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His head whips around to stare at me and I realize I’ve said too much. Thankfully, he doesn’t ask questions—seems like he never does—instead, he clicks off his seatbelt, rounds the car and opens the passenger door for me.
The sneer doesn’t leave his lips as we walk up the piss-stenched stairs to my apartment. Or when we reach our floor, and the rock music from Billie’s room spills out from under the door crack and assaults our ears. I’m burning again, this time for a different reason: Embarrassment.
I don’t know much about this man, but I do know he has a private jet. And men with jets aren’t usually caught dead in areas like Risborough Heights.
My heart is hammering in my chest, beating faster the closer we get to my bedroom. When I push the door open and click on the lamp, I watch for his reaction.
He stands in the middle of the room, his large frame making it feel even smaller than it already does. Fists clenching and unclenching, he assesses his surroundings. First, his eyes drag over the desk, where my makeup is bursting out of its bag and my psychology books form a messy tower. Then to my laundry hamper, which is also over flowing. When his gaze settles on the wall above my head, I see the confusion flash over his features, then his eyes harden.
Fuck.
I spin around and grab the sheet of paper off the wall, cringing from embarrassment. God, what must he think of me? Living in this shithole with a handwritten plan on the wall, detailing my desire to make eight million dollars in one month? No wait, I crossed the last bit out—inthree weeks?!
Reluctantly, I lock eyes with him. “That’s a lot of money,” he says slowly.
“I-I’m an ambitious woman.”
Another fleeting look around my bedroom suggests otherwise. His lips twitch, like he wants to ask me a question but then thinks the best of it. My breath hitches in my throat when he takes a step towards me, closing the gap between us.
My god, this is happening, isn’t it? This is really happening.
I force myself to meet his eyes with all the strength I have left in my trembling body. My shaking fingers unbutton my coat, and I awkwardly lift his sweater off over my head.
I can’t read the expression on his face. It’s stone-cold, unwavering, with something enigmatic dancing behind those gunmetal eyes.
“This is me returning the favor, right?”
He pauses for a moment, jaw working. Then his head moves just a fraction. A nod.
Locking eyes with him, I lift my T-shirt over my head and slide my jeans over my ass, letting all my clothes pool on the tatty carpet beneath us. The air crackles with the unknown, and if he wasn’t standing so close to me, I might miss how his breathing has quickened, or the low, animalistic growl that rumbles deep within his chest.
He sucks in a lungful of air as if he’s gearing himself up for something. Then, he releases me from his unwavering stare, turning his attention to below my collarbone.
“Fuck,” he growls.
His gaze runs over my curves, and under the thin fabric of my lacey bralette, my nipples stiffen. He must be able to hear my heartbeat; it’s slamming against my chest with the force of a basketball.
His hand reaches for my face. It hovers somewhere in the air between us, taunting me. Nostrils flare. Jaw ticks. He lowers his hand.
“You flinched.”
I swallow. “I-I didn’t.”
“You did.” His eyes flicker over my features like flames. “I need to know why you recoiled when I went to touch you.”
I didn’t graduate from college—hell, I barely enrolled—but I have the equivalent of a Ph.D. in lying. Still, it’s the truth that slips from my lips.
“Because every man who’s ever touched me has been cruel.”
His body visibly stiffens.
I don’t know why I told him that. I owe him mylife—and all he wants in return is a look at my naked body. And Iwantto give it to him. Every square inch of my body is burning with the desire for his touch, and the last time I felt this kind of lust was when the man on the motorcycle first swept me away.
But that turned sour, and I learned my lesson the hard way. All of the men that want to touch my body have turned out to be monsters.
Flinching was an instinct.
“It’s fine,” I find myself garbling as he increases the space between us. Slipping away from me. “I’m okay, this is okay—”
