The man looked on, somewhat heartbroken, and extended his long arm to wrap around her waist.
With a slight force of his wrist, he pulled her over to sit on his lap.
Crossley Gibson came back to herself, startled to find herself sitting on the man's lap, and instinctively wrapped her arms around his neck.
Perhaps because she was in a bad mood, she really needed comfort, needed a shoulder, so she naturally leaned against his chest.
The woman's hands clutched his shirt, moving up and down, her thoughts elsewhere, unaware of when her hands began to caress the man's chest.
Until Ose Owen caught her wrist, his low, husky voice whispered in her ear, "Little vixen..."
He called out the nickname he often used for her three years ago, startling Crossley. She looked up at the man's chiseled jaw and asked, "Did you used to call me that?"
"Do you remember?" The man lifted her chin, his dark eyes deep and heavy as ink, as if they would draw one in.
