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“Why can’t you sleep?” I asked without thinking.
“Got a fuck-all hot woman in my bed—a bed I’m not in with her—and a shitstorm is swirlin’. I don’t know how she fits in, but no matter what, that shit isn’t good.” Still gripping my wrist, he brought my hand over his torso. He moved it down, my fingertips skimming his abs. “I’d finally gotten my body to settle, but then I felt eyes on me, and…” He stopped our hands right above the waistband of his boxers, and his voice was rough with something other than rage when he finished, “It was hard to relax again.”
If I’d thought I was wet before, it was nothing compared to the fresh wave of arousal that pooled between my legs, coating my inner thighs.
It was stupid and reckless and absolutely fuckin’ insane of me, but in that moment, I was having trouble remembering why I shouldn’t reach my fingers out to feel whether he was speaking literally or figuratively.
Before I could make that epic mistake—or, worse, fulfill his earlier claim by begging—ringing filled the air.
Judge took advantage of the distraction, pushing his gun far out of reach and tugging me down at the same time.
I landed sprawled across his torso, making us both grunt. His changed to a wheezed ooph as I scrambled off to sit next to him. He released my wrist but quickly clasped it again using the hand closest to me.
You try to steal a guy’s gun once, and there goes all the trust.
I scrunched my eyes when the phone’s blinding light illuminated the room.
Judge pressed it to his ear. “Yeah?”
Whoever was on the other end spoke, but I couldn’t make out a thing they said. As they talked, Psycho’s hand flexed around my wrist, and he pushed my palm flat against his stomach.
He pulled the phone away from his ear a little, and the light and shadows played together to do wonderful, sinister things to his already gorgeous face.
“You’re not a stripper?” he asked.
Assuming he was talking to them, I continued admiring his bone structure while simultaneously ignoring the irrational jealousy that knotted my stomach.
So what if he’s talking to a possible stripper?
He’s a dangerous psycho.
Let her and her probably killer body and awesomely sexy moves deal with him.
“O?”
“Don’t call me that,” I snapped.
His lip twitched. “You didn’t answer me. You’re not a stripper?”
Maybe this whole thing is a crazy, Lifetime Movie-esque case of mistaken identity.
Trying not to get my hopes up, I shook my head. “Why?”
Ignoring my question, he asked, “You a call girl?”
My eyes widened and jaw dropped. “You think I’m a hooker?”
I didn’t judge people in that line of work because it wasn’t my place and I didn’t know the circumstances that’d driven them to it. That said, I’d never been confused for a prostitute, and I was surprised he thought I was one.
“Relax,” Judge said, something that would’ve made me do the exact opposite had I not been distracted by our conversation. “I said call girl. Ten-G-plus a night.”
“Ten thousand? People pay ten thousand dollars for sex?”
I’m in the wrong line of work.
An inferno of heat filled his hooded gaze. “I’d pay everything I have and my fuckin’ soul for one night with you, princess.”
Thankfully, the caller said something, and I was saved from having to respond. Because, seriously, what could I even say to that?
