by Jade Allen
“Hm?” Chelsea glanced at him; Johan had another book in his hands, and not for the first time she considered how utterly bizarre it was to think that a guy who carried multiple weapons on his person as a matter of course, who only had about three or four changes of clothes in a backpack to his name, somehow also had half a dozen books.
“We’re putting distance between us and the guys after you,” Johan said, putting the book aside. “But it would be even easier to evade them if you changed your appearance a little bit.” Chelsea glanced at him sharply.
“The salon downstairs would probably cost several hundred dollars,” she said. “And in case you haven’t noticed, I’m unemployed at the moment.”
Johan smiled. “They charge it to the room automatically; no need for you to use your card.”
In fact, Chelsea realized that from the moment they had left her house days before, Johan had paid for everything, one way or another; usually with cash, when they got gas or food on the road. “I would go with you, of course. There’s no point in you being undefended.”
“Just how different could a salon make me even look?” Chelsea was not entirely sure why she was resisting the suggestion so much—a mixture of her doubts about Johan, her sense that everything in her life was changing, an irrational clinginess to one of the few things that hadn’t changed. Underneath that, there was a little voice in her mind, a subtle insecurity, that said that Johan didn’t find her very attractive. Even though he’d had sex with her every day since they’d fled her apartment, and Johan had told her she was cute, or gorgeous, or beautiful—the comment he’d made that she should never be permitted to wear more than a towel came to mind obediently in the man’s low, almost growling murmur—Chelsea had been plagued with doubts her entire life; no amount of compliment from even a gorgeous man like Johan was going to undo the years of taunts.
“You would be surprised how much they can do with a haircut, color, things like that,” Johan said, shrugging. “Even if they start flashing a picture of you around, most people don’t pay that much attention to details.” Chelsea worried at her bottom lip, pulling it between her teeth for a moment while she considered.
“How are you affording this?” she asked him, putting down the remote to the TV and pinning Johan down with a level gaze. “The hotels, the cars, the gas? I have never traveled this well in my life, much less while fleeing people who want to kill me.” Johan shrugged off the question, looking unconcerned.
“I have an expense account. When we’re sure they’re not chasing you anymore, I’ll request funds to get you an apartment, and to get you new documentation—ID, bank account, all that. You’ll basically be in a kind of witness protection program until Rosen goes to trial.” Chelsea frowned.
“But who’s paying you? This isn’t a federal thing—if it was, we’d be staying in cheaper hotels and eating more fast food.” Shadows flickered across Johan’s bright eyes quickly; so quickly that Chelsea almost missed it.
“We have funding. You could get a full makeover in the salon and it would be a drop in the barrel. Don’t worry about it.” Chelsea brought her tongue up along the roof of her mouth and clucked it against her teeth.
“Fine, if you want me to change the way I look, I’ll change the way I look,” she said tartly. “After all, I let you talk me into destroying my phone, I let you talk me into leaving town, I let you talk me into eating, sleeping, and fucking on your schedule…” she stood up quickly as her anger flowed to a sudden flashpoint she hadn’t realized she was approaching, snatching up the remote control and turning the TV off before letting the device clatter onto the coffee table once more. Johan’s eyes widened and her stared at her with something almost like alarm. “Let’s go down to the salon so they can make me look like a completely different person who isn’t running away from her entire life!”
Johan stood in a quick, fluid movement that made Chelsea start. In an instant, it seemed, he was only inches away from her, looking down into her eyes. “If you don’t want to fuck me, all you have to do is say no,” he told her lowly. “If you don’t want to sleep, then don’t sleep. If you don’t want to eat, don’t eat. If you don’t want to go to the salon, don’t to go.” Johan’s hands dropped to her shoulders, sliding to her arms. “My only job is to get you away from the people who want to kill you and keep you safe,” he said, his hands tightening on her slightly. “If you want to make that harder for me, you are more than welcome to. If you want to sulk and starve yourself, or if you want to be an insomniac, be my guest.”
