by Eden Summers
“You look nervous,” he growls close to my lips.
I should back out, cut and run from this careless idea. But my heart loses the panicked beat and produces something more adrenaline-based.
I want him. I need him. To make the sterile parts of tonight that hover on the edge of my awareness a little less harsh. To make life exciting for all the right reasons instead of those that are wrong.
I lean closer, taunting him with a look I hope is equally as devilish as his own. “You’re the one who should be nervous.”
His chuckle is barely audible. “It’s not my style.”
“Mine either.”
His fingers clench tighter, as if he’s daring me to back out. I won’t. Other women might be inclined to run. I still want to ride him and tame the wild beast barely contained in those eyes.
The elevator bounces to a stop and the doors open. He backs away, and I ignore the chill seeping into me as I lead the way onto the threadbare hall carpet.
My door is at the end, the very last room on the left. I sling the pack off my shoulder and pull my keys from the internal Velcro compartment, ignoring any curiosity he might have as I start working on my door.
I have three locks, the last a pin-code-operated deadbolt that is more high-tech than the entire building’s security. There’s also the small motion-activated camera beaming down at us from above the doorframe.
“Have a problem with break-ins?” he asks.
I cover the keypad, tap in the code—six, five, three, nine—and shove the door wide. “Nope. Not a one.”
I’m smart and pre-emptive when it comes to protection. This stranger at my back is a risk, but my blade is hidden in a strap below my breasts, mace is in my pack, and there’s a myriad of hidden weapons at my disposal inside this apartment.
I flick on the light, illuminating my studio space that is practically in a different dimension from the rest of the building. The paintings on the walls are huge masterpieces. The kitchen is filled with shiny new appliances. The floor is the finest polished wood.
I’ve got family money. A whole heap of it. So, I live in comfort. I just choose to do it in a shitty building. I’ve learned it is easier to blend into the rat race than the wealthy elite.
But I don’t get any of those reactions from him. I can’t hear his shock, or sense his surprise. Instead, his heavy footfalls approach, his large body pressing into mine, pushing me into the back of the sofa.
A rough hand shoves into my hair, pulling my head to the side, his mouth moving to my neck. “What’s a woman like you doing in a building like this, princess?” His voice vibrates along my carotid, killing me slowly.
The endearment is a special gift of misguided appraisal.
He thinks I’m a princess. How cute. Or maybe he’s being sarcastic. If so, he gets a gold star.
He sucks on my skin, and I moan. I’m completely unfamiliar with the acute vibrations taking over my insides. So unfamiliar I don’t want to speak for fear my voice might make it vanish.
“Who are you?” he murmurs.
I shake my head and nuzzle my ass against his crotch. He’s hard and thick, his erection an adamant force behind his zipper.
I swing around, needing those lips on mine.
He sates me immediately, taking my mouth with a harshness I don’t anticipate. I’m used to soft kisses. Kind and timid. This is profoundly better. A fierce, punishing collision of lips and teeth and tongues.
His hands find my hips and he grinds into me, teasing me with anticipation. “Who are you, Steph?” He holds my gaze, those eyes as questioning as his words.
“I’m a memory you’re going to treasure forever.” I grip his shirt and pull him forward, demanding more of his mouth.
I can’t get enough. Maybe it’s the way he scares me the slightest bit. The ferocity. The confidence. Or maybe it’s narcissistic, because his harshness kind of reminds me of myself. Either way, I’m scrambling for more.
I want. I want. I want.
I glide my hands under his shirt and place my palms on the warmth of his stomach. Another moan escapes me. The ripples of his muscles are like an ocean under my fingers, moving and changing as his hands slide down my back and squeeze my ass.
He’s so fucking strong, and I want that strength coiled around me, controlling me. I crave his temporary ownership. Instead of always being the one in command, in charge and under pressure, I want to be owned. To be a puppet instead of a puppeteer.
