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He’s here.
I gasp once my eyes move up past his chest. He’s not a short man. Not short on the muscle and mean look department either. Apart from his heavy boot inside the door, it’s how serious he looks.
I don’t know who he is or how he got in here, but I yield instantly to my original idea of throwing myself at the first man I see.
Two seconds in his company and I already know he’s all I’d ever want, so why look anywhere else?
“Stephanie?” he rasps in a gravelly voice. It’s deep but strangely calm, considering how primed that body of his looks under his dark blue suit.
Like he’s ready to take on a whole army all by himself. And win.
It looks out of place—the suit, I mean. But this guy could be wearing nothing but a fig leaf and he’d still be equally imposing.
He’s like some ultra-stern, god-like figure from an ancient Greek painting come to life. The day-old stubble doesn’t match the suit, and if I do say so, he hasn’t showered today either.
Not a gym sock smell, no way, but the smell of pure testosterone—the scent we’re all led to believe every man has naturally but nobody does.
No one except this man.
“I… Come in,” I hear myself blabbering as if I’m greeting Christmas guests, opening the door wider before stepping backward. Feeling more than the wine making my head spin as I watch him move inside and glance left to right before he leans back against the door.
The security locks snap shut under his weight, and I can’t help but gulp down my feelings.
I should be a dozen things right now—terrified, angry, even just mildly curious as to who this man is and what he wants. But dammit. The only thing he makes me want to do is whatever the hell he tells me to.
He’s way out of my league to start calling the shots. And my experience with men is about as vast as my senator skills. It’s clear he’s not here because of my own pressing need that never even got underway—the same need that feels like it’ll make me burst the longer I’m anywhere near him.
“It’s not Daddy, is it?” I ask involuntarily, suddenly fearing the worst but saying the first thing I can think of that isn’t ‘Would you please take my virginity? I kinda made a deal with myself.’
My stranger’s eyes darken, and he frowns, shaking his head slowly. It’s almost as if he has just realized something I can’t.
“Stephanie, someone’s been assigned to kill you tonight. I’m not going to let that happen. You’re safe but you’ll need to do exactly as I tell you, do you understand?”
The shock of his message, the idea that someone would want me dead.
Did he just say he wasn’t going to let it happen? That I have to do exactly what he says?
“I’ll do whatever you want,” I manage to get out before biting my lip, not meaning it to sound the way it came out, but it’s enough to see him cock a brow.
A faint smile twitches at the edge of his lip, and his jaw flexes. His dark eyes scan me head to toe, reminding me I’m still very wet and freezing cold under my cling film robe, all except for one place. My impromptu outfit gives him a free wet t-shirt show that should make me ashamed.
Having him look at me like this, the only shame would be if we couldn’t translate his pleased look into something we could maybe both benefit from.
I’ve learned something about becoming a senator. Negotiate, sure. But stick to your guns when it comes to those promises, like letting the next man I see do whatever he wants with me.
And what was that part about someone being sent to kill you, remember?
I try to act natural, motioning for my mystery guest to sit down, not surprised when he stays standing and doesn’t introduce himself. My own legs are barely able to get me to a chair in the living room before I sink into it, squeaking against the exquisite sensation of my increasing arousal.
That thing that still needs taking care of? It’s about to boil over. I have no idea how he’s doing it, but this man is deadly dangerous. No doubt about it. Killing me with his intense eyes and the subtle blast of pure manliness pouring off him like gasoline fumes.
“So, who on earth would want me killed? And if they do, how do you know so much about it?” I ask, sounding way more relaxed about the idea than I probably should be.
“Because I’m the one assigned to kill you,” he explains, deadpan.
Shit.
Although, if I’m really about to die, that does leave the option for one final request, doesn’t it?
