He raises a cocky brow. “You waiting for me, princess?”
Princess? “Seems more like you’re following.”
“Maybe.” He shrugs. “Is that a problem?”
There is much more to his question than the issue of him tailing me. It’s about vulnerability. Susceptibility. Deliciously dreamy carnality.
And yes, it’s a major problem. Huge. My normally infallible caution is wavering like a leaf in a hurricane. But I can’t voice a protest. The words aren’t there. Not the right ones. Only those that will be so very, very wrong. “I guess that depends on what you want to achieve.”
Thoughts dance behind those lazy eyes, and I want to know them all. I itch to hear his secrets. His darkest desires. I need to know his plans for me, and I want the explanation to come in erotic Technicolor.
“I want everything.” His voice is low—pure sex and seduction.
My pussy twists in knots. There’s no denying the inevitable. I’m going to succumb. This zing is too vibrant to ignore. I can already taste him on my tongue. The alcohol. The sweat.
I sigh, resigned to my fate. “Then, no, I guess it’s no problem at all.”
4
Her
I lead the way across the room, the stranger an inch behind me. When I press my palm against the cold glass of the door, apprehension sinks its teeth deep into my flesh.
I pause, suck in a breath, and attempt to tune out my lust in an effort to listen to my instincts. This is the second time I’ve led a stranger from a seedy bar with the promise of sex, all in the space of a few hours.
The first didn’t work well for Danny boy, and although I crept from that hotel room with a crazy-bitch smile on my face, I need to make sure I don’t end up being the victim in this scenario.
“Problem?” The question is murmured with slight humor near my ear. “Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind already.”
I glance over my shoulder and his face is a breath away. He’s a mountain of a man up close. Thick and strong in the shoulders, with a heavy hand that lands beside mine on the door.
“Do I look like the type of woman who makes mistakes?” It’s not a flirty tease. He needs to know I own my shit. All day. Every day.
He ponders the question, or maybe just me in general, and rakes his teeth over his lower lip. He gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head. “No. But there’s always a first, and I have a feeling I’m going to be a special kind of mistake.”
He’s a cocky son-of-a-bitch, and damn, his confidence has latched onto my ovaries, and I don’t want it to let go until we are both double-digits deep in orgasms.
“Promises, promises.” I push the door and walk ahead, not stopping until we reach the edge of the sidewalk. “I live over there.” I jerk my chin toward the looming apartment building across the street with the solitary streetlight that illuminates years of neglect. The old, block construction isn’t inviting in the slightest. It’s cheap and nasty. Just the way I like it.
All the obvious downfalls are the reasons I consider myself lucky to live there. Nobody inside the dark and dirty walls has enough time or money to bother snooping on their neighbors. Most are too busy keeping their own heads above water with day-to-day life. I come and go without notice, not having made any friends in the years I’ve rented the studio apartment.
“Lead the way.”
A firm hand lands on the low of my back, beneath my pack, the touch warm against the thin cotton of my top. I straighten, stiffen, and suck in a deep breath at the tumbles taking over my stomach.
I wait for a passing car, then step onto the asphalt, bringing us closer and closer to approaching bliss. He’s glancing around, scoping the area as I enter the pin code into the building’s outdated security panel. The one-two-three-four access code is a poor excuse for protection, but in this crime-riddled area it’s the thought that counts, right?
I’m only glad the lobby doesn’t smell like urine and stale beer today. It means I can pretend this cheap-ass building has a modicum of decency, when clearly, everyone who lives here knows better.
Another few feet of tense silence and we’re at the rickety death trap of an elevator. I shove my finger against the call button, and the doors jolt open. He follows, moving to the opposite side of the small space as I lean against the wall, my arms spread against the thin waist-high railing.
He mimics me, arms spread, ankles crossed, and watches while I press the button to floor three. Neither one of us moves, or talks. He barely bats an eye until those doors close. Then he pushes from the wall and eats the space between us in two predatory steps.
I hold my breath, my tingles turning into wildfire as he walks into me. Not up to me. Into me.
His hips bump mine. He parts my legs with an aggressive shove of his knee. The silence and staring continue, no words, only actions as he wraps a menacing hand around the back of my neck and grips tight.
Fear jolts through my chest, making me immobile. He’s animalistic, not an ounce of warmth in his expression.
I don’t know this man. Not his name, not his age, not his hobbies or life goals. He’s a complete stranger who has me pinned inside an enclosed space, his strong, calloused hands holding me hostage.
“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.