Page 35 of Wicked Fortune

That about summed it up. He should head home, crawl into bed, and sleep it off. Not alcohol, but the day itself. Tomorrow would come soon enough, with more than enough problems to tackle.

But somehow his car refused to head higher into the hills to his home. Instead, he found himself back down in Burbank, maneuvering through a quiet, residential neighborhood. He made a right, then a left, then tapped the brakes when he found it—an unassuming one-story tucked in between other cookie-cutter houses. Nothing like the magnificent home of glass and wood and steel he’d designed, as much a work of contemporary art as his collection.

It didn’t matter. This little suburban home was like an anchor. A reminder of something simpler. Purer.

Something he’d never had, but had always wanted. How had he jumped right over that, from poverty to opulence? Had he been lucky? A prodigy? Or just a damn fool?

He didn’t know. For that matter, he didn’t care. There was only one certainty in the world as far as he was concerned, and that was the fact that you couldn’t go back. No matter how much it might suck, the only option was forward.

So here he was, parked across the street. He’d cut the engine, but his pulse still thrummed, the adrenaline from his drive refusing to fade. But as he thought of her, the tension began to ease.

She soothed him. Her sharp tongue. Her contagious laugh. It was dangerous, letting her get under his skin like this. Dangerous and stupid.

He drummed his fingers on the wheel, his gaze drifting to her doorstep, thinking of her behind those walls. His balls tightened, his cock going hard as he imagined her in the lingerie he’d selected, his fingers stroking her skin, pulling off the silk and lace, laying her bare before him.

He groaned, something dark and primal twisting inside him. He hated himself for it, but he couldn’t stop the way his imagination ran wild, picturing her wide open for him, her confidence mingling with just a hint of vulnerability.

He couldn’t afford to let her distract him, no matter how much she got under his skin.

But she already had, hadn’t she? She was in his thoughts, his plans, his blood. As much as he wanted to keep her out of this mess, he knew it was too late. She was already in the game. And whether he wanted to protect her or control her, only one thing was certain—he couldn’t let her go, not even if he wanted to. Whether to save her or silence her, he wasn’t sure. All he knew was that she was his now, whether she realized it or not.

He turned the key, the engine roaring back to life. He spared one last glance at her house before pulling away, his jaw set and his mind racing. He just needed a little more time. A little more space to tie up the loose ends and take control of the situation.

And as for Aria? He’d keep her close. Watch her. Protect her if he could. Stop her if he had to.

Because this game wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

THIRTEEN

The monsters are back.

I feel them pressing me down into the rough carpet of the living room, their voices filled with scornful laughter as I stare up at the ceiling, too scared to breathe, too small to fight back. Their words slither over each other, talking around me, through me, but I can’t make out what they’re saying.

I’m trapped.

Terrified.

A scream locks in my throat and tears fill my eyes. I want to move. I want to leave.

But all I can do is hide inside myself, counting the seconds until they leave me alone.

Will they ever leave me alone?

I tremble, wanting to lash out. To pound and scratch and bite, but I’m too small, and they’re monsters. How could I ever beat the monsters?

And then he’s there. The Stair Man.

My eyes widen, and I’m about to cry out, but he lifts a finger to his lips. He’s halfway up the staircase, hidden inside the shadows as he looks down at me, strong and silent, waiting for the right moment to pull me away from this. From them.

And then, before I even know what’s happened, the monsters are gone, and I’m standing tall and straight, no longer a child but a woman clothed in nothing but lace and silk, soft against my skin.

My nipples are hard, and when I look up, The Stair Man is right in front of me.

Not the shadowed figure of my childhood, but Matthew Holt. Those intense, green eyes trace over me, sending a lingering heat spiraling through me. He steps forward, and his gaze is as potent as a touch.

“Please,” I whisper, and his only answer is a slow, sexy smile as he traces a finger from my lace-covered breasts all the way down to the band of the tiny thong.

My heart pounds, anticipating what comes next. His finger slipping beneath the band, finding my core. Then sliding inside me as he pulls me close for a kiss so wild and passionate that it will send me over the edge, spiraling into a whirlwind of pleasure.