He dug a toothpick from his pocket and gripped it between his teeth, buying a few seconds to relax his dick. To speed things along, he shifted his thoughts to the one pure thing in his life. His daughter's vibrant smile, her lively mannerisms, and the crescendo of her precious voice spiraled breathless warmth through his chest and eased the strain against his zipper.
God, he wanted a place in her life, but she lived with Mr. E's widow. Revealing his identity to Livana was a long-term plan-in-progress.
It'd been easy for Liv to slip into Livana's life. The authorities knew she was Livana's biological mother. Legally, she was entitled to claim custody. She had a steady job, plus the six million he'd given her. But he didn't think she'd ever take their daughter from her stable home. Liv was a recovering slave after all, with her own aftermath of healing and maturing to work through.
Unfortunately, his ability to claim custody was nonexistent because he didn't exist. Not to the authorities and not to Mr. E's widow. Exposing his identity would link him to Mr. E's trafficking operation and land him life in prison. So his safest avenue to Livana was through Liv.
He gnashed his teeth. Before he could approach Liv, he needed to understand how she'd freed eight slaves and made the buyers disappear. Cartel? Hired hit man? Last thing he wanted was to become one of her disposed bodies.
With a swift adjustment of his finally-flaccid cock, he strode toward the only illuminated doorway in the hall and stopped at the entrance, his thumb on his hip, fingers near the concealed gun at his back.
She perched on a stool at the center of a bed-less bedroom, facing him, her back rigidly straight and her gaze on his gloved hand.
Four leather knife sheaths lay on the workbench behind her. His eyebrows crept up his forehead. Definitely a far cry from cowgirl boots. Would she ever cease to surprise him?
Rubber utility mats lined the floor. One wall held a treadmill, a Smith machine, and a metal rack stacked with free weights, arranged by size. No wonder her ass was a wicked bounce of muscle. He imagined her bent over and the inviting space her firm cheeks would create between her thighs.
Heat pierced through his body, contracting his muscles and leaving little room for patience. Fuck, the wait felt like a hundred searing needles, but he relished it, wanting her beneath his skin.
His bulk filled the doorway, legs spread wide, arms loose at his sides, confident he could draw the gun before she could wedge a hidden weapon from that tight dress. While he waited for her to look up, he drank in her features. The regal curves of her face. The tiny slope of her nose. The way her lips naturally tipped upward despite the tension around her mouth. But why the hell had she changed her clothes?
The overhead light reflected off the blond curtain of her hair. The color seemed...wrong, too pale for her honey-light skin. It fell over her face as she stared at the floor, a paradox of insecure beauty.
He tilted his head. Of course, he knew very little about her, but he was missing something crucial, a fragile facet beneath the pristine makeup and trained physique.
He rolled the toothpick with his tongue. “Why do you bleach your hair?”
Golden-brown eyes connected with his, blinking furiously, so deliciously nervous. “It's...” She huffed. “None of your business.”
Slowly, cautiously, he slid back the hood of his sleeveless sweatshirt. Her breathing quickened as her gaze skimmed his exposed biceps, his face, and lingered on the scar that divided his cheek. She looked away, her shoulders curling around her ears.
He knew the effect he had on women. Whether it was their fascination with big, scary men with scars or their complete dismissal of danger, he only needed to flash a smile to lure them in. Amber was no different, despite the self-berating that was likely occurring in her flustered mind.
Short breaths rattled her lips. Her knees squeezed together, and her fingers entwined beneath her perky tits, pressing against the knuckles of the opposite hand.
Watching her battle her distress felt a little like foreplay. For every tremble across her skin, his mouth moistened, his pulse purred, and the nerve-endings in his fingers stirred and tingled. His body fed from the energy clashing between them, rushing blood below his waist and hardening him for a fight between her uptight thighs.
She glanced down, and her breath caught.
He followed her gaze, past the discomfort straining his jeans, to his socked feet. He flexed his toes. “What?”
“Where are your shoes?”
Her disregard for his arousal was a shocker. No matter. He'd prepared for this line of questioning. “By the front door.”
Her nose scrunched in a naively erotic way. “Why are you wearing gloves?”
“Same reason my shoes are by the door.” He lifted a shoulder, deliberately vague, letting her squirm.
Her lips pressed together, and her chest heaved. “I don't understand.”
“Your house is obscenely clean.” Which had fuck-all to do with covering his fingerprints and softening his footsteps. He caught her eyes and winked. “So I put on my driving gloves and left my shoes.”
“Driving gloves haven't been fashionable since the sixties.”