He groaned, completely defeated, and pulled his keys from his pocket.
She kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Are you sure you’re okay to drive?”
“Yeah,” he groused. “Later.” He moved around her for the door.
“Jason?” He stopped short, darting a glance in her direction. “I can see you’re going through something, and I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for.”
He tipped his head in lieu of goodbye and shoved his way out the door.
ChapterTwo
The Bugatti Jason drove was capable of 260 miles per hour, but he crept along the winding drive that led to the gatehouse of his high-rise condominium at a glacier’s pace. His mind was distracted with the evening’s conversation. He’d vowed to quit his vice in the hospital when he’d been recovering from Alex’s attack. What had happened with Nickelova had made him realize that he hated the life he’d been living. Hated the endless parade of women, the ones he knew from the pack and the humans he picked up at bars around town. He hated the smell of sex that clung to his skin. Hated the constant need to calm his inner beast.
It had been years since Jessica’s death, and still he could barely think her name without stirring up a hurricane of emotions, which meant this thing, this vice that had its teeth in him, wasn’t serving him, he was serving it. And while going cold turkey wasn’t a ball of laughs, every day seemed to be getting easier. He was proud of himself for how he’d handled Luna even if the encounter had been a blow to his ego.
“A service to our pack,” he mumbled grimly. He rubbed the back of his neck.
An Audi behind him honked impatiently. He waved his arm out the window, motioning for the driver to pass. As the car pulled around, he glimpsed the gray-blue hair of Mrs. Bloomburg. Great. Passed by an octogenarian. Her upturned middle finger goaded him from her window, her engine revving as she left him in her dust. And wasn’t that just the icing on the cake to an otherwise disaster of an evening?
The road ended at a gatehouse where a slender redhead asked for his resident card. He held it out to her. Her fingers brushed his as she took it from his hand, and when he glanced up, she was staring at him intently.
“Have we met”—he read her badge—“Teresa?” He smiled in a practiced way, more out of habit than actual desire.
“No… I’m new.” Her gaze traveled over his car and his suit before settling on his face. She sighed deeply.
“Really? Well, I knew there must be some explanation. I never forget a beautiful woman.” He chided himself for flirting with her. He was playing with fire. He needed to stop. Right now.
The slight reddening of her cheeks made him weak. Scenting her, a rush of predatory energy flowed from his inner beast. He leaned out the window.
“Thank you.” She handed his card back, her fingers grazing his again in the process and holding on. Heat sparked along his skin, and this time he was too tired to fight it.
“What time do you get off?” He managed to load the wordsget offwith sexual energy.
“Four in the morning.”
“Want to come up for an early-morning drink? I’m in the penthouse.”
“Won’t you be sleeping?”
He allowed a few of his wicked thoughts to leak into his grin. “Not if you come up.”
Her cheeks pinked, her eyes darting to the corner of the small hut she was working in. “Maybe. I’ll think about it.”
Way to play it coy, Teresa.
“There’s someone behind you,” she said, gesturing with her head.
Jason checked his rearview mirror to find his neighbor raising his hands in frustration. “Hmm. We wouldn’t want Mr. Anderson to dislodge the stick from his ass.”
She gave a breathy laugh. “Have a nice night, Mr. Flynn.”
He tipped his head in her general direction and continued to the parking lot. A short ride alone on the elevator and he arrived on the twenty-fifth floor of the Bachman Building, the best piece of real estate available in Carlton City.
He was already feeling guilty about the exchange by the time he opened the door.Fuck.Only one way to handle this. If Teresa did come up, he’d have to find the strength to turn her away. Or maybe not even open the door.
Inside, his penthouse apartment felt cold and lifeless, and he was reminded of why he’d spent his evening cozying up to a scotch. A human woman he’d met in New York decorated the place for him during their torrid affair. She’d insisted on it, tired as she was of staring at his bare white walls. The affair didn’t last, but the decor did, and it was good enough to earn her a feature inArchitectural Digest, a consolation prize, he supposed, for his failure to commit. She’d called it minimalist but welcoming: black stone, white oak floors, gray walls. There was an oatmeal-colored sofa that cost as much as a small village. He rarely sat on it.
He crossed to the fridge, the appliance perfectly masked to appear an extension of the cabinets, and hung his head inside. There was nothing worth eating, but he fished a half-full bottle of Sauvignon Blanc from the shelf and pulled out the cork. “Dinner is served.”
