We make our way back to the roundabout again, and this time I have a hard time enjoying the scenery as I walk past more statues and fountains and other impressive sights. My mind is completely preoccupied with the imposing man walking next to me, leading me with his hand still resting snugly on my lower back.

I hate to admit it, but his hand feels amazing; strong and sure and possessive.

I really should tell him to take it off me, to keep his hands to himself, but I’m having a bit of trouble—quite a bit, actually—figuring out if that’s what I actually want. It’s the right thing to do, obviously, but no one ever said doing the right thing was easy.

I try to focus on the cool wispy blades of grass beneath my feet and the cold air blowing over my skin instead of the large, warm hand on my back and the sexy, woody cologne emanating from his body.

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