Bury the Hatchet by Catherine Gayle

at the goings-on. “Don’t brush me off on this,” he grumbled. “Lance did it, didn’t he?” he added when I didn’t respond.
    “It doesn’t matter.”
    “Don’t tell me it doesn’t matter. The bastard calls me a fucking Neanderthal, and then he goes and bruises your arm the second I take my eyes off you?”
    “It’s not as bad as—”
    “Isn’t it?” His green eyes, as piercing as any I’d ever seen up close, were pinprick sharp. “Explain to me how that asswipe leaving bruises on your skin isn’t as bad as I think it is, because I’m leaning toward it being worse.”
    “I meant it isn’t as bad as what’s going on with your brother,” I shouted at him. Actually, it wasn’t quite a shout. It was definitely louder than I should have been talking, though, because at least a dozen people spun around to gawk at us, including one of the camera guys. I probably should have kept my voice down and acted like a lady, like Mama was always telling me, but this was getting so far out of hand it was ridiculous, and I had lost all sense of self-control after everything Lance had put me through today. I was over it. Done. I’d had enough, and Hunter was just going to have to accept that I had no intention of being a meek little miss, sitting around and waiting for someone to give me permission to speak. I planted my hands on my hips and narrowed my eyes on him. “Now I don’t know how your mama raised you, but something tells me you know family is the most important thing you’ll ever have in your life, so you’d just better get it in your head right now that—”
    He took my hand and tugged until I followed him, stumbling, out the closest exit. “ You’d better get it in your head that we’re not doing this in public with all of those cameras on us. And that you don’t know everything there is to know about me and my family, let alone my asshole brother who’s already made his choices in life and proven he isn’t ever going to change. He doesn’t want anyone’s help, and even if he did, he doesn’t deserve it. Not yours, at least.”
    He didn’t stop, despite the fact that I was practically running in my heavy, clunky, bedazzled high heels in order to keep up with his long stride, until we’d nearly reached the church’s nursery. He threw open the door, flipped on the light, checked to be sure we were alone, and shut it behind us.
    His big body was too close to me, leaving me lightheaded with awareness, so I backed up a few steps. Then I bumped into the wall. Hunter followed me, bracing his arms on either side of me and leaning in so close I could feel the heat of his anger. But that heat mixed with something else between us, and it bounced around like hot, yearning, burning need. I couldn’t take a breath without my breasts brushing against the fine wool of his tux, couldn’t hold on to a thought because he was looking at me like he wanted to eat me alive, and Lord Jesus help me but I wanted to let him. I wanted to do more than let him devour me. I wanted to tear him apart a piece at a time and let him melt on my tongue, savoring every single tasty bite I could get. I wanted it so much I thought I might burst from the wanting if something didn’t happen to break this crazy, animalistic tension between us, and soon.
    My breaths were ragged, falling off with each exhalation. At least he seemed to have it just as bad as me, his chest dusting mine at an increasing pace. But somehow his eyes were even more intense than before. With the tip of one finger, he teased the line of my collarbone until I was a shuddering, goose-bump-riddled mess.
    One of his eyes twitched a couple of times. “And you’re not going to tell me it’s unimportant that that bastard laid his hands on you,” he added.
    “It won’t happen again,” I said. I would have said more than that, but my voice failed me even worse than my lungs had. Hunter was too sexy, too male, too potent. Way too close. He was just all-around