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“You nearly crossed the boundary line,” Dallas said, pointing to Octavia’s toes near the gravel.
“Did not.”
“Did, too.”
“My feet have been on this side of the gravel the whole time,” she said. “Obviously. Because I’m not over there with you.”
“Right. But you know if you get too close, if you put your hand just over the wall, I can grab it and yank you in,” Dallas warned.
She slackened her face in pretend shock, widening her deep brown eyes. “No, really?”
He glared. Impertinent little sprite.
And then the little sprite thrust out her arm, her face screwed up in an expression of exaggerated fear. “Don’t do it, Dallas Cruthers! Don’t take advantage of my naivete! I simply could not handle it.”
“You’re going to be sorry,” he growled, then reached for her hand.
He expected her to pull away with a laugh, but instead, she left her hand there, and Dallas wrapped his fingers around hers.
The connection between them was charged. Not a zap like electricity, but a conflagration travelling up his arm, like a wildfire raging through his blood.
He wanted Octavia. He’d wanted her since seeing her three years ago at Victor’s party.
He didn’t yank her into the Junkyard, though, like he’d threatened. He’d never do that.
But Olivia Waltersfeld, trapped in here? And without her overprotective brother around, growling and snapping at anyone who looked at her?
That was the stuff of wet dreams, that was.
With reluctance, Dallas let her go.
“Maybe you should run on home,” he said, his voice raspy with need. Fuck, he had to get control of himself. Victor’s little sister. Victor’s little sister. If he could just remember that, maybe he could keep his hands off of her.
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