I’m not in a book. And I’m definitely not alone.
Bare masculine arms surround me, corded with sinew and ink. The kind of throbbing veins women would lick. And atapestry of dark tattoos that belong in a true crime thriller, not in my apartment.
I jerk away, my heart tap-dancing against my ribs. I tumble off the couch, knocking paperbacks everywhere before spinning around.
He’s sitting there. The scary man from last night.
Shirtless and bandaged. Pure terror jolts through me. Because he’s completely free. The green zip ties are lying on the floor, snapped like damp spaghetti.
He waves lazily with a dark smirk. “Top of the mornin’ to ye, Darlin’.” A few curls of dark hair fall over his cheekbones. Like they were purposefully designed to be illegally attractive.
“How—” I back up, grabbing the nearest object. My fingers close around my pink wool throw pillow, and I hoist it like a shield. “Stay back! How did you get out? I secured those!”
A low and gravelly sound leaves his throat. “You left a variety of methods for me to escape, Darlin’. And you weren’t exactly tight with the tension. Amateur hour, so it was.”
“I’ll—I’ll hit you!” I threaten.
“With a pillow?”
Right. A pillow is not ideal against a man who looks like he eats glass for breakfast.
I drop it and lunge for the nearest heavy object, my prize-winning Variegated Monstera, aka Sweet Pea. I lift the pot, ready to swing, until I notice her delicate leaves shimmering in the morning light.
“No, no, no,” I refuse. “You cost eighty dollars, and you’re finally putting out a new leaf.”
I set her down and grab the next best thing: a thick, hardcover mafia romance. I brandish it like a hatchet and swipe my reddish-blonde curls from my face.
He tilts his head, icy blue eyes tracking the cover. “A mafia title. How quaint.” He chuckles softly, and my stomach flips.“You won’t be needing that, Luv. Put it down before you pull a muscle.”
I refuse to let his Irish accent make my girl parts swoon. Even the bruises on his face look unfairly beautiful. And…well, everyone knows scars are sexy. Four silver marks slash the left side of his jaw, two longer ones across his forehead.
Just imagine his hands strangling you, and not where they may have been when you were asleep.
Not helpful.
“Are you going to kill me?” I demand, but it sounds more like a brittle squeak. “Are you going to chop me into tiny pieces and put my body parts in jars?”
He leans back, gaze flicking to my chest—where my nipples are embarrassingly obvious—then back to my face. Slow, predatory hunger radiates from him.
“Why would I kill my savior? Doesn’t sound very polite, Darlin’. And for the record? I prefer your parts right where they are. Much more useful that way.” He winks.
Heat creeps up my neck. “You pulled a gun on me! In my car!”
He reaches between the couch cushions and pulls out the cold black steel of his pistol. Wags it like a finger. “This gun?”
The blood drains from my face. “I put that in the freezer!”
“I woke up hungry in the night,” he says, accent thick and smooth as velvet. “Found the pea-shooter next to the frozen peas. Thought it’d be safer within reach. In case your ‘comfort shows’ turned into a lifestyle.”
Oh God. He was awake. How much did he hear?
“I—I have to go to work,” I blurt out, glancing at the clock. Nearly eight. “You have to leave. You’re healed enough to move. So move. Out.”
“I’m not leaving quite yet.” Steel under velvet now. No room to argue. “It hurts to walk. And I find I quite like the view from this sofa.”
His eyes roam.
“I don’t even know who you are!”
