I glide my palms up, secretly living for every popped vein and corded muscle that I come across. No flannel today-it’s too hot outside-so it’s skin on inked skin. Nodding, I settle my hands on his forearms. Well, well, well, would you look at that-it’s time Owen received a taste of his own medicine. He blinks, eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. I lean back against his hands that are still gripping the desk. “You’re smart, Rose,” Owen says now, his hands planted on either side of me, his chin jutted forward in cocky defiance. “My point is, I sent you home and yet you still watched it.” I poke him in the chest, right over his heart. I’m not letting him walk out of this one so easily. “Your point? The whole fucking country is glued to you on the TV.” His Adam’s apple bobs down the length of his throat. When he says nothing, I fill the silence. Lift my eyes until I’m looking into his black gaze and watching the myriad of emotions-trepidation, frustration, vulnerability-fight for dominance. I slip my hand out from under his and spin around in his embrace.
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