I claw at those muscles, working my way up his stomach and down his ribs. His masterful lips continue to overwhelm me, his tongue increasing its pace and severity.
My panties are wet, soaked, and my pussy clenches, demanding to be filled. I push my hands farther, learning more of him as I glide them around his back.
I’m about to release another moan at all the overwhelming perfection when my fingertips brush a hard object protruding from the waistband of his jeans.
He stiffens. I do the same.
He tries to recover by continuing the kiss, and I pull away, my fingers still touching the object that is undoubtedly a gun.
I wait for a response to all the questions going through my head, but he gives me nothing. No explanation. No apology. Only the lazy bat of his lashes over steely, lust-glazed eyes.
I inch closer and wrap my hand around the grip. He responds with the raise of his chin and the slightest narrowing of his gaze.
“Why does a non-violent man need a gun?”
“It’s a bad neighborhood.”
I incline my head, my heart beating rapidly in a mix of fear and arousal. I want to believe him—really, I do—but a lack of ignorance makes it impossible.
I weave my free hand around to sit on his chest, then shove him back while pulling the weapon from his waistband.
He goes with the flow, gifting me with a few retreating steps when we both know he could’ve tried to hardball his way out of the situation.
“A Walther P22? Nice.” It’s a serious gun. A seriously scary gun for someone who claims to avoid violence.
I eject the clip, shove it in my pocket, then pull back the slider. “Oh.” I release a sardonic chuckle. “And a live one in the chamber. Aren’t you a wealth of surprises?”
I guess it could be worse. The clip could be half empty.
He grins, but there’s no humor in the expression. “And you sure know your way around a gun.”
I shrug and lob the lone bullet his way. “Like you said, it’s a bad neighborhood.”
He catches the round without breaking my gaze, then again when I throw him the clip.
“Leave.”
“You’re kicking me out?” He scowls.
“You bet your perfectly sculpted ass I am.” He’s more like me than I realized—confident around guns, proficient in lies. I can no longer ignore the warning signs that highlight a dangerous man.
His jaw ticks, and those dazzling eyes are back in predator mode.
“Unless you want to play How Many Weapons Does She Have Stashed Within Arm’s Reach.” I grin. “That really is a fun game.”
“Fine.” He holds out a hand. “I’ll leave.”
I stare at his upturned palm and raise a brow. “If you’re waiting for a high-five, you’ve assumed the wrong position.”
“I’m waiting for my gun.”
“Well, then, it looks like you’re gonna luck out twice tonight.” I jerk my chin toward the door. “Go. I’ll throw it down once you’re outside the building.”
His hand falls to his side, fisting into a white-knuckled grip. “You’re going to throw my gun from a third-story window?”
The upward twist of my mouth isn’t friendly. “I hope you’re a good catch.”
He licks his lower lip, and I’m sure it’s supposed to be a threatening gesture with those squinted eyes, but I’m over here still drowning in the gushing wetness of my panties.
I want to hate-fuck him right now. Hate-fuck him so damn hard. Unfortunately, I realize my safety is more impo
rtant than indulging in my deranged fantasies. And yes, it’s a seriously slow reaction I’m not overly proud of.
“Until next time.” His mouth has the slightest incline, an almost imperceptible grin, as he turns for the door.
“Oh, sweetie, there’s not going to be a next time.”
He glances over his shoulder and smirks. “We’ll see.”
5
Him
I stalk through the lobby, pissed as all hell that I’ve severely fucked up this situation. Tonight wasn’t supposed to be difficult. The plan had been a straight line of simplicity. A fucking breeze.
Then she had happened. The distraction. The complication.
“Shit.” The curse bites through my clenched teeth, bitter and aggressive. “Such a fucking mess.”
I have a million different things to do tonight, and one of them shouldn’t have been the hot blonde with the sassy mouth. But that’s where I’ve been, in her apartment, ready to fuck her.
