me back against his chest.

“Like hell,” he growls, his hand wrapping around my nape, pulling me flush against him until I can feel every inch of how hard he is. “You don’t get to start a fire in my house and run away from it.”

His mouth crashes down on mine, and this time, there’s zero hesitation.

A choked moan escapes from the back of my throat and into his mouth. His hands slide down to frame my hips, his fingers digging into my dress. In one fluid motion, he lifts me off the floor.

His lips only leave mine to drag a scorching trail of biting, wet kisses down my jawline, over the hammering pulse in my throat, and down to the exposed curve of my collarbone. I throw my head back as a shiver runs through me.

“If we don’t stop right now—”

I grab a handful of his hair, pulling his head up so his blown-out eyes are locked on mine. “If you stop, so help me God, I will kill you myself.”

The last of his restraint snaps.

He carries me upstairs with an effortless strength that makes my stomach roll with heat.

In his bedroom, he lowers me onto the edge of the mattress and steps back just long enough to pull his shirt over his head, tossing it aside.

My thighs press together as I watch, transfixed, the flex of his corded chest and shoulders.