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Despite his wealth, he has never asked me out to a restaurant or a bar. He doesn’t need flashy things. He only has eyes for me.
And he’ll be here soon. He’s late, but my man is coming.
Content and excited at the prospect of having my claws on him, I break into a little dance as I hum “The Bad Touch” by Bloodhound Gang.
My high-heeled black ankle boots go tap, tap, tap on the floor as I sing and make my way to the kitchen. With nothing left to do, I check my phone again for any new messages from Carter. Nothing but the last message that came in almost an hour ago.
Carter: I’m so sorry, pet. I fucking hate that I have to be late instead of being there with you. Biting on your neck. Marking every inch of you. Making you cry like the good girl you are. But I will. Soon. That’s a motherfucking promise.
I remind myself this is the life of the man who runs one of the most luxurious five-star hotels in Manhattan with a demanding stepdad like Killian Murdock. I’m aware of how busy the place is—after all, that’s where I met my Carter.
Asking him to change is out of the question. Carnations is my baby. Voltage has been his, ever since he turned eighteen.
Carter’s mom passed away when he was a baby. He has no one but Killian, and I won’t put myself between them.
Sure, sometimes they pin each other with mysterious gazes. Sometimes, Carter is even okay with his stoic stepdad giving me dark glares. I always shudder at that. Carter forever smirks when it happens.
Noises from the kitchen cut into my dangerous thoughts.
Someone’s picking the lock.
Carter.
He’s out there, about to get me hot and bothered. Seconds from making me desperate for his special brand of crazy.
Yes, sir.
Totally aroused and one hundred percent ready, I let him play his little game. I don’t open the door for him, traipsing silently on my heels to take my place in the center of the living room.
I fill my lungs, ready to scream and play the victim while he fakes breaking into my apartment.
Maybe role-playing a rape scene. Maybe—
What the fuck?
I expected my depraved, hurricane of a man to barge in here.
I expected hot sex.
This isn’t it. This doesn’t come fucking close.
“You’re not Carter,” I growl at the man in the doorway.
Crying out for help would be the smart thing, despite my only neighbor being at work. I should run and lock myself in my bedroom.
Anything to save myself from the six-foot, muscular blond assailant holding me at gunpoint.
Melina, my sensible, sane sister, would do that.
I’m anything but sensible. My family made sure to throw that fact in my face enough times.
Now, I’m just living up to it.
“I said”—I huff—“you’re not Carter.”
“No, I’m not, you dumb bitch.” The fucker makes himself at home, taking a step toward me.
Another one.
