Red Thorns (Thorns Duet #1) by Rina Kent

For what, I have no clue.

In just a fraction of a second, his hold on my waist is the only thing keeping me standing.

It’s like a foreign entity has possessed my body and I’m caught in a trance. Partly because I want to end it and partly because I don’t ever want this to be over.

The two facets clash and claw at each other, creating a suffocating tension in the confines of my shriveling heart.

I’ve never been touched like this, as if I could be swallowed whole any second. As if his large strong hands could hold my face—and other parts of me—hostage. As if his body could easily overpower mine and force me to submit.

And the scariest part isn’t the confusion that accompanies those thoughts. It’s the sharp tingles between my legs. It’s the dipping of my stomach that matches his maddening rhythm.

It feels like hours have passed when he releases my lips, a small trail of saliva sticking between us as he pulls back. A strange sound echoes in the air and I realize it’s mine.

His tropical eyes cage me for the second time tonight, only this time, the mask he always wears doesn’t hide the fire in them.

Like fireworks.

Or maybe a volcano.

Either way, it’s at the point of eruption and I don’t want to be there when it happens. I don’t want to witness the moment when the perfect star actually shows to the world that he’s not so perfect after all.

And yet, I’m held prisoner by the power of his presence, entranced by the smallest details. Like the way sweat trickles down the side of his face, giving him the aura of a warrior. The way the black line shadows the color of his eyes. Or how his spicy scent mixes with sweat in a masculine kind of way.

Even the imperfection of his damp hair that haphazardly falls across his forehead looks flawless.

Sebastian swiftly shifts his attention to the side and that’s when I’m struck by the fact that he just kissed me on television.

Fuck.

The reporter is saying something, but it filters through my buzzing ears. Not only because embarrassment is whirling through me, but more due to the fact that I’m caught off guard. That I didn’t see the situation coming and couldn’t act accordingly.

Sebastian doesn’t let me go and I don’t struggle. One, I’m still in some sort of a haze. Two, it’d draw more unwanted attention to myself. Three, it’s fruitless to compare his strength to mine.

As I wait for the reporter to go away, I can’t help inhaling his scent into my starved lungs. There’s a high note of bergamot, pepper, and amber. Mixed with sweat from the game, he smells like a fighter. I can’t help imagining him crushing someone in his path.

Or me.

My core clenches at the thought and I quickly shove it back to where it came from. But it doesn’t completely go away. It remains there, lingering, biding its time, and taunting me with endless options.

And now, I think I’m in serious trouble because this scent? Yeah, I don’t think I’ll be able to erase it from my memories anytime soon.

The reporter finally leaves with a knowing smirk in our direction, but Sebastian’s grip around my waist doesn’t ease. If anything, he tightens it further until I wince.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I hiss, finally snapping out of whatever spell his scent just cast on me.

His eyes twinkle under the lights as if he’s finding pleasure in whatever show he’s putting on. “Which part? Kissing you? Or doing it publicly?”

“Both!”

“Why? You’d rather I did it in private?” His thumb strokes the bare skin above my skirt, grazing the line of my belly. A tender sensation blossoms at the bottom of my stomach with each caress. “I can take care of that.”

“I don’t want you to take care of anything except for leaving me the hell alone.” I slam both hands on his chest to push him away, but he might as well be a buffalo. A dangerous one with boundary issues, because he takes that as an invitation to step further into my space.

His chest creates friction against my breasts that I want to hate, but I can’t help the increasing tightness in my stomach. We’re separated by his football gear and my sports bra and top and yet, it’s like his naked skin is rubbing against my nipples, stimulating them, peaking them, and crossing the line of no return.

“But I don’t want to.” The words leave his sinfully proportioned lips with a seductive tilt.

“What do you mean you don’t want to?”

“I don’t want to let you go, Naomi. I rather like it here. Just like this.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“Is lying a defense mechanism of yours?”

“Leave me alone before you meet my actual defense mechanism.”

“And what is that?”

“I’d rather show you.” I lift my knee to hit him in the balls, but his reflex is faster than mine. His large palm nearly engulfs my thigh and he loops it around his and positions it in a way that seems as if I’m humping him in public.

If my attempted attack fazes him, he doesn’t show it as he smiles in that fake-ass way. Like some fancy politician in front of cameras. “Now, Naomi. If we’re going to have a healthy relationship, there shouldn’t be any violence present. Unless…it’s the type of violence we both agree on.”

A shudder grips me at the sinister undertone of his words, and although I don’t really understand what they mean, an unfamiliar part of me rises to the surface with a force that startles the shit out of me.