by Anne Jolin
“What?” I question looking down at myself. “Why?”
Leaning his head down, he growls into my ear, “Because you’re not wearing any panties, Peyton. I know because I took them off.”
I blush crimson at knowing he’s seen me naked yet again.
“So if you want to ensure I don’t kill my best friend if he catches an eyeful of your pretty pussy, then I suggest you change.”
My pussy clenches at his words, and I feel dangerously close to running a fever at the thought of him touching me.
“O-okay,” I stammer.
“Good girl.” He nips at my ear before stalking across the hallway to my room.
After setting me down on the floor, he rummages through my closet. Then he pulls out a pair of yoga pants.
“Are you really going to dress me?” I roll my eyes as he walks back towards me.
“It can’t hardly be as enjoyable as undressing you,” he teases, and I shift uncomfortably. “But yes, I am. Now, hold on to my shoulders.”
Kneeling down, he helps me step one foot and then the other into my pant legs before pulling them up to my waist. He pauses with his hands on my hips, his face level with my panty line, and I shiver when I feel his breath move over the fabric.
“Right. Okay, then,” he clears his throat, standing. “Now we can have breakfast sans the side of bloodshed.”
If I were able to breathe, I’d try to make a smartass comment, but luckily for my mouth with no filter, I have been stunned into silence.
There were times I knew he looked at me appreciatively, but this is entirely different. It’s hunger. The heat radiating behind his blue eyes is the rawest form of lust, and I want more.
“Mornin’,” Jackson hums from the kitchen table. “How ya feelin’ today, Pey?”
Looking down at the ground, I shift my weight back and forth between my feet. I haven’t a clue what I looked like in the throes of a nightmare, but knowing that I woke up in the shower, I imagine it isn’t pretty. “I . . . Uhh . . .”
Hooking an arm around my shoulders, Jayden tilts my chin up to look at him. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, sugar,” he reassures me before pressing a kiss to my hair.
“I’m okay,” I answer honestly.
Jayden moves away from me to make coffee behind me in the kitchen.
“He’s right,” Jackson says, standing. “No one’s here to judge you.”
Nodding, I step into his arms for a quick hug. “Thank you for everything.”
“That’s enough,” Jayden growls over my shoulder.
Rolling my eyes, I pull away from my other roommate just in time to hear Jayden protest.
“Where’s my thank you hug? He didn’t even get wet!”
Laughing, I wince. Then I turn around to face him and grab the mug from his hand. “I’d hardly say you were cheated out of anything.”
I’m not sure what it is about him that makes me so outwardly bold, but the woman inside me loves the way he makes me feel. This morning, he’s the playful version of himself. Not long ago, it was the only side I thought he had, but the more time I spend around him, the more times his guard slips, the more I’m able to see the veil of pain that hovers so close to the surface.
My King is tortured and damned.
“You’re coming to work with me today,” he states midway through our breakfast of champions. By which I mean Cheerios.
I nearly spit my coffee out all over the table. “Wh-whaat?”
“You. Are. Coming. With. Me. To. Work,” he repeats.
Delicately crossing my arms over my chest, I shake my head. “No, I’m not.”
Jackson snickers into his bowl, and I fight the urge to fling a Cheerio at his face.
Thanks for the assist—not.
“Yes, you are.” He stands, clearing my bowl as if he’s onto the fact that I might use my breakfast food as a weapon if this conversation continues.
Pursing my lips, I chew on the inside of my cheek. “I can’t even go to my own work, Jayden. I’m not coming with you to yours. End of story.”
I move to slide my chair away from the table when I feel him surround me. With his chest against my back, his arms on either side of my shoulders cage me against the table.
“Sugar,” he warns, dipping his head down to my ear. “I’m not letting you out of my sight, so get up and get dressed.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he cuts me off before the words can leave my tongue.
“If you don’t”—his voice drops lower so only I can hear it—“I have no problems dressing you myself.”
Snapping my mouth shut, I look up to see Jackson with a shit-eating grin on his face. Bastard.
