Today was screwed up. One minute I’m visiting Mom, the next I’m begging Mr. Faux Mafia for cash, with the grand finale being fingerbanged by a billionaire bon vivant against the bathroom wall before thieving his keys. As one does.
He looked like he was going through some dark shit. Dropping to his knees? What was that about? The guy seems volatile as hell. I feel like I’ve wounded an already big, wounded bear.
If circumstances were different, would I have gone upstairs with him for a few hours of passion? Abso-fucking-lutely. I have no issues with one-night stands, not that I get the chance often. Or ever, really.
Despite his assholery, no one could look at that ruggedly handsome face and hard body and deny he’s hot as hell. He’s the type of guy you know is bad news, but you’d sleep with anyway because the sex would be mind-blowing. Then, you’d slink away before sunrise to avoid being kicked out like yesterday’s trash.
But as his hands slid into my panties, something clicked in my brain. I realized what I was becoming. Or what I would become if I let him continue. It was like getting zapped by an electric fence.
And yeah, all right, shoving him like that was a dick move too on my part. But even with all that booze flooding his system, his cocky confidence radiated off him.
My feminist side cheered as I left him hanging mid seduction.
But honestly? Some disturbingly estrogen-charged cavewoman part of me wondered what might’ve gone down if I hadn’t fled . . .
The way he had me pinned against that wall with his hard body . . . yeah, I wanted it bad. So bad that I’m disgusted with myself for it.
But it’s all irrelevant now anyway. Connor Quinn won’t be screwing me anytime soon after the stunt I pulled. He’s probably adding my pic to his “psycho chicks to avoid” list for his elite billionaire bro circle.
SIX
Connor
The worst part about crashing in a suite is dragging my sorry ass up before dawn to do the walk of shame in last night’s rumpled clothes. No wonder the staff gossip.
This pattern is getting old. Work too hard then drink myself into a stupor, pass out in my private suite, sometimes after a fuck, then wake up feeling exponentially worse than before. Rinse and repeat.
But getting pushed away in the throes of a hookup last night was a new low. That’s never happened before, and it’s messing with my head. I rake an uneasy hand through my hair. I’m pretty damn sure I didn’t overstep, but it’s disconcerting. The whole thing leaves me questioning myself in a disturbing light that I don’t like. I never want to bethatguy.
None of this is worth it—the hotels, the cars, the jets, the luxury—if I’ve become the type of man I’d be ashamed for my niece to know.
I jab the elevator call button repeatedly as I remember how wasted I was last night. Enough to sink to my knees for that potty-mouthed little pixie like some sad groupie. She better not sell that shit to the tabloids, or I’ll destroy her.
No more losing control like this. It ends now.
Sure, she was easy on the eyes. But it’s not like there’s a shortage of attractive women in New York. She’s just another pretty face in the crowd. Except for those unusual eyes . . .
The elevator dings open at the garage, and I make my way to my reserved spot, on autopilot, reaching for the car fob. My hand closes on empty air.
Where’s my car fob?
I vaguely remember having it at the bar. Dylan the bartender even reminded me about it before I hit the restroom. Couldn’t have left it there. Pretty sure I felt it in my pocket while Rose was all over me.
I stop dead in my tracks, scanning the garage. Because more importantly, where the fuck is my brand new 911?
“You gotta be kidding me,” I growl to the empty garage.
I circle the area. No sign of it. Just a gaping hole where a million bucks’ worth of sleek German engineering should be.
My ride’s been jacked. Son of a bitch.
“No fucking way,” I breathe out. Impossible. These cars are supposed to be theft-proof. How the hell did someone manage to crack the facial recognition?
I run a hand through my hair, spewing a string of curses. Yeah, it’s not my top choice of wheels, but we’re talking about a 911 Carrera Mystique here. One of fifty made, coated in this special Midnight Enigma paint designed to eat light, and with 550 horsepower under the hood.
Could I have dropped the fob? Let some lowlife piece it together and find their way to my spot?
I definitely had it on me going into that restroom. Had it in hand when . . .
