Maybe I should call it quits right now.
“Make a left turn up here,” I instruct, a split second before his finger hits the signal, as if he already knew where he was going. Just like he begins to slow his obscenely clean car as we approach my driveway. “Pull in behind that Honda there. Please.” I bought the used silver Civic for five grand cash a few weeks after I moved here. It’s been reliable so far, if not exactly sexy.
He turns in. And cuts the engine.
“Quite presumptuous of you,” I say.
He rests his elbow on the console and turns to give me a look as flat and unreadable as the one I’ve perfected. “Is it?”
It’s not at all. I think it’s inevitable, really. There’s no way in hell I’m calling it quits. That decision I would definitely regret.
Flutters explode in my stomach. This guy is not good for my cool, unflinching mask. Soon, I’m going to be giggling like a fucking Valley Girl. “How’s your side?” There is that giant open wound to think about in all this.
“A little sore.” His gaze skates over my mouth. “Nothing hindering.”
“I guess I could take a look at it for you. Show you how to clean it properly.”
“That’s what I was thinking.” I watch his hand as it reaches out for me. His fingers dip into my top to pull the cigars out, the edge of his thumbnail skating against the inside of my breast. “And then we could smoke these.”
I shrug. “Maybe.”
I duck out of the car before he can see my excited smile, slamming the door shut behind me, thinking I’m going to get ahead of him and up the stairs, so he’ll have to trail. But he’s somehow already out and waiting for me by the time I get around. “Do you do everything so fast?”
Amusement sparkles in his dark eyes. “When it matters, yes.” He steps closer, pushing my hips into him with one hand on my back. He cups the back of my head with his other hand. “And when it matters,” he says as his breath skates across my lips, “no.”
And then his mouth is on mine, firm and demanding and arrogant, because he already knew I wanted it. He ropes a fist around my hair and pulls my head back to get a better angle of my neck. He takes it, and when I feel the edge of his teeth scrape against the underside of my jaw, I know that we may end up doing this right in front of Ned’s house.
“Inside,” I whisper, pushing against his chest. I charge up the steps while fumbling for my keys in my purse. Not because of the whiskeys I pounded back—I sweated those out on the dance floor—but because I’m suddenly very nervous about being with Sebastian. About pleasing Sebastian.
I finally find my keys. I pull them out, then drop them—twice—each time earning a loud clank and a groan from behind me as I bend over to retrieve them, my extremely short dress not made for modesty at that angle. This is the longest, most graceless trip up a set of stairs in my life. If I wasn’t so anxious to get inside, I’d be mortified. Finally, I get a good grasp of the ring, climbing the last few steps.
It turns out I don’t need my keys.
“What the . . .” I come to a dead stop in front of the iron gate with the visibly mangled lock. The door sits open a crack.
Sebastian grabs my arms and shifts me back behind him before slipping through, the tension suddenly radiating off him palpable. When we find that the front door sits ajar as well, he smoothly reaches back and hands me his keys. “Take my car and drive down the street. Lock the doors,” he whispers calmly, without looking behind him. Then he disappears through the front door.
Leaving me standing there, debating whether I should actually listen to him or not.
TWENTY
ICE
This is not a coincidence.
Ivy’s home has been trashed, the flat-screen smashed instead of taken, the heating vents ripped from the walls, drawers pulled out and overturned, the couch torn apart and emptied.