“Not fast enough,” he mutters, and then I’m airborne again, slung over his shoulder like luggage.
“Are you serious?” I screech, pounding my fists against his back as he strides up the steps. “Put me down, you lunatic!”
“Keep fighting, baby,” he growls, smug as sin. “It only makes me harder.”
My jaw drops.
I want to scream. I also—God help me—want to squirm until I feel exactly what he’s talking about. My third problem? With my ass so close to his face, I’m a little terrified he’ll smell how wet I am.
Because I’m stupidly wet.
Drenched.
From his words and from the way he’s been staring at me. And how utterly humiliating is that?
Sure, I haven’t had a relationship for a minute. And by a minute I mean a few…years. But to get this worked up over a handful of words and a mildly deranged expression?
So what if it’s insanely, savagely hot on this particular madman the way madness looks on Tom Hardy?
A keening sound builds in my throat. “Arrrgh! Everything about this is madness. Listen, let me go and I won’t say a word to anyone about this.”
Said the spider to the fly.
I’m not surprised when he doesn’t dignify that with an answer.
The double doors swing open without him breaking stride and I catch staff scuttling out of the way like they’ve seen this show before.
Suddenly I’m inside.
Marble floors gleam under a chandelier the size of a small planet. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the glittering upside down sprawl of Los Angeles below. A grand piano gleams in the corner, flanked by guitars mounted like hunting trophies.
And me. Still slung over his shoulder, barista apron askew, skirt creeping up my thick thighs and sneakers squeaking as I kick.
“Welcome home,” he says darkly, carrying me deeper into the house.
“Not my home,” I snarl, twisting madly until he finally sets me down, though not without pinning me to the marble with one hand at my hip to steady the waves of dizziness buffeting me.
For a second, I forget how to breathe.
Because up close, with the skyline blazing behind him, he looks like every rock ’n’ roll fever dream made flesh, with gleaming white teeth, tattoos alive in the shifting light, silver eyes glinting, chest still damp with sweat.
And me?
Fish out of water. Drenched. Flailing with wild dark-blonde hair all over the place. A barista who should’ve run when she had the chance.
“You really think you can keep me here?” I ask, voice sharper than I feel.
His lips curl. “I don’t think, my dearest Ruby. Iknow.”
Zane
She’s standingin the middle of my marble kingdom like she’s been dropped into the wrong movie set. Head high, eyes sharp, arms crossed like that’s enough to hold me back.
I head straight to the kitchen, yank open the Sub-Zero, pull out a tray of food one of the staff left for me. Cold cuts. Cheese. Bread I’ll never touch. I shove the plate in her direction.
“Eat.”
She shakes her head. “I’m not hungry.”
