“Melissa St. James.”

“Mel,” Grayson says. His deep, masculine voice hits me square in the chest.

It takes me a moment to speak, and all I manage to say is: “Hi.”

“Hey,” he says.

There’s a beat of silence between us. An unspoken word, filled with everything that happened between us last night.

I shut my eyes. But behind my lids, all I see is him. Kissing me. Touching me. Wanting me.

I can’t do this. I open my eyes and say, “Why are you calling? Because if it’s—”

“Wanted to hear your voice.”

With that one utterance, Grayson knocks the wind out of my sails. I lose my resolve.

He wanted to hear my voice. I feel like crying in frustration. He’s being so sweet and I want him so very badly.

And my boss is trying to put him in prison. Actually, he wants me to put him in prison. I’m royally screwed. I have no clue what to do. For the first time in my life, I don’t have the answer to this. I really hate the universe sometimes.

“You shouldn’t say things like that to me,” I tell him.

“You think I shouldn’t. I think I should. One thing you should know about me is that I always tell the truth. So I’ll keep saying those things until you start listening to them. I want to hear your voice, I’ll call you. I want to tell you that I want you, I will. And, Mel, I do want you. Whether you want to hear that or not, I’m still going to say it. It doesn’t make it any less true.”

Oh, God. Now he’s being all forceful and alpha, and it’s so goddamn hot. He’s got me spinning in circles.

“Now, I’m going to tell you that I want to see you. That I need to see you.” His voice is low and deep, almost a growl, making me shiver.

“That’s…that wouldn’t be a good idea,” I say, because it’s true. It would be the worst idea ever. But also probably the best idea.

It’s only because he’s forbidden, I tell myself. We all want what we can’t have, right? It makes it all the more desirable.

Even as I think the words, I know they’re not true.

I would want Grayson even if he was readily available to me.

There’s just something about him…something that has gotten under my skin and embedded itself deep inside me.

“The best things usually come from the worst ideas,” he says seductively.

“I…can’t.”

God, I want to punch myself in the face. Just end the call. Get off the phone. Tell him no, and stop torturing yourself.

But then his tone changes and he says, “I really do need to see you. Just to talk. About the case. Nothing else. I’ll keep my hands to myself, I promise.” His voice sounds soft and sweet. And just like that, all bets are off.

Because, goddamnit, I want to see him, too.