“I don’t even know what I’m running from! I don’t know what I’m running to! All I have is your word that you’re supposed to protect me. Until what—four days ago?—I had never even met you before.” Chelsea twisted and pivoted, breaking his hold on her arms and stepped away from Johan, scowling at him. “I barely know you, I barely know anything about what is going on in my life, and you keep popping these—these—suggestions to me. ‘Let’s have sex to kill time.’ ‘Let’s get rid of your phone.’ ‘Let’s change your appearance.’ ” Chelsea waved her hands about wildly, feeling the anger thrumming through her body, the doubts exploding out of her in a torrent. Everything she had been thinking and yet not letting herself think rose to the surface of her brain. “I’m fucking terrified, Johan! And you’re just sitting there, driving the car, or reading a book, or—or—getting me off like nothing is going on at all. Because you know everything, don’t you?” Chelsea glared at him. “You probably know the damned size of my underwear.” Johan’s eyes flickered with amusement, his lips twitching.
“Seven,” he said lightly. Chelsea inhaled sharply. “I helped you pick up your clothes yesterday.” Her hands curled into fists, her fingernails digging into the skin of her palms.
“You know what? No. I am not going to the salon. I am—” she felt a jolt of fear; she had no idea where she was, she had no access to the car—at least not as long as Johan had the keys—and she believed him that there were, in fact, people after her. Where could she realistically go? “I am going into the bathroom, and I am going to enjoy being by myself for however long I feel like it.”
“Sure,” Johan said, eyeing her with a mixture of amusement and irritation. “Like I said, you can sulk if you want to. Sulk as long as you want to, in fact. Stay in there all night.” Chelsea let out an irritated little scream, breathing in deeply and staring at him for a long moment.
“I am locking the fucking door behind me,” she said, stomping barefoot in the direction of the master bathroom. Chelsea slammed the door shut behind her, only remembering afterward to twist the lock on the knob before she threw herself onto the rim of the bathtub. A sharp jolt of pain shot up from her buttock to remind her that anger would not make her invulnerable to injury, but Chelsea ignored the lingering ache, inhaling and exhaling slowly through her nose as her anger died down from a rolling boil to a simmer. I am not sulking, she thought bitterly. I need time to myself. I need space. I need to not be in the company of some gorgeous man who makes me forget that my entire life is in fucking shambles right now. Chelsea stood, pain rippling through her buttock and leg as she began to pace the small floor of the bathroom, unwilling to let go of the irritation she felt. She was going to stay in the tiny room until she figured some things out, she told herself. However long that was. Even if it did mean sleeping in the bathtub.
****
“Chelsea,” Johan’s voice came through the locked bathroom door. “If you want to starve yourself, that’s your prerogative, but there’s food if you’re hungry.” Chelsea felt her stomach twist at the mention of food. She was hungry. She was also slightly chilly from the cold tile and porcelain of the bathroom, tired and slightly dizzy from walking in near-circles for what she estimated had to be over an hour. She worried her bottom lip, trying to decide if the blow to her pride was worth leaving the room and eating something, or if she wanted to stand on firm—if self-defeating—principle, and stay there all night just to show Johan he couldn’t and wouldn’t
control her in any way. Screw it. I’m hungry, there’s food, I might as well eat.
When she heard Johan’s steps retreating from the bathroom door, Chelsea took a deep breath, steeling herself from any comment he might make about her tantrum. She unlocked the door and opened it, breathing in the scent of another truly delicious meal. If nothing else, Chelsea thought, Johan had excellent taste in ordering room service.
The object of her ire was seated in the living room, busily arranging and uncovering platters and plates, bottles and glasses and silverware. As she took in the oddly domestic sight, Chelsea’s eyes widened at the veritable feast of selections: chilled seafood, something that looked like it might be chocolate mousse, steaming, seared steak and chicken with crackling skin, buttery roasted potatoes, a crisp Waldorf salad, fresh strawberries, flaky croissants; so much food that Chelsea wasn’t certain that it was even remotely possible for them to eat it all. “You know, if you were trying to calm my fears about where all this money is coming from, this was not the way to do it,” she said. Johan looked up, casting a smile in her direction over his shoulder.
