Slow Burn by K. Bromberg

his SUV pull into the parking lot. “Well, hal-e-fucking-lu-jah,” I mutter, annoyed at myself for the thrill racing through me because I get to see Becks again.
    And that in itself is a huge problem. But it’s a problem I don’t have time to delve into any deeper if I plan on being ready for the event and the setup on time.
    He pulls up beside me and my stomach flip-flops when I look over at him through our car windows. His head is angled down, looking at something in his lap, wraparound sunglasses covering his eyes, and I study the line of his profile as I wait for him to look over at me. Finally, he finishes whatever he’s concentrating on in his lap and glances my way before getting out.
    My heart quickens as I exit my car, and fuck me sideways because I don’t want it to quicken. And I don’t want that sudden ache between my thighs.
    I walk to the back of our cars just as he does. And of course his presence—the sight of him, the scent of his cologne, that easy way he moves—has every one of my senses on high alert. He leans his shoulder against the back of his car, arms folded across his chest and my cell phone fisted in his hand. His eyes are hidden behind his tinted lenses, but I can feel them scrape their way over my body, despite his impassive expression.
    He purses his lips as we stand in a silent standoff, each of us trying to figure out how the other is going to react. And the problem is, I’m supposed to be unaffected by him, but hell if my eyes don’t keep wandering to that mouth of his, thinking of the incredible things it is capable of doing.
    Suck it up, Had
. It was a one-off thing. Time to be a big girl and lock and load the chastity belt.
    “Hey, there.”
    “Haddie.” He nods his head at me and says nothing further. This behavior is so unlike the Becks I know that I’m at a loss trying to figure out how to play this. I’m sure he has questions about Dante answering the phone, but in all reality, it’s none of his damn business. If it makes anyone look bad, then it’s me, and frankly that might be for the best in order for him to knock this shit off.
    Whatever.
    I hold his phone out to him, and he takes it, his fingers grazing over mine—that cataclysmic current shocking up my arm at his touch. I pull back immediately and curse myself for it because it’s impossible for him not to notice my reaction. And my curse is also for being affected once again by the one person I don’t want to be affected by. More than that, though, is the fact that Becks has refolded his arms across his chest and has still not given me back my phone. Or shown the slightest reaction to our connection. What the hell?
    “Are you pissed at me?”
    He looks at me a moment longer, head angled to the side. “Nope,” he says as he pushes off the car and stands to full height. “I just have to keep repeating them in my head.”
    What?
I’m lost here. “Repeating what in your head?”
    “My rules.” One side of his lips curl up, a smarmy smirk playing over his mouth. I want to tell him to take his sunglasses off so I can look in his eyes, so I can see that easy-go-lucky Becks I know, not this arrogant, closed-off guy standing in front of me. I shake my head because I’ve never seen this side of him, and, well, it’s kind of hot.
    Damn it! Just what I don’t need to be thinking right now. Don’t need to be seeing right now: Becks in this light.
    “Your rules?”
    “Yep,” he reaffirms with a measured nod, and just keepslooking at me. I’m about to ask him what exactly those rules are when he continues. “Rule number one: Don’t sleep with friends…. It just seems to complicate things.”
    I can see him fighting the full-blown smirk on his face, and the quip is off my tongue before I can stop it. “Well, it seems you already broke that rule, Country.” I fight the urge to step into him. Hating the potent mixture of need, attraction, irritation, and irrefutable lust that’s vibrating within me.
    And