Falling for a John
Lennox whispers deeply, his voice rough, "or you're infatuated with me."
Damn it. His words ignite a spark within me.
A satisfied smile stretches across his face, cheek to cheek. In some parallel universe, I'd be a philosopher composing treatises about that goddamn smile and its profound effect on me.
Lennox says, "I'm flattered."
I groan in frustration. Blood rushes downwards, my arousal refusing to subside. "I'm mildly, somewhat attracted to you," I confess. "That's nowhere near obsession, not even close."
"Mildly, somewhat," he repeats softly, his gaze dancing across my features. He runs his tongue over his bottom lip, his silver piercing catching the light. The air grows heavier.
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