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She doesn’t say anything in response to my comment and continues to look anywhere but directly at me. Her whole eye contact avoidance thing irritates me, and I keep climbing.
Her apartment isn’t hard to find since there are only three apartments on the fifth floor, but when we enter, I blink at the organized, colorful mess we walk into. I stand at the entrance, looking around, until I hear Megan clearing her throat.
“Is it possible to get the hell down now?”
Feeling a little intrigued by the organized chaos, I walk over to the couch a few feet away from me and gently lower a silent Megan onto it.
“You must be feeling better,” I smirk.
In the light, her bruises look mottled, and I don’t know why the sight of them angers me so much. She tries to get up, but my voice is hard as I snap, “Stay.”
“I’m not a dog, Mr. Middleton,” she bares her teeth at me. “This shit is getting old. Stop telling me to stay or sit. I’ll do whatever I want in my damn house.”
I’ve decided that an angry Megan is better than one with a dull look in her eyes. Mainly because every time I see that furious glitter in her beautiful eyes, I feel the urge to see how far I can push her. Perhaps because something about it alwaysseems restrained, as if something still holds her back from going totally postal on me. Maybe common sense. Maybe something else.
“If I wanted that level of obedience from you, sweetheart, I’d just put you over my knee. And trust me, you’d enjoy it.”
Her eyes widen, and her face flushes, but then she pretends to stick a finger down her throat as if what I said disgusted her. “Eww, what is wrong with you?”
“I’ve already had my tongue down your throat,” I chuckle. “Let’s not pretend that a good old-fashioned spanking wouldn’t turn you on. Now, where’s your first aid kit?”
My cell rings. It’s Vaughn. I already know what he wants.
“Vaughn.”
“Did your old ass arrive at your destination yet? I’m getting a little tired of sitting down here in the middle of a war zone.”
“I’ve done worse for you.”
“Like?”
“Like listen to you whine about your wife.”
“You shot someone in the middle of the street. Someone had to have heard those shots and called the cops.”
“No one is calling anyone in this neighborhood. You know that.”
“I’m hanging up now. Just hurry the hell up, Hunt.”
I turn my attention back to Megan, who looks displeased. I turn the deadbolt on her door to lock it before I ask, sitting down at the edge of her aged coffee table, “Where did they hurt you?”
“I can do this myself.”
“Or I can start removing your clothes to find out.” I look her square in the eyes. Seeing the blush crawl over her neck like that is always fascinating.
I can see the frustration on Megan’s pretty face before she says stiffly, “Mostly my face and stomach.”
“First aid kit?”
“Under the sink,” she huffs.
I locate and open the box and raise a brow at the well-stocked kit. Not commenting, I take out the alcohol pads and bandages. “Why were you walking out in the middle of the city without your belongings like that?”
A hint of anger colors my words, but she looks away. “I was going home.”
“Or were you throwing a tantrum?” I ask softly, my words a caressing blade.
She snorts a small derisive sound, and her gaze is sharp enough to wound when she turns it in my direction.
