That was fantastic.
“Hold on, don’t,” he demanded when I tried to move. His arm curled around me, lifting me up off my feet by an inch or so and walking me backward to my closet, his shoes crunching on broken glass as we went. “Get shoes on before you come back out.”
The take-charge thing was working for me.
Add on the fact that he went back to retrieve my gun and hand it to me so I felt safe, and, yeah, I was damn near ready to say to hell with the danger and let him fuck me on my closet floor.
But that was crazy. So I reached toward a shirt hanging from the bar.
He stayed in the closet doorway but turned his back to me.
There was no time to worry about him peeking.
I whipped off the towel, pulled on the tee, then yanked panties up my legs before finding a pair of biker shorts and pulling them on.
Ballet flats weren’t my favorite kind of footwear for long hours on my feet, but they were the easiest.
“Done,” I said. “Do you have a gun?” I asked as we both inched out of the closet, bodies tight, heads on a swivel.
“Yeah,” he said, going to my bed and grabbing both of my bags.
I remembered to find my keys.
Then we both made our way to the door.
“Stay behind me.”
“If you want the bullets to hit you first, I’m not gonna argue,” I said, falling into step behind him as he reached for his own gun.
For such a big guy, he was able to keep his footsteps silent on the steps as we inched downward, not daring to even breathe, in case we missed some sound that would warn us about armed men coming to kill us.
Well, me.
But he would be in the way.
It almost felt wrong to make it to the door without an ambush.
Caymen inched it open, carefully moving out to scan the streets. While I stood back in the dark, unaware of everything. Yet oddly… okay with it.
The man was clearly capable.
And this was not the time to argue over who should be looking for the shooters or not.
“I think we’re good,” Caymen said, opening the door wide enough to step out.
I was right behind.
“This is me,” I said, waving toward my car.
He said nothing, just made his way in that direction, tossing my bags in the backseat with the other one from my storage locker.
I’d just made it to the driver’s seat when I saw a car take a corner down at the next cross street way, way too fucking fast.
“Get in!” Caymen yelled, but I was already moving.
I was in my seat with the engine turned over before he got into the passenger seat. I tossed my gun onto his lap, slipped into gear, and peeled the hell out of there.
Caymen twisted toward me, kicking his leg out to brace himself so he didn’t fly around when I took the next corner so fast we went up on two wheels for the barest of seconds.