“I’m glad you decided to eat,” he said mildly. “I was trying to come up with a way to slide a plate under the bathroom door but the gap is so narrow it seemed hopeless.” He gestured for Chelsea to join him on the couch, unfolding a cloth napkin and placing it a foot or so away from him.
“Okay,” Chelsea said, gathering up the napkin and laying it in her lap. Johan took one of the plates and began filling it with small portions of everything on the table. “Let’s hear all about how it was stupid and immature of me to throw a temper tantrum.” Johan glanced at her, barely raising one wheat-colored eyebrow.
“You’re afraid, you’re under stress, and you’re dealing with a great deal of uncertainty,” Johan said. He extended the plate towards her utterly piled with delicacies. “It seems fair that you would want some time alone, even if I can’t give you much space.” Chelsea felt a ripple of irritation at his reasonable tone of voice.
“Are you a hostage negotiator on your days off?” she asked, snagging a fork from one of the bundles on the coffee table. Johan chuckled lowly.
“I have dealt with plenty of people in a similar position to you.” He began helping himself to the abundance of food in front of them. “Of course, I haven’t had sex with all of them. And I don’t think any of them have been as delicious as you are.” He popped a hulled strawberry into his mouth. “It’s good, you wanting to take control. You’re not just a helpless victim.” Chelsea pushed around one of the cold shrimp on her plate, not certain of exactly how she felt about the compliment.
“I think I bruised my tailbone,” she admitted, smiling wryly.
“If you’re interested, I can examine your cute ass in detail later,” Johan suggested, his bright eyes warming as he looked at her. He shrugged, perhaps remembering the part of her diatribe about having sex with him. “I’m sure a hotel like this has a doctor if you’d prefer a professional.” Chelsea sighed.
“I want to not want to have sex with you,” she said, narrowing her eyes as she tried to decide whether or not she had spoken correctly. “I’d really rather not be attracted to you, but you’re just…” Chelsea chuckled, shaking her head and bringing a bite of lobster to her lips. “It’s not really fair, you know.” Johan sat back with his plate, his graze trailing over the lines of her body slowly.
“And it’s fair for me? I have to focus on keeping you away from bad guys when all I want to do is keep you in bed all day.” His lips twitched in an amused, slightly lust-tinged smile. “We’re both dealing with hardships.” Chelsea rolled her eyes, though she could feel her cheeks—and the rest of her body—heating up at the suggestive tone of Johan’s words. She turned her attention more fully onto the food in front of her, tasting everything in quick bites before settling in to really enjoy the few things that appealed to her the most.
Somehow, they managed to make their way through most of the astonishing volume of food, and as Johan gathered up the plates and implements, loading them onto the room service cart, Chelsea shook her head at the carnage they’d jointly wreaked. “I had no idea I was that hungry,” she said. Johan’s lips twitched with a smile.
“I thought it might have contributed to your hair-trigger temper,” he said quietly. “You seem to be more prone to bad moods when you’re hungry.” Chelsea raised an eyebrow, twisting her lips into a wry almost-smile as she tried to decide whether it was condescending or merely matter-of-fact.
“Yeah, well,” she said finally, picking at imaginary lint on the couch cushion she sat on. “We’re ready to move past that, I hope?” Johan guided the room service cart to the door of the suite and flashed a grin at her.
“I wouldn’t want to be accused of being controlling or unfair,” Johan said, opening the door and pushing the cart through it. He locked the door as it fell shut, turning to face Chelsea and leaning against the doorframe. Chelsea rolled her eyes, pressing her lips together to suppress the smile that threatened to form, trying to hold onto her irritation at Johan. She decided that it wasn’t worth it; Johan was gorgeous, and she knew from experience that he was extremely good in bed. She didn’t think that spending the night on the couch, or in the bathroom, was a very appealing option.
“I’m not going to the salon,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. Johan shrugged, watching her with an odd mixture of calm and intensity. Chelsea felt more like an antelope under the surveillance of a lion than the object of Johan’s protection.
“Don’t go if you don’t want to go,” he replied evenly. Chelsea groaned, sliding inelegantly lengthwise on the couch.
