My inner voice – my author muse – is shouting in the back of my mind, reminding me that this is the point in the plot where the stupid girl who goes snooping gets murdered when she should’ve run the other way, especially if there’s a man in a black hoodie come back for round two to scare the crap out of me and possibly, you know, leave my insides all over my outsides.
My heart’s running wild. I try to remember the security code and intercom locations Landon drilled into me.
Of course I’m coming up blank.
Downstairs, I edge toward the kitchen door, flattening myself against the wall, and peer around the open archway.
A heart-shaped ass in a leather micro-mini peers back at me, bent over just enough to make it very clear someone’s pink panties are very, very crotchless.
What the hell?!
Said ass is currently about the only thing I can see of the person rummaging around in the refrigerator.
O-kay. So, Landon’s got company. And that’s totally not jealousy sitting sour and acid in my stomach. Never. Ever.
If crotchless panties and barely there skirts are his type to chase, no wonder he’s never even looked at me.
Miss Nameless straightens, her dirty blonde hair swinging down her back in a long, bone-straight tail. As she turns to eye the contents of the fridge door sourly, that’s when I recognize her. Her face has been all over TV, her voice all over the radio.
Milah Holly. Pop star. Singer. Celebrity. Multimillionaire.
Oh.
My.
God.
I must’ve made some kind of startled, strangled noise.
She stiffens, then turns to glance at me with a sort of wary suspicion, her surgically perfect nose turned up and slightly wrinkled. She gives me a once-over that makes me nearly squirm at the intensity of her scrutiny, as if she’s comparing every aspect of my body to every factory-manufactured bit of hers. Then she flutters her lashes – and they have to be falsies, there’s just no way – offering a smile so ingratiating it’s just plain condescending.
“Ah, bitchin' timing. You're Landon’s help, right? The cleaner?” She looks around with a cutesy little smile of feigned helplessness. “Do you know if Landon keeps any food in this house that doesn’t belong in a man cave? I'm starved and it's all meat and eggs here.”
There’s something proprietary about her attitude that grates on me. As if she’s not just sizing me up as a maid, but sizing up the entire house.
Like she’s planning to move in. There’s no way in hell Landon’s with her. This isn't making sense.
She’s the client, right? Not his date. So, I shouldn’t feel jealous. I shouldn’t feel this annoyance simmering and churning inside me.
And I shouldn’t open my mouth and blurt, “Actually, I’m his girlfriend.”
I curse myself before it’s even fully out of my mouth, but there’s no stopping it. Crap.
Crap, crap, crap why am I so impulsive? He’s going to kill me. He’s going to –
Milah laughs.
Holy hell.
I swear, I'll drag this woman out of here by her cheap blonde extensions.
I’m not a violent person, but the urge to knock that curling smirk off her lips is almost overpowering when she gives me another once-over and scoffs, “You? Hilarious! As if a man like Landon would ever settle for some mousy little C-cup. What are you even doing here?” She widens her eyes with a mock gasp, fluttering her fingers to her lips. “Wait. Did you wander in off the beach? Oh my God, you’re a vagrant. One of those bums I've heard about prowling up and down the beaches. I should call the cops. Get you some help. He'll probably thank me!”
I’m suddenly aware of what I must look like. I’d caught myself in the bathroom mirror when I was washing my hands.
My hair is a messy, ratty cloud after sleeping in a ponytail in the outdoor humidity. My shirt's stretched all out of shape. I’m not wearing makeup, and I probably still have sleep marks on my face. So, yeah, I’m not exactly a tall, leggy knockout stunner with perfect French tips and boobs in a bag.
That still doesn’t mean she gets to talk to me that way.
“Look, you little –”
“What the fuck are you doing?” Landon growls, cutting me off.
Milah and I both freeze. Landon fills the kitchen doorway, one arm braced over his head, shirtless in a pair of cotton sleep pants that fall sinfully down his narrow hips, a trail of dark hair leading from his navel. Dipping down, only to vanish past his waistband just short of fulfilling a very enticing promise.
This man is lethal. Even so early in the day.
His hair is a tousled, boyish mess, his fierce blue eyes drowsy and half-lidded, and despite his annoyance it’s obvious he’s not wholly awake yet.
Milah recovers before me, and puts on a coy little pink-sugar smirk before sauntering close to him with a little switch of her hips. “Landy,” she purrs. “There you are. I came. Just like I promised.” Her smirk blends with practiced ease into a little pout. “I’d hoped you’d come to meet me. Instead I get your hired girl insulting me and pretending to be your girlfriend. If she's into standup, she really needs to work on her act.”
Landon’s eyes widen, then narrow, darting to me. Almost accusing.
Crap again. Crap crap crap.
There’s only one way to salvage this.
They say when your car loses control and goes into a swerve, you’re supposed to lean into it to avoid a crash. Right now, I’ve got to lean into this, and hope Landon plays along.
I square my shoulders and stride forward as boldly as I can. My heart’s beating as hard as my firm steps, but I walk right up to Landon, shoulder Milah aside – with a touch of satisfaction for her offended gasp – and plant my hands right on Landon’s inked chest.
There’s just a second to savor the feel of masculine heat under my palms, the sensation of soft, curling chest hair threading between my fingers, the sudden liquefaction that starts in the pit of my stomach but curls and pulls lower and tighter.
A second later, I stretch up on my toes and kiss him.
I’m scared.
Petrified in all the most wonderful, delicious, taboo ways, and it makes me a little wild.
Wild enough to kiss him harder. Wild enough that I tilt my head and lock my lips to his and dare, for just a second, to demand what I’ve been longing after all these years. What's been pent up since the second I made a huge mistake by showing up here.
One sweet breath. I just want him to kiss me back for that, even if this explodes in my face later and he hates me for the rest of our lives.
I just want to feel him soften for me. Just once. Just today.
His chest is hard as a steel plate under my palms, rigid with tension. His mouth is firm. Unyielding.
Please, I beg, closing my eyes. Please don’t push me away. Please don’t humiliate me in front of her. Please don’t reject me.
The next three seconds of nothingness, of my mouth on his and no response, last forever.
But the moment when his lips part against mine, when his hands clamp firmly on my hips, time stops.
Whatever control I’d had when I’d caught him off guard is gone. He drags me in close, pulling me into the heat of his body, enfolding me in that raw brute strength that makes me feel so small, that ignites me with the thrill of danger and the pure and utter certainty that he’d never, ever hurt me.
Not when his mouth is this hot on mine. Not when his tongue tangles and searches, exploring so deep. Definitely not when the low groan in the back of his throat is the only warning I have before he takes complete command of the kiss.
And of me.
I’m caught in a pure tempest, a thousand little impressions coming together into a single slow moving heat storm. The tingling scratch of his beard against my lips, my cheeks.
The points of his fingertips dig into my hips, just enough to make my body throb, my thighs aching and something deep starting to pulse low and fast in my flesh.
The impression of powerful sinew moving against me, flexing under my palms like stroking a great beast. The hard ridges of his stomach and rib cage crushing against my breasts, making me painfully aware of their weight and fullness and sensitivity.
And the feeling of being possessed.
Of being taken.