He stands in the center of my plush cream carpet, a giant of a man whose muscled arms strain against his well-worn leather jacket. His faded jeans hug powerful thighs, and confidence radiates from every pore.
I swallow hard, fighting the urge to fan myself. The temperature in the room seems to have risen ten degrees since his arrival. He’s hot as hell. Not that it matters.
“I’ll protect you with my life.”
His brutal honesty intrigues me. It’s refreshing in a worldwhere everyone seems to be pretending to be someone they’re not.
As he speaks, I study his features. His broad jaw is covered in a day’s worth of stubble. His nose, slightly crooked, looks like it’s been broken before. His full bottom lip is slightly larger than the top, especially now as they’re pressed into a thin line. His hair... God, dark and cut in a military style, almost completely shaved on the sides with the longer part on top swept back. He’s the epitome of raw masculinity.
A warmth spreads through my belly. I’m sure he’s damn strong under all those clothes.
And he’s seen me naked, for crying out loud. Not just naked, but masturbating with a dildo. The memory makes my cheeks burn.
I place my hands on my hips, trying to regain some semblance of control, even though I don’t feel it. “Okay, Ryder West. Let’s set some ground rules.”
He nods.
“Rule number one, you don’t enter my bedroom unless I call for you.”
The muscle in his jaw twitches as he clenches his teeth. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Rule number two, you don’t call me ma’am anymore. I’m twenty-five, not fifty. Call me Cora.”
“Yes, ma—” He stops himself, eyes widening. “Cora.”
Oh God. The way he says my name, in that low, husky voice, sends a ball of fire rolling through my stomach. I swallow hard and run a hand through my hair.
He reaches out, his large hand gentle as he brushes my hair aside. The unexpected movement sends a shiver down my spine.
“What happened to your forehead?” he asks, his callousedfingertips ghosting over the remnants of the bruise I thought I’d hidden so well with makeup.
How did he notice?
“The butt of a gun happened to my forehead,” I reply.
“The mugging.”
It’s more of a statement than a question. I nod and continue.
“Rule number three, you don’t touch me,” I say, fighting to keep my voice even.
He drops his hand immediately, and I regret my request. His touch had been gentle. Nice. Comforting, even. But I need to maintain some boundaries, or I’ll lose myself in those dark eyes.
“If I need to get you out quickly, I’ll need to touch you,” he points out.
“Then ask permission.”
“In real-time, there’s no time to ask permission. Asking could cost you your life.”
“Okay, that’s logical,” I concede, tilting my head. “So you don’t touch me unless there’s a real need.”
He nods, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “Agreed.”
I try not to think about what constitutes a “real need” in his mind. The thought sends a thrill through me that I push down.
“Rule number four, you maintain distance and discretion. I work with people who are very sensitive about their privacy. I don’t want them to feel threatened.”
“You won’t even know I’m there,” he says. “And I’m always discreet.”