I move along the sidewalk, toward the streetlight, my neck craning as I focus on her window—third one up, last along the wall. She isn’t there. Not yet. So I stop, arms crossed, and wait.
Then I wait some fucking more, because she sure as shit isn’t in a hurry to return my gun.
I’m about to start searching the street for a rock when the glass pane slides upward and her grin comes into view.
She sticks her head out the window, light blonde hair cascading over slim shoulders, those perky tits looking lush and inviting from yet another angle.
Her eyes hold a wicked gleam, and that sexy mouth is a lip-lick away from begging to blow me. There’s no denying she still wants my dick. It’s written all over her seductive face. Problem is, I can’t ditch the stiffness in my pants to pretend I feel any different. My arms throb with my barely contained restraint. I can still feel her hair around my knuckles, can still smell the vanilla scent.
“Ready?” She dangles the gun, holding it lazily by the grip.
“Born ready.”
She smiles—she probably gives a sadistic chuckle, and I’m too far away to hear it—then drops my weapon. I watch her watching me until the split millisecond before the gun reaches my hands. Then I’m all business, loading, locking, and placing the P22 back into the ass of my waistband.
“Thanks for the memories,” she calls out, then ducks her head inside and slides the window shut.
I focus on the square of glass for longer than I should. Glaring, still seeing her even though she’s already gone. Damn that sassy mouth.
Who the fuck is she, anyway? Steph, the bartender called her. Stephanie. AKA The Whirlwind Who Became A Bigger Obstacle With Each Passing Second.
She’s a loose end, but I can’t convince myself to tie that knot tonight. I’ll see her again. I’ll resolve whatever we need to resolve soon enough. In the meantime, I will pave the way for resolution and return to the regular broadcast of my shit-show life.
I make for the bar, my softening cock leading the way across the deserted street. Behind me, I hear another slide of the window, then her authoritative, “Hey.”
I pause, my ego taking a few seconds to enjoy her continued interest, then shoot a glance over my shoulder.
“Do you want a tip for future conquests?” she asks.
A tip? This woman wants to give me a tip? There’s no denying we’re both hooked in this impromptu game, but it’s clear she has a misconception on what role she’s playing.
I shrug. “Sure.”
“The only thing a woman wants to find hard in a guy’s pants is his dick. Ditch the gun next time.”
I grin. I can’t fucking help it. That mouth of hers is going to get us both in trouble. Then again, maybe it saved her. “There’s going to be a next time?”
She laughs and slams the window closed again, but she’s still there, still watching, still holding my gaze with those bewitching eyes.
I shake my head, trying to shake her off, too, and continue across the road to the shitty bar with the catchy name. I don’t look back as I shove my way through the front door. I don’t need to. I know she’s watching. I can feel her stare at the base of my neck.
The same five people are inside. The two men playing cards, the couple in the far corner, and the bartender, who is eying me, probably trying to figure out if I hurt his girl or ended the night in a sexually premature fashion.
“She kicked me out,” I admit as I slide onto a bar seat.
His jaw is tight as he throws a bar coaster toward me, the flimsy cardboard skittering along the scuffed wood. “Well, I didn’t see that coming.”
Funnily enough, neither had I. People rarely catch me off guard. Women never do. Until now.
“Want another drink?” The offer lacks kindness. I’m sure he’s annoyed at me for hurting her, and I appreciate his loyalty. It’s something I can exploit to get answers to my growing list of questions.
“Yeah. Whiskey.” I’d already had a taste for it on her tongue, and fuck me for needing more.
His eyes narrow as he grabs the liquor bottle and begins to pour. He tries to stare me down, and I oblige because it’s in my best interest to play the remorseful role.
“I know I messed up.” I focus on the coaster, fiddling with the edge like a remorseful motherfucker.
He places my drink in front of me and holds tight until I meet his gaze. “What’d you do?”
“It was nothing.”
“Obviously it was something to her.”
“Yeah.” I concede with a nod and decide to dive straight into the truth. “She found out I was carrying. It scared her off.”