“I would if you’d move your big ass,” I chirp before blowing a strand of hair that’s fallen into my face.
Chuckling, he runs his hands up my bare arms, and I want to mentally kick myself when my body shivers against his touch.
“We leave in thirty minutes,” he states. Then he kisses the shell of my ear before allowing me to stand.
Huffing, I shuffle towards the hallway. This is completely absurd. I can’t even go to my own work yet. What in the hell am I going to do at his?
“And, Peyton?”
Looking over my shoulder, I see him leaning against the kitchen counter. He’s shirtless, and I physically work to not drool at the sight of him. Each muscle is defined from what I’d imagine is a ridiculous amount of time in the gym, and so much of his skin is traced in a variety of ink. The muscles in his arm flex as he brings the coffee mug to his full lips and stares at me over the rim.
When I realize I’ve been blatantly ogling him, I answer. “Yes?”
“For the record, I have a great ass.”
GRABBING HER AROUND the hips, I help her out of my truck.
“Thanks,” she murmurs, hooking her purse over her shoulder.
My eyes fall to her chest and I fucking chastise the shit out of myself for bringing her here. I work with tattooed thugs and bikers for Christ’s sake.
I should have made her wear a fucking sherpa.
She’s wearing one of those dresses, the long kind chicks wear that go all the way to the ground. It’s black and plays off the creamy tone of her skin. Her perfect tits are so visibly round through the thin material stretched over her chest, and it makes my jeans feel tight as fuck. Her long, honey hair has been curled, and it flows down around her face and across her bare shoulders. Pushed up on her little nose is a pair of aviators that are way too big in the kind of way most girls sunglasses are, and she smells so goddamned sweet.
“Fuck,” I hiss under my breath.
Widening her eyes, she looks up at me. “Are you okay?”
“You’re going to be cold,” I lie, reaching into the back seat and pulling out my jean jacket. “Here.” I thrust it towards her. “Put this on.”
After looking from the jacket to me and then back again, she shakes her head. “It’s August, Jayden, and it’s the middle of the day. I’ll cook in that.”
“It’s not that warm.”
Once she grabs the coat from me, she points to the inside. “It has wool inside it. No.”
Fighting the urge to toss her back inside the truck and cover up every inch of her, I snag it back. “I’ll bring it just in case.”
“You do that,” she smarts off, heading towards the shop.
I sure as fuck am turning up the air conditioning once we get inside.
“Boss,” Foster greets, not looking up from his client right away.
Fuck, I forgot he was working. If she swoons over his ass, I’m firing him.
“Peyton, you remember Foster,” I spit out, gesturing towards his table.
Grinning, she pushes her sunglasses up on to the top of her head. “Of course. Hey.”
Lifting his head, he winks. “Heya, love.” His eyes drop to her cast and he scrunches up his face. “Ouch.”
“Yeah,” she says, lifting her pink arm up in the air and waving it around.
&nbs
p; “Sorry,” he apologizes. “That’s the shit, eh?”
Sashaying up from her table, red hair falling around her Iron Maiden tank top, Danika smiles brightly. “Can I draw on it?”
Peyton’s eyes go wide.
“Peyton, this is Danika. Danika, this is my . . .” I run my hand over the scruff of my chin, unsure of what to say. Mine seems like it wouldn’t go over well. “My roommate, Peyton.”
Danika holds out her hand, which is clad in black nail polish and a skull ring. “Hey,” she says. “Sorry. My manners are occasionally lacking.”
“No worries,” Peyton says, stepping forward to slip their hands together.
“So, can I?” Danika grins, eagerly tapping her foot.
Looking up at me, my sugar furrows her brow, and I want desperately to bend down and kiss the confusion off her adorable face. Instead, I clarify.
“Danika wants to draw on your cast.”
“Like a tattoo?” she inquires.
Danika lifts up Peyton’s arm, adjusting it to see all the sides. “Yeah. It’ll look badass.”
