I’m a good six inches taller, and I use it to my advantage. Forcing my way into her space, I repeat, “Get in the car. You can yell at me all you want as I drive you back to Natalie’s, but I’m not leaving you here alone.”
She throws her arm sideways, gesturing at the Gas N’ Go. “I’m not alone. There are people inside the store. It’s still daylight. And there’s a tow truck I didn’t call for coming. I’m fine right where I am. You, however, can leave.”
Her subtle lavender perfume invades my lungs just as her beautiful, angry face fills my vision. Being near her, so close I could reach out and skim a fingertip across skin that looks like it would feel like satin, lights me up in a way I haven’t felt in a very long time.
For almost six years, my life has been on hold, as if a pause button was pushed and I was just existing without really living. And it confuses the hell out of me why Douglass is the first and only woman who has reignited that spark inside me.
“Please get in the car and let me drive you home.” I gentle my tone.
Douglass white-knuckles the strap of her purse. It’s a tense standoff of thirty seconds.
“Okay.”
Okay? That was easier than I expected.
She walks around to the other side of the car… and continues speed-walking across the parking lot toward the main road, seemingly intent to hike the ten or so miles back to Woodspire in her sparkly black sneakers.
Christ almighty, this infuriating woman.
Before she can make it past the gas pumps, I’m lifting her up and tossing her over my shoulder. It’s like trying to handle a hissing kitten with sharp claws.
“Put me down!”
“Stubborn, hard-headed, pain in my ass,” I mumble in exasperation as I carry her back to my car. My palm cracks against her backside when she won’t settle down, and she goes stock-still.
“You did not just spank me,” she seethes, so I do it again.
A couple of male employees are standing at the glass window, watching us with interest. I lift my chin, and they both return the gesture. The guy wearing a backward baseball cap gives me a thumbs up.
With one hand, I open the passenger door and unceremoniously drop a pissed-off Douglass into the seat, then bend down and get in her face. “I will do so much more than spank you, sweetheart, if you try and get out of the car.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
Our lips are so close, just one tiny centimeter of space separates them. Because I’m a masochist, I bridge that minuscule gap, but instead of taking what I suddenly want more than my next breath, I skim my lips, feather-soft, across her cheek. Douglass’s sharp intake of oxygen tells me everything I need to know. She may hate me, but she wants me. I can work with that.
My next words fan across her ear, and I enjoy the low, almost imperceptible moan she emits. It’s like an ember to dry kindle.
“Want to bet? Now, buckle your damn seat belt, unless you want my hands on you and do it for you.”
Chapter 11
Jordan Hammond is the devil incarnate.
That’s what I keep repeating in my head as I make a show of pulling the seat belt across my chest and shoving it none too gently into its buckle. Satisfied that I’m not going to try and make a hasty escape, he shuts the car door and comes around to the driver’s side. His door opens for him automatically. When he gets behind the wheel, he doesn’t push a button to start the vehicle. There’s no noise from the engine. It’s so whisper-quiet as he backs out of the space, the only sound I can hear is the rapid, frantic thumping of my heart. As discreetly as I can, I run my hand over the buttery-smooth leather of my seat. I’ve never been inside a car that I’m sure costs as much as Natalie’s house.
So, this is the type of luxury multi-millionaires get to enjoy.
I lean over to get a closer look at the dash, fascinated by the car’s technology. I’m basically sitting in a moving supercomputer.
“You ever watchSpaceballs?”
He turns his head to look at me, and I stop breathing for a moment. The color of his eyes has always intrigued me. The blue is so pale and clear, you feel like you’re drowning whenever you look into them.
When his attention moves back to the road, the breath I’d been holding whooshes out of me.
“The Mel Brooks’ movie,” he continues when I don’t answer. “The car has a Ludicrous Mode setting.”
I follow what he does on the large screen on the center dash. When a small prompt window opens asking if you want to bring it on or if you want your mommy, a half-giggle escapes before I can stop it.