He releases my glass and steps back. A clear retreat. “I don’t blame her.”
“Neither do I. But come on, man.” I play it cool. “I’m from the country, and when my sister calls to say this guy of hers is beating her and threatening her with a gun, how am I going to defend her and her kid? I’m not going to apologize for wanting to protect my family. I know how crazy you city people are.”
He holds my focus, reading me. “Oh, well.” He shrugs. “You can’t win ’em all.”
I nod. “I know, but she was different. Believe it or not, I actually like her. The woman’s a spitfire.”
He chuckles, eating up my attraction like a lovesick fool. “She sure is. If I was ten years younger…”
I force a laugh. “Any idea how I can get a second chance?” I raise my glass and take a sip. “She doesn’t seem the type to appreciate me waiting out in front of her building in an attempt to see her again.”
“Hmm.” He leans against the back counter and crosses his arms over his chest. “That’s a tough one.”
I reach into my jacket, pull out my money clip, and flick over two fifty-dollar bills. “You can’t happen to tell me some of her usual hangouts, can you?” I place the money on the sticky bar and slide it over.
His eyes narrow on my hand, then my face. “You bribing me, son?”
“I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get a second chance.”
His lips thin. His shoulders straighten. “Your money is no good to me.”
Bullshit. The guy might want to believe he’s above the incentive, but his darting eyes tell a whole different story.
“You sure?” I hide my growing annoyance behind a relaxed tone. I don’t have time for this shit. Not for him. Not for her. If Brent isn’t careful, I’ll lose my patience, and nobody wants that. “Come on. Just let me know where she hangs out.”
He sighs, the first sign of a slight buckle in his resolve. “I don’t know much about her. Only a few things I’ve learned here and there from regulars who talk a lot of shit. So, I’d suggest your money would be better spent getting a decent meal at the Hot Wok at the end of the street.” He glances away. “On a Thursday night…at around seven o’clock.”
I hide my smirk behind another sip of whiskey.
“And if you’re new to the area, you should check out the boxing club six blocks south of here. I think they have classes Monday, Wedn
esday, and Friday mornings.”
Wednesday—tomorrow.
I tilt my glass at him in appreciation. “Thanks.”
His gaze narrows. “If you fuck with her—”
“I know.” I should laugh. If the threat had come from anyone else, I would.
“You do right by her. Even if she isn’t interested in what you’ve got to offer.”
“I will.” The lies come easily. They always have.
I throw back the remaining liquid, then slide the glass toward him. “Thanks for the drink.” I stand, leaving the bills on the counter.
“Take the money with you. You left more than enough earlier.”
“Keep it for next time. I have a feeling we’ll be seeing more of each other.”
He chuckles. “Only if you’re lucky.”
“Yeah.” Or more specifically, if she’s unlucky.
I walk outside, unable to help myself as I glance at the building across the street. The third-floor window. I expect to see her there, watching, waiting, and I’m ashamed to admit I’m disappointed she isn’t.
She thinks the game is over. That the hook-up failed, and we’ve gone our separate ways.
In reality, our time together has just begun. The two of us are going to get to know one another, whether she likes it or not. And that’s not my fault. It’s all on her—her decisions, her actions. Her damn sassy mouth.
I continue along the road, down the side street, to my car. I climb in and snatch my phone from the glove compartment.
Three missed calls, all from Decker, but he’s not the person I need to speak to first.
I dial Torian, and I’m not surprised when he doesn’t answer. The fucker would be sleeping like a baby while I worked. His voicemail cuts in, and the beep sounds without a welcome message.
“Hey, Torian. There’s been a complication.” I swallow over the bitter taste of temporary failure. “It means a slight delay in the timeline, but I’ll call once I’m done.”
I hang up, knowing he won’t give a shit about details, and call Decker.
“Where the fuck are you?” he demands in greeting. “You were supposed to check in over an hour ago.”