“Sure,” Peyton squeaks, glancing between Danika and me one more time.
After clapping her hands wildly, Danika pulls her by the hand, and I lunge forward, crowding the two women’s space.
“Gentle,” I growl, nodding in Peyton’s direction. “She has fractured ribs.”
Rolling her eyes, Danika sighs in frustration. “Doesn’t mean she’s a china doll. Good lord,” she huffs, cautiously dragging my girl across the shop and away from me.
A couple of hours later, I’m fucking around in my office when I hear a knock on the door.
“Who’s the fresh meat?” Jensen asks, plopping down into one of the chairs in front of my desk.
Slamming my laptop shut, I glare at him. “Don’t call her that.”
As if he didn’t hear me, or he simply chose to ignore the warning in my voice, my asshole friend continues. “Is your roommate single? Good god, the tits on—”
Rounding the desk, I don’t give him a chance to finish. Grabbing a fistful of his shirt, I haul his surfer ass out of the chair. “If you ever fucking talk about her like that again, Jensen, I will breaking your fucking hands,” I snap in his face.
Good luck being a tattoo artist with fucking mangled fingers.
“Whoa, dude. Chill,” he says, putting his hands up in mock surrender. “I was just messin’ around.”
Upon releasing my grip on him, I run a hand over my shaved head. “Fuck.”
“You good?” Jensen asks, waving a visible white flag in the air between us.
Nodding, I inhale a deep breathe. Jesus, I’m getting whiplash from my own fucking mood swings.
“I didn’t know you were dating her,” he argues, falling back down into his chair. “I wouldn’t have said shit if I knew—”
I cut him off. “We aren’t,” I spit. “Dating.”
Fiddling with the chain attached to his wallet, he smirks. “Coulda fooled me.”
“Shut the fuck up, Jensen.”
Seeming pleased with himself, he leans forward in the chair. “Well, at the risk of getting my head chopped off, your”—he makes quotations with his fingers—“‘roommate’ seems like a swell chick.”
“I sense a but coming,” I groan, rubbing my face with my hands.
“Buuuuut . . .” he drags out. “And you better not kill the messenger, okay?”
I nod. “Spit it out already.”
“She just agreed to meet some guy for dinner.”
Once I’ve picked up the first thing on my desk, I smash it against the wall. “What the fuck!” I roar, storming towards the door.
“Easy,” Jensen warns, jumping in front of me. “Before you go all Rocky Balboa on us, the dude isn’t here. She was talking to him on the phone.”
My blood feels like it’s boiling over with rage. I’m so fucking angry that even my bones are shaking.
“When?” I demand.
“Tonight.”
Punching the wall with my fist, I grind my teeth together. “Where?”
“Dude,” he protests. “You’re not, like, stalking her or some shit right? ’Cause you’re acting like you’ve just been released from the looney bin and I ain’t looking to be an accessory to like”—he hesitates trying to find the right word—“kidnapping.”
My eyes flare in warning, and he takes a step backwards.
I bet I look like a homicidal fucking lunatic right about now.
“Sharkey’s,” he lets out on a sigh. “The seafood place on Fifth.”
“Time,” I bark.
Messing up his long, blond hair, he fidgets for a few seconds. “I dunno. Fuck. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but she was right there,” he defends himself like I actually give a shit how he found the information out. Finally, he drops his hands to his side and shakes his head in my direction. “I think she said seven thirty.”
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I focus harder than I’ve ever fucking had to do on my breathing to make sure I don’t lose my shit—again. “Get out.”
I hear the door close, and a minute later, I sink down onto the black leather couch in my office.
I thought I had more time.
Jackson was right.
Fuck.
“Jayden?”
I hear a light rapping on my office door.
“Come in,” I snarl, not bothering to look up from my screen when I feel her walk into the room.
“Look at my arm!” she says excitedly. “Danika did such a good job!”
Clenching my jaw, I keep my focus downward. “That’s great,” I mutter.
