Page 53 of A Dangerous Kind of Love

I glance down at her hands. “Do I?”

“Yeah,” she says. “You can’t hang out in my house dressed like that.”

I reach back, catch her wrist, and pull her around, turning her into my chest.

“What’s wrong with this?” I ask.

Her hands flatten against me.

“It’s a suit,” she says. “You look like you’re about to conduct business in my living room.”

My mouth twitches. “And how would you like me dressed?”

She pulls back, taking my hands.

“Sweatpants and a T-shirt,” she says after a second. “And we can grab a few other things for you to keep here. That way, if this happens again, you’ll have something to change into.”

I lean in. “So you’re already planning on me staying here again?”

She shoves me back. “Just let me get my car keys.”

“Uh, no,” I say, catching her hand before she can step away. “We are not driving your car.”

She twists out of my grip, already moving. “We are absolutely driving my car.”

I follow her a step. “Katie—“

“And you’re going to sit in the passenger seat,” she adds, turning just enough to pinch my side.

“That’s not happening.”

Her smile is dangerous. “Oh, it is.”

I track her the entire walk to her car. It’s a fucking Honda Accord that’s too small, too old, and she’s way too smug about it. Especially since my SUV is sitting ten feet away.

She unlocks her door and slides in, so I move around to the passenger side. The handle doesn’t give when I pull it, and I pause, irritation settling in before I knock on the window. She holds up a finger, then leans across the seat and flips the lock up by hand. I watch it click open, jaw tight, cursing under my breath as I open the door, because the damn thing doesn’t even have automatic locks.

My knees hit the dash the second I sit down, and I have to adjust, reaching for the lever and shoving the seat all the way back just to get some space. It’s still tight. I exhale slowly, already annoyed, and glance over at her.

“Aw,” she mocks, her tone sweet in a way that’s anything but. “Poor massive giant is too big for my car.”

I fucking run a multi-billion-dollar criminal organization, and I’m sitting here letting a woman who weighs maybe a hundred and thirty pounds talk to me like I’m a little punk.

I stare at her for a second. She thinks she’s in control here.

My hand slides across the console and closes around her throat, not squeezing—just enough pressure to remind her I’m here. Her breath stutters. Her hands stay on the wheel, but her grip shifts, tighter now. I drag my thumb lightly against her pulse and feel it spike.

“Still wanna run your mouth?” I murmur.

Her lips part like she’s about to say something anyway. She’s stubborn as hell. I lean in fast and crush my mouth to hers, cutting off whatever smart remark was brewing. My tongue forces its way in, tangling with hers, and she doesn’t fight it. Her mouth opens more, sucking in a sharp inhale through her nose as her pulse hammers under my fingers. One of her hands snaps up from the wheel to grab my shirt, pulling me closer instead of away. I kiss her harder, teeth grazing her lower lip, feeling the vibration of a low sound in her throat. I pull back abruptly, leaving her lips parted and wet, eyes locked on mine.

She leans back, sucking in a breath.

“Dude,” she says. “That was amazing.”

I kiss her like that, and she calls me dude. I shake my head.

“What?”