McCraeand I’ve always lived in the same…building.Before now, it was in a casino with thousands of other rooms and patrons, but when I lost everything—my home within the casino I sold my soul for—McCrae just came with me. It’s not been something we’ve discussed, and now, I’m wondering if we should have.
I still deposit five thousand dollars into the same bank account at the beginning of every month, and he still takes his job protecting me very seriously.
Or did?
Things between us are changing faster than I can keep up, and although I want there to be more physically, I’m afraid of what’s growing there instead.
We no longer live in an enormous casino, surrounded by potential threats daily, only passing each other during working hours. Now, he lives down the hall, smokes on the back patio with the screen door open, works on his bike in the driveway, and comes on the shower wall like he fucking owns it.
This morning, I woke up and chose violence.
Because fuck him.
He’s everywhere, and it’s no secret I’ve always wanted him—I’m not a coy girl who worries about hiding such wants. But he’s drawn a line he’s unwilling to cross. Which, I respect. But I also resent it with the very fiber of my existence.
He’s the only man to ever turn me down.
And I’m not saying it makes me want him more, but I will say that instead of turning me off, it feels a lot more like edging, like every time I get closer to finding that release I’m desperate for, he pulls away, and it’s as painful as it is delicious.
When I finally have him?I’ll be lucky if I don’t die.
Just like I’m not a coy girl, or a subtle girl, I’m also not an honorable girl.Fuck the rules and the horse they rode in on.I make my own rules, and I sure as fuck don’t apologize. Especially with McCrae—he’s always made me feel safe, like nothing I’ve done or could do would ever betoo bad; therefore, I’ve never allowed myself to be afraid of him.
I won’t start today either.
Pulling a box of chocolatey puffs off the top of the fridge, I shake it just to make sure there’s still enough. The box, being almost full, rattles, and I drop back to the flats of my feet and set it on the counter. I then open the fridge and bend down to the bottom shelf, grabbing the milk.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
A feline grin rips across my face, and I stretch out farther, reaching for some invisible item at the back of the fridge before slowly rising and turning to face McCrae. His hair’s damp, the short blond strands slicked back on top, and not for the first time, I try and read the variety of writing scribbled under his eyes and down his neck. As my eyes travel down his face, I notice he must have freshly shaved, the pale stubble shorter than normal along his impossibly sharp jaw, thicker across his upperlip. He nibbles on a corner of his mustache absentmindedly, and it allows me a brief second to admire his plump lips that look as good wrapped around a cigarette as they do pulled into a smile.
He huffs, and I lift my gaze to his, the icy blue orbs pinched in a mix between pissed and something else entirely. I secretly preen.Score one for V.
“Sorry, what’d you say?” I lean against the fridge, the cold exterior pressed against my back, causing my skin to pebble.
“I said, what the fuck are you doing?” he growls, and my lips twitch.
I hold out the milk and motion to the box of cereal. “Breakfast? Want some?”
“Valentina.” The way he says my name is full of warning. Like, red flags up and down the beachwarning. Unluckily for him, the fear of drowning has never once stopped me from getting in the water.
“Hmm?” I set the milk on the counter and open the cabinet, stretching up on my toes to get a bowl. There’s a stack on the bottom shelf, but I want one off the top.
“Jesus, fuck.” His voice quivers, and with only my backside facing him, I can’t help but smile again, just for a second.
Grabbing the bowl, I bring all three items toward the island, where he’s barely holding himself up at this point, his knuckles white.
There’s no sling to be found on his injured arm—something I plan to argue about when I’m done taunting him—but the bulge of the bandage wrapping beneath his shirt is enough of a reminder of his wound and what could’ve happened.
“What’s your problem? Still wound up?”
“You make it a habit of walking around in that?” He motions up and down, and I look down at the offending garments.
“I’m in my home,” I offer as an explanation.
“You’re naked. And you’re not alone,” he growls, looking over his shoulder to the front door. I know he’s worried about Santos seeing me—dare I say,jealous—and even though I do find Santos devilishly handsome, with his bronze skin and veiny arms, I’m not really interested.But McCrae doesn’t need to know that.
Playing ignorant, I continue to prepare my cereal. “I’m not naked. See?” I snap the strap of the sheer lace bra and then the matching one of the thong around my hip. The unbuttoned shirt hanging open around my shoulders provides a little more coverage. “Plus, we’ve lived together for a few years now. What’s the difference?”