God, I’m an asshole.
“Oh,” Peyton murmurs. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”
I know she’s waiting for me to answer her, but I fucking can’t. I can’t even look at her or I’ll cave and want to make her feel better.
“Well,” she continues, “I was going to go see Lennon at the shop.”
Hating myself for putting the lack of security in her voice, I nod curtly. “That’s fine.”
“Okay.” She hesitates, standing there awkwardly.
“Text me when you’re done and I’ll pick you up there,” I say harshly.
“Lennon can drive—”
I cut her off abruptly. “No, I’ll get you. Just text me.”
She hovers for a second like she wants to say more. Hell, I should say more, but I don’t because I’m a coward and an idiot. Eventually, she turns on her heel and, in a swirl of black fabric, slams my office door behind her.
I’m such a jerk.
HE’S SUCH A jerk.
If you ask me what the hell just happened, I’d say that your guess is as good as mine. I haven’t a fucking clue.
Storming through the shop, I mutter offhandedly, “Thanks,” and “Goodbye,” to Danika and the boys before throwing the front door open and stepping into the afternoon sunshine.
Sliding my aviators down over my eyes, I walk towards the parking lot, where Lennon is picking me up. Something cold runs through me, and I feel the hair on the back of my neck stand at attention. Swiveling around, I look for any signs that anything seems out of place. I see nothing, but the eerie feeling that something awful is here lingers in the air.
Quickening my pace, I follow the space along the side of the building, aiming to shorten my walk even if it’s only by a mere minute or two. My heart rate’s starting to pick up, and tears prick the backs of my eyes.
Something feels off.
Fumbling in my bag, I search for something, anything. The rummaging of my purse is enough distraction for my flip-flop to come loose, and I manage to catch myself at the last second before my already fragile body goes careening down onto the hard ground.
“Shit,” I curse under my breath.
Stopping, I draw in a deep breath and try to re-center my focus. I’m panicking for nothing. Again securing my purse around my shoulder, I take one last glimpse down the alley I’ve just come through. Empty.
&nb
sp; Satisfied that I’m simply falling victim to my own paranoia, I continue the last few steps before making the turn into the parking lot.
And then I scream, slamming face-first into the chest of a gorgeous man, one who sets off every alarm bell in my self-protection system.
Axel.
“Hello, Peyton,” he purrs. It hardly resembles the seductive fashion by which he means it. Instead, it comes across slimier. Like if a snake could purr, that’s what it would sound like.
I desperately try to recall what I remember about him, but I come up dry. It’s only been a few weeks since I last saw him, except no memory comes. All I’m left with, once again, is the lingering assumption that I recognize him from somewhere.
It’s a small town, Peyton, I remind myself.
Keeping my cool, I smile with false bravado. “Axel, so nice to see you.” My voice sounds stressed and fake, but I hope he doesn’t notice.
Something about him makes me take a mental inventory of my options. I’m alone. I have no weapon of any kind—nothing heavy, even—and my shoes are rubber, useless. The parking lot is empty. I scan it wildly but see no one. It’s long since lunch has passed, so people won’t be returning to their cars until the day is done.
“You never called,” his slithering tone accuses me, then he squeeze my biceps with his hands.
Waving to my cast, I try to seem nonchalant and friendly. “I’m terribly sorry. I had an accident. Can you forgive me?”
It might sound like I’m being flirty—I am. The last thing you ever want to do in these situations is poke the bear cornering you in any way, because make no mistake, he will want to make you pay for that with your life.
Do I want to scream in his face that he take his hands off my body? More than you know.
Do I want to accost him with the knowledge that I never had, nor do I currently have, any intention of calling him? Fuck yeah.
But I won’t.
I’ll smile pretty, toss my hair over my shoulder, and try to hide the sweat beading on my forehead, conceal the way my palms have begun to perspire.
I’ll act this way until I see an out.
“Poor girl,” he coos, venom in his undertone. His voice is sickly sweet, the epitome of a man trying too hard.