“You know, it’s kind of annoying that you keep being so—so—agreeable,” she said, looking up at the ceiling. “It’s irritating as hell that you’re not trying to either console me or bully me or...” she pressed her lips together, trying to think of what it was she wanted from him.
“Well you put the kibosh on trying to seduce you; you don’t need comforting, and you made it clear how you feel about bullying.” Chelsea closed her eyes, feeling her irritation rising. Before she could make a reply, she heard a soft, distant noise. Chelsea opened her eyes and turned her head just in time to see Johan approaching her, striding in quick, decisive steps across the room. He sank down into a crouch just inches away from her in front of the couch. “Or maybe you weren’t really telling the truth with all your indignation about—how did you say it? ‘Fucking on my schedule?’ ” Johan’s voice dropped lower, and in spite of her irritation, Chelsea felt her body start to tingle, start to warm up. “Did you want me to see if you bruised yourself?” His hand barely brushed against her hip, and Chelsea shivered. She bit her bottom lip.
“Fine,” she said, even as her heart started beating faster in her chest. She blushed, slightly embarrassed at the fact that she had injured herself in the adult equivalent of a temper tantrum, and turned over gracelessly on her stomach. Johan’s fingers brushed against her skin lightly as he lifted up her skirt, as he gently—gently—tugged her panties down over the curve of her buttocks. Chelsea heard a sharp intake of breath.
“You definitely bruised yourself,” Johan said, his warm fingers trailing in a line from one side of her hip to the other. “You probably won’t be comfortable sitting in the car all day tomorrow.” Chelsea shivered as his touch lingered against her tender, bruised skin, squirming slightly in a mixture of discomfort and—oddly—desire. She was almost as embarrassed at the cause of her injury as she was at the fact that Johan’s light touch was beginning to turn her on. “What a shame.” She heard Johan clucking his tongue against his teeth as he continued to caress her. Chelsea turned her head, looking at him over her shoulder.
“I think you’ve exhausted the potential for staring at my ass that comes with examining the bruise,” she said, biting her bottom lip. Johan smiled unabashedly, his fingers withdrawing.
“What do you want to do about it? I’m sure you’re in a lot of pain.” Chelsea chuck
led, shaking her head in disbelief. “I mean—I’m reliably informed that sex is an excellent pain reliever, but finding the right position could be a challenge, and then there’s the fact that you don’t want to want to have sex with me…” Chelsea scrambled up onto one elbow, using her other hand to cuff Johan on the shoulder.
“You are such an asshole sometimes,” she said. Johan tilted his head to the side slightly, not even reacting to the smack she had delivered, and his hand slid against her sensitive skin once more, cupping the curve of her buttocks.
“I think the fall must have scrambled your brain; the asshole is closer to here.” Johan gave her buttocks a careful squeeze and Chelsea gasped; the little twinge of pain from the bruising just above his hand was nothing compared to the rush of sensuality she felt flowing through her. Johan grinned at her as if he understood her predicament entirely. “We could watch TV and I could see if the front desk has some aspirin,” he suggested innocently.
“Ugh.” Chelsea squirmed away from him, dragging herself up off of her stomach and wincing as the movement of sitting up put more pressure on her bruise. “Fine! I want to have sex with you.” Johan chuckled, his gaze meeting hers.
“You’ll feel better afterward,” he pointed out, leaning in close to her. Chelsea started to retort, but Johan brushed his lips against hers, his hands beginning to come alive on her body, stroking and caressing her. He peeled off her clothes quickly, letting them fall to the couch, to the floor, and Chelsea broke away from Johan’s lips as she felt him lift her up carefully, rising from his crouch and settling her body against his.
He carried her into the bedroom of the suite, carefully laying Chelsea down onto the bed. Johan looked down at her hungrily; before she could prompt him, however, he had already begun to strip off his clothes, hauling his tee shirt over his head and casting it aside, quickly unbuckling his belt. In a matter of moments, he was pushing his boxers down over his hips, revealing the slim, muscled body Chelsea had come to enjoy so much. She took in the sight of his lean hips, his broad chest with its scattering of wheat-colored hair, the muscled thighs, and the hard, proudly erect cock just above.
