I was moving before I knew it.
Howdarehe touch what’smine.
My girl,I’d called her, wrapping my arm around her side, my fingers just grazing the bare skin of her back. I can still feel the electric shock that traveled into me when I made contact.Searing hot, a wicked thrill shooting through me with all the discretion of a lightning bolt, sparking something long dead back to life. I liked how she felt against me, the warmth of her skin, how she drew closer after I’d claimed her, finding safety under my protection.
He wouldn’t touch her.
No onewould ever fucking touch her again.
She got what she’d wanted finally: my attention. But when I asked her if she wanted to get out of here, she said no. Then practically ran out of the bar.
I let her go. Didn’t try to stop her when she shakily climbed up off my lap, awkwardly waving goodbye and reminding me that she owes me one.
Oh, I know little Rose. I haven’t forgotten.
Then she was gone. Made a beeline for the exit, like she felt the dark pull between us and the overwhelming urge to run from it just as much as I did.
She left her friends at the bar. Her ex was too busy getting thrown out the back by my guys to notice how she just slipped out into the night.
Alone.
Leaving me no choice but to follow her.
My bike is parked just outside the bar—one of the perks of being the owner. I hop on, the engine growling to life beneath me, powerful and built for speed, but I rein it in, gliding slowly down the street.
I keep my distance, hoping she doesn’t notice the persistent rumble of my bike following her, keeping watch as she rounds the corner, heading for the nearest subway station.
She’s halfway down the next street before she encounters trouble.
A group of about five or six college-age guys is headed for her. Her steps slow and I can see her consider whether or not to cross the street but there’s a canal separating this side of the street from the other.
Lifting her chin she powers forward, passing the group without giving them another glance, but I see the momenttheynotice her. Too caught up in themselves to see her before. I watch as their heads turn and drop, checking out her ass and legs in that short as fuck skirt she’s wearing.
One of them shouts something after her but she doesn’t answer, doesn’t turn, but I see her shoulders tense, how her fists clench at her side. The street light ahead of her is broken, leaving that end of the street cast in shadow. I grit my teeth, my grip tightening on the handle as I watch the scene play out.
One of the guys stops entirely, changing direction and walking back toward her.
Not willing to find out what happens next I pull in the clutch, adding a bit of throttle to speed forward until I slide up to the curb right beside her.
Both Rose and the guy following her stop in their tracks, looking over at me.
Rose backs away, moving toward the guy at her back, but when I lift my visor I see the flash of recognition followed by a quick flash of relief. My gaze trails past her, to the man following her, and my eyes no sooner make contact before he’s turning around, shooing his friends back down the street.
Rose follows my gaze, watching them.
“You want a ride?”
Her eyes are wary, and she doesn’t answer the question. Instead, her sharp blue eyes narrow in suspicion. “Are you following me?”
“Yes.”
Her brows lift at my admission. “Why?” She didn’t expect me to admit to it, and her question comes out a little breathless.
“You’re walking home alone—at night—in Boston,” I say, like it should be obvious.
“I’ll be fine.”
I arch a brow. Are she and I on the same street? She’s tiny and all five-foot-two of her doesn’t stand a chance against what I know is out there.
