The streets are long and deserted, way too industrial. I turn the corner and race up the next street.
The dark green car I boosted sits at the curb. I open the door, throw her into the passenger seat, slam it shut, and race around to the driver’s side. The moment I’m inside, she reaches for the handle.
“I fucking wouldn’t.” I touch the wires together, sparking the ignition, then floor it. The engine roars as we peel out.
Once I’m sure we’re not being followed and we’re nearer to civilization, I pull up around a corner on a quiet street.
Silence crashes down around us.
The car’s suddenly, impossibly, too small. The air crackles and fizzes.
I turn in my seat and catch her as she tries to get free.
“For fuck’s sake.” I slam Marlowe against the seat and lean into her as I hit the child lock button.
She’s the daughter of a moneyed family—one that owns Briggs Energy. Moneyed on paper, in liquid form, in influence and ties. But I really don’t care about that right now.
I don’t even care about the rumors of them being tangled in organized crime.
But... Marlowe? What the hell is her story?
This brat moves in the upper circles of society. Sheeven dances for some prestigious ballet company. And while I know she likes to slum it at illegal dance parties and clubs, she’s what’s known as a good girl. One I’ve had under me. One who had me in?—
“I knew you belonged in prison. I should have had Daddy make those charges stick.” The hiss of her voice is a knife to my gut.
Not because they hurt. But because they turn me the fuck on.
I should tangle my fingers in her hair, unzip my jeans, and push her face down into my junk.
“And I know you deserve a spanking,” I snap, ignoring the flare in her copper eyes.
Everything about her turns me on and pushes the resentment for what she did to me back up into hot and flaming hate.
I’m too fucking pretty for jail.
“Are you following me?” she asks.
“In your dreams. We fooled around, what, one time maybe?” It’s a lie. I remember every moment, every time. My balls actually ache with the memories.
Three years. Three years since I met her at that underground club in Brooklyn, since I tasted her smart mouth and felt her come apart under my hands in a dark corner. Three years since I ghosted her the next day because getting tangled up with a society princess was a complication I didn’t need.
Two-and-a-half years since she got her daddy to have me arrested on bullshit assault and robbery charges. Charges that evaporated the second my family’s lawyer made a phone call, but not before I spent the night in a cell.
She wanted to hurt me like I had hurt her. Fair enough.
Doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten the taste of her, or the way she said my name when she was begging for more.
She makes a sound. “What were you doing there?”
“Let me flip that for you.” Ipin her down, lean in closer, breathe in her sweet floral scent. “What the fuck were you doing in the middle of cartel and mafia-disputed turf?”
“Maybe I wanted to put a hit on you.”
I snort. “I left that much of an impression. I’m touched.”
She glares at me. “Fuck you.”
“Strutting your ass around with your fucking red hair and white cap. What were you thinking?”
