I tightened my grip and ignored her, walking steadily back to my car even as she squirmed and cursed. My hand settled lower, dangerously close to her ass, and suddenly, that was all I could think about: how soft she felt even through the fabric of her leggings. How easy it would be to slide my palm down another inch and slap some sense into her—just enough to make her think twice about pulling this shit again.
She huffed something under her breath and wriggled harder, forcing me to squeeze even tighter. “Watch your hand, lawyer,” she snapped.
“Then stay still,” I demanded.
Of course she didn’t. She squirmed again, her nails digging through my suit jacket, still hitting me like it would change anything. I closed my eyes briefly, trying to ignore the way her movements pressed her body flush against mine. Her curves were impossible to ignore—hips that flared perfectly beneath my grip, her body warm and soft against my shoulder. Even as she tried her hardest to piss me off, she somehow made me wonderwhat she’d feel like under different circumstances. What kind of sounds she’d make if I ever put my hands on her the way I wanted to.
Christ, now I was the one who needed some sense knocked into me.
Focus. Car. Get her home. Deal with this mess later.
“Put me down,” she demanded. “I won’t run.”
I almost laughed. “Do you think I’m stupid enough to believe that?”
“I promise.”
“I don’t believe your promises either.”
By the time I’d got her near the car, she’d stopped hitting me—finally. That didn’t mean she wasn’t still moving restlessly, more out of pride than in a genuine attempt to break free.
I finally set her on her feet next to the passenger door. She stumbled a little, dizzy from being upside down for so long, and I instinctively grabbed her waist to steady her. A mistake, probably. My hands lingered longer than they needed to—longer than they should have done.
She looked up at me with narrowed eyes. For a second I thought she was going to say something. Maybe thank me, but more likely curse me out. Instead she just pulled away and glared.
“Get in,” I said, opening the car door wider.
She didn’t respond.
“Valentina,” I warned. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
She rolled her eyes dramatically and finally climbed inside. I slammed the door shut behind her, rounded the car, and slid behind the wheel.
“Buckle up,” I said, glancing at her sideways.
“If I don’t, are you going to do it for me?”
“Want to find out?”
She hesitated for a second and then let out another loud sigh, this one even more exaggerated than the last, before clicking the belt into place while muttering something under her breath.
I didn’t care. Let her be mad. At least now she couldn’t run.
The car ride was quiet—at least outwardly. On the inside, I was still trying to get my shit together. I kept my eyes on the road.
She sat in the passenger seat stiff-backed and silent. Well, except for her occasional directions.Left turn. Right at the next intersection.Always just a little too late, forcing me to brake harder than necessary. She was probably doing it on purpose.
Her irritation was palpable. Her knee bounced impatiently, stealing my attention every few seconds. It annoyed me how aware I was of her; how tuned in I’d become to every little movement she made. The way her fingers drummed against her thigh. The way her breathing quickened slightly every time she glanced at me out of the corner of her eye.
Then my phone lit up on the dashboard screen.
Max Romano.
I stared at it. Let it ring once.
Twice.
Then I hit decline.
