Page 23 of Gunnar

The martini glass hits the table with a thud so hard I’m surprised I don’t shatter the thin stem. When I release it, my hand is shaking with a nervous tremor that vibrates through my fingertips, the twitches matching the sudden racing of my heart.

Gunnar is looming over me, ominously dressed in all black. His tactical pants rest at his hips, and the fitted shirt tucked into them strains against the muscles of his shoulders. His blue eyes are stormy and dark—and currently fixed on me with the kind of intensity that leaves me squirming in my seat. Everything about him screams control and barely restrained violence.

Needing to say something, to establish some sort of boundary and remind us both that he works for me and not the other way around, I clear my throat. “Gunna⁠—”

“Now!” The lone word cracks like a whip, and I flinch.

I need to assert myself, remind this man who I am, but I’m frozen under his furious gaze. I can’t look away from the muscle ticking in his jaw or the way his hands are curling and uncurling at his sides as he physically tries to rein in his control.

His large hand wraps around my upper arm. It’s not gentle or rough, but a firm, inexorable grip of someone who knows exactly how much pressure to apply to move a body where he pleases. Before I can react, he pulls me out of the booth with a strength that causes my breath to catch. I stumble against him as I struggle to find my footing, my free hand finding purchase on his remarkably firm chest.

“Hey!” Scarlet’s voice is sharp and outraged. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Enjoy the rest of your night, ladies.” Gunnar’s voice is so polite and pleasant that it is somehow infinitely more terrifying. “Devyn is done for the night.”

“Excuse me?” Mia stands, pulling her phone from her purse.

Using the leverage of my palm on his chest, I push back from him, quickly finding myself reeled back in by the firm hold of my arm. “You can’t just⁠—”

But he can. He absolutely can. Gunnar dips at the waist and hoists me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing more than a gym bag. As the blood rushes to my head, I let out a sound that is embarrassingly close to a shriek. “Put me down!” I pound my fists against his back, but it’s like hitting a wall. A very warm, solid wall that smells faintly of cedar. My stomach flips, a reaction that has nothing to do with my sudden inverted position. “Gunnar, I swear to God⁠—”

“Swear away.” He turns on his heel, and I watch the restaurant floor beneath me, polished wood and feet of people who are undoubtedly staring, pass as he quickly crosses the space. “You’re only making this worse.”

“Worse?!” I snap, my high-pitched voice carrying across the hushed dining room as I try to writhe free of his hold. “How could this possibly get any worse?”

His answer comes in the form of an adjusted grip, his hand sliding down until he’s cupping my ass. He palms me with casual possession to keep me firmly on his shoulder. The heat of his palm burns through the thin silk of my dress. I gasp, a sharp, involuntary intake of air that has nothing to do with my outrage and everything to do with the sudden, electric awareness of exactly how close his fingers are to places they shouldn’t be.

“Your hand…” I splutter, my face burning with embarrassment and arousal. “Your hand is on my⁠—”

“Consider it an incentive to stop squirming.”

We are not going unnoticed, not in the slightest. Scandalized gasps and chatter follow from every table that we pass. Gunnar’s long legs eat up the distance between our booth and the exit, each step bouncing me against him, making me equal parts dizzy and furious. And maybe a little something else that I am really not prepared to think about right now.

The doorman shouts something about calling the police and assault charges, but it does nothing to slow Gunnar’s trajectory. He bursts through the exit, and the flashes of paparazzi cameras blind me as we step onto the sidewalk.

“Devyn! Devyn, who’s the guy?”

“Is that your new boyfriend?”

“Devyn, look over here!”

This cannot be happening.

As if this isn’t humiliating enough with photographic evidence. I can already picture the headlines.

DEVYN MARTIN: OVER THE SHOULDER AND OUT OF CONTROL

I bury my face in Gunnar’s shirt, inhaling the maddening scent of him, wishing I could disappear.

“Keys,” Gunnar barks at the valet. “The Aston Martin.”

“Sir, that’s not⁠—”

“Now.”

The valet must see something in his face that I can’t, because the protest dies as quickly as it arrived. There’s the jingle of metal, and then he shifts me slightly before catching them one-handed. The moment he has them, he trudges me across the pavement to where my car is parked. He yanks open the passenger door and very unceremoniously dumps me into the seat, his hands traveling over my body as he drops me like I’m cargo.

I scramble for dignity, leverage, or anything that will let me reclaim the smallest sliver of control. “You are a fucking caveman. Do you know that? A neanderthal. A⁠—”