Interest wove through his timbre, and the endearment had no business shivering over her skin. Nothing was more comforting, or more narcissistic, than feeling desired.
She leaned toward the door and placed her palm on the cool surface. Even if he did desire her, it had no weight in her decision. His intention did, and she didn't know what that was. She didn't know him.
But she hadn't known any of her previous lovers. Hell, her I'd like to make you an offer was the first thing she'd uttered to Zach through the door.
Zach. The recent change in their interactions was the beginning of the end. Perhaps, she'd made such a fool of herself he didn't plan to come back at all. Sometimes, they didn't.
Lack of options was all she had left. “What's your name?”
His pause was brief but unnerving. “Van.”
“Van.” Her voice rasped past a sandpaper throat. “I'll invite you in for four hours while I dye a project and wait for it to dry. In exchange, you will take my finished packages to the mailbox.” She held her breath.
“Does the dyeing and drying involve my skin?”
Her lips twitched, and it felt...safe. “If you misbehave.”
“Are you going to give me herpes?”
She laughed at his teasing tone and covered her mouth, startled by the sound. She lowered her hands, but the smile persisted. “If you ask nicely.” Her face inflamed. Jesus, she was flirting. Oh, fuckever. Wasn't that what she was offering? The same thing she'd offered the last six delivery guys? Sex in exchange for her deliveries?
But Van's name wasn't stitched on his shirt. He wasn't on his lunch break, for twenty minutes on Tuesday or Friday. He'd opened her mail, for Godssake. He asked questions. He pursued her.
“It's a deal.” His voice was firm, final.
Ohshitohshitohshit. It was one thing to flirt and joke through the safety of the door, but letting him inside after she’d run off her mouth and made an ass of herself? What was she thinking?
Her pulse jumped from zero to a hundred and forty, her legs weakened, and the chest pain barreled in. No, please, not an attack. Not going to happen.
She breathed deeply, flexing and holding her abs on each inhale, four times. She would slap on a fresh face and pull herself together, dammit. The four clocks lined on the far wall read 12:40 AM. “I need twenty-four minutes.”
Without waiting for a response, she ran to the bedroom and continued her belly breathing while she changed from her sweat-soaked suit to a clean black minidress. That done, she finger-combed the carpet lines and freshened her makeup in the bathroom.
Blond curls falling perfectly around her heaving chest, she stood by the front door and waited for six minutes.
At 1:04 AM, she spoke. “Still there, Van?”
“Even more impatient than I was twenty-four minutes ago.”
His voice matched his words, but she didn't let it stop her from unlocking the deadbolt four times. What if he tracked in dirt or poked around in her things? Would his personal questions continue? Should she maintain a far distance? What if her Aw, he has a lonely soul warped into Sweet God, he has a knife?
She opened the door, enough to leave a sliver without feeling the malevolent force of the open air. Then she sprinted down the hall, fighting for oxygen and towing a thousand-pound string of reservations behind her.
The deadbolt slid free, not once but four times in rapid succession. Huh. Was this some kind of neurotic indecisiveness? Or was the crazy woman taunting him? Amber was probably the kind of girl who would leave bite marks all over his dick.
Van grinned.
When the knob twisted and a soft glow illuminated the slivered opening, his pulse electrified. There it was, her free will dangling in the open door. He could take it, violently and recklessly, the moment he walked in. He flexed his fingers, anticipating fistfuls of her hair.
His cock pulsed as the thrill of possibilities heated his blood. It would be so damned exhilarating to throw her against the wall, mar her pretty skin, and fuck her before the stunned effect of terror released its first breath.
He stood taller, lighter, no longer bound by slave-buyer virginity requirements or his father's bullshit tyranny. He could be greedy, merciless, unrestrained. He could beat her just for letting him in. He could fuck her any way he wanted. Then he could take her home, chain her in his room, and keep her until he was done.
He hadn't taken anyone against their will since Joshua Carter, limiting his sexual encounters to quick fucks with men and women to take the edge off. Had it really been a year since he'd felt this rush? Why the hell was he giving into it now?
Because this fearful, sassy, crazy woman had awoken something inside him.