Free While You Were Writing: Watkin's Pond, Book 2 by Virginia Nelson

squeal and jump did.
    “What in the ever-loving hell do you think you’re doing?” Her hands propped onto her hips, flushed in fury, as she faced off with him. Gone was the controlled woman who planned and plotted and picked at him, replaced by a ball of angry emotions.
    Since his own engine revved on equally high emotions, he smiled back at her. “If I’ve a desire to throw a bottle at a wall, I can. It’s my house.”
    “Are you drunk?” She didn’t back down, not even faced with all six foot four of him looming in the doorway and throwing shit. He respected her temerity even as it further amped his own adrenaline.
    “Probably.” The concession cost him nothing. “Tell me more about Preston.”
    “You need to go lock your ass back in your office until you sober up, McQueen.” Turning, she faced her painting again, disregarding him entirely.
    “You need to stop telling me what to do, woman!” He bellowed the words, his voice echoing through the house.
    She didn’t budge, continuing to paint as if unaffected by his wrath.
    He breathed deeply, searching for sanity in his boiling rage and not finding much of it.
    Then he saw it. Her hand, where she held the brush, trembled. She wasn’t unaffected by him. She faked it.
    For some reason, this was the only information he needed to move closer, to go within her space and growl near her ear. “You wanted answers, Sheri. Don’t hide now. I’m here. I’m willing to answer your questions. But first, you have to answer mine. Tell me more about Preston.”
    “I don’t have to do a good golly damn thing, you drunken oaf. Back your ass up.” Her face was still flushed and her eyes glittered up at him, angry gems of color surrounded by jewel-bright amber hair.
    “You’re hiding. You pretend to help others, some misguided attempt at penance for a death that wasn’t your fault.” He threw the words at her, darts aimed at her weaknesses, and she could either back down because his trajectories made their marks or attack.
    She chose attack.
    “You’ve got this bubble around you, just like you put a bubble around this house and these things. Nothing can penetrate it. You’re hiding too.” Throwing her hands in the air, she spun away from him.
    He snatched her back, tugging her close to his hot and hungry body. “Are you scared? Afraid of trying to penetrate that bubble, Sher? Are you afraid of me, of what I’ll do?” He whispered the words, close to her ear, and she shuddered. It took so little from him to leave her shaking in response. With one hand, she reached back and cupped his cock through his jeans.
    “I’m not afraid to try. Perhaps you should worry about how very not afraid I am.”
    His breath rasped out of his lungs, fast and ragged. He shut his eyes against the emotions that rushed his system.
    Whatever he’d expected her to do when cornered shattered beneath the illicit pleasure of her touch. She’d crossed a line, perhaps the invisible bubble she mentioned, and whether she knew it or not, there was no turning back. “Are you going for shock value, Sheri? I’m not going to back off because you’re touching me, so if that’s what you’re after…”
    He left the words hanging, one half hoping she’d release him and run, slamming her door and putting a physical barrier between them. The other half hoped she’d turn and wrap her arms around him, inviting actual intimacy rather than this façade of a touch that still felt so good.
    Her small laugh raked across his raw nerves. “Even now, you’re trying to use words to shove me away. Do you think I can’t see that?”
    He swallowed and inhaled the sweet scent of her hair. He longed to wrap his arm around her waist, pull her closer and streak kisses up the length of her neck. To finally kiss her, like he’d been imagining since he met her. Instead, he exhaled and found more words. “I can’t compete with your precious Preston, Sher. I’m not a sweet boy who never did a thing wrong in his