The Billionaire Babe

8. AJ

Islam his body against the wall with so much force I think I break the drywall. I will take great pleasure in ripping each of his fingers from his body. Every piece of skin that touched her, I want gone.

“Hey, man, she was asking for it,” he pleads, and I pull his body back toward me to slam his back into the wall again, the movement quick, the noise of it loud, his wail sounding like a two-year-old. I hope I broke his ribs.

“Just fucking open your mouth again and see exactly how angry I am. Do it.” I feel murderous. I hate men who put their hands on women like that. I saw my mom taken advantage of a lot as a kid, men always coming past our house to see what they could get away with. Eventually, it wore her down, and she gave up every time a man came to the trailer, almost like her life left her body and she didn’t care anymore. My teeth grit together as I eye him, about to throw a punch in his fat, reddened cheek as I hear the thumping steps of my team from behind me.

I was watching her. All this time while she was being mauled on the dance floor. My jaw is sore from how hard I clenched my teeth, watching all these fucking assholes grab at her when she clearly didn’t want them to. I felt relief when I saw her get off the dance floor and go to the bathroom, and I watched her from the dark spot at the end of the hall. I saw him grab her; I saw him try to take what isn’t his to take. My skin feels like it is on fire. With only a few weeks to go before my fight, there is no other AJ in me other than the fighting machine. I am a danger to be around and certainly bad for this idiot’s health.

“What happened?” Brady asks as I step back, not taking my eyes off this asshole, even as my men grab him on either side and start pulling him down the hall.

“Get him out of here. And all his friends. Banned. Forever,” I growl, and my team drags him away.

“You can’t do that!” he yells.

When I take a step toward him, I feel a small hand on my forearm. I spin around quickly, ready to face off again, but it is her, standing there, looking wide-eyed. Her breathing is rapid, as is mine.

“Are you alright here?” Brady asks. I totally forgot he was still standing there. He is talking to me, and I feel his gaze on my face, but my eyes are glued to Valerie. I don’t want to move them.

“We’re fine,” she answers for us, her voice quiet and in complete contrast to her sass from last week. I take a breath, hearing that she is okay seemingly enough to lower my anger level a little. I watch her as I see Brady walk down the hall in my peripheral vision, and she swallows and I trail the movement down her bare neck, my heightened emotions now running to my cock, which has been rock-hard since she walked in tonight.

I move toward her another step, making her look up at me.

“Are you alright?” My voice is low, and I hear her gasp of breath as her chest brushes against mine slightly. I have no idea what I am doing, but my senses are high, my natural protective instincts in overdrive. Leaning in, I settle my hand against the wall behind her head. I pull back from her but remain close. It’s like she is the only thing that is calming me down. Keeping my anger at bay.

“No one has stuck up for me like that before. Ever.” When the words fall from her glossy lips, I have the urge to run my tongue across them.

“Did he hurt you?” I ask as my eyes wander over her body, from her head down to her legs and back again. I ask because it is protocol. I need to know if she was injured. I feel a little panicked at the thought. I also want any excuse to go punch that fucker again for touching her in the first place. She shouldn’t be here in the club. The men are animals, and she is too pretty and too fucking fancy to be anywhere on this side of town. My frustration rises at her audacity. Someone like her can go anywhere, Vegas, a country club, a fine-dining restaurant. Anywhere but here.

Her cheeks are flushed pink, and I bite on my back molars to hold myself back from cupping them in my hands. Instead, I grab her wrist and hold out her arm, looking at the red marks that now adorn her due to that asshole touching her. I treat her with a gentleness unheard of for me. I hear her release a small whimper that has my eyes shooting back to meet hers.

“Are you okay?” I repeat, realizing she hasn’t answered me yet. Her eyes flick to my hand holding her wrist, so I let her go and put my finger under her chin and lift her face to meet mine.

“I’m fine,” she whispers delicately, and my nostrils flare. I need to get myself under control because seeing her right in front of me is testing my need for abstinence at this point. Why am I not having sex at the moment? That’s right, because I need to fight to financially secure my life. Something the woman in front of me has no idea about.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I grit out. I’m trying to remain professional. She just had a sleazebag all over her; she doesn’t need another one.

“On the dance floor? I love to dance; I love live music and DJs. This place is perfect for that,” she rambles, not understanding what I mean.

“No here. This club is not a place for someone like you,” I tell her as my fingers graze her upper arm, her skin soft and warm, the red finger marks making my jaw pop. Her chest rises and falls a little quicker. I shouldn’t be here with her. I shouldn’t be touching her. But I can’t step away.

“Someone like me?” she asks. Her demeanor changes, eyes thinning, and I tamp down the small smirk that threatens to appear on my face as she juts out her hip and her hand finds her waist. Her eyes flame in defiance and I”m starting to understand that Little Miss Perfect hates being told what to do. And I love a challenge; I love a fight. And when she starts morphing into a woman with a bit of attitude, my body temperature goes up a hundred degrees.

“Yeah, someone like you. Someone who should be at dinner parties looking all pretty. Someone who doesn’t know a hard day’s work if it bit her in the ass.” Her eyebrows rise at my comment.

“Maybe your patrons need to just keep their hands to themselves,” she quips, and I swallow harshly, hating her for thinking about him at all. My fingers grip into the wall behind her as I think about the asshole who is now on my kill list.

“That guy is being thrown out as we speak,” I tell her, hoping to ease her concerns.

“How did you even see me?” she asks.

“It’s my job.” I don’t share I have been watching her like a fucking stalker from the moment she arrived. She didn’t breathe tonight without me noticing. She nods in understanding before we both turn to the sounds of high heels clicking on the tiled floor.

“Oh my God, are you okay?” Her friend with pixie-short blond hair rushes toward her. It’s the same one who rescued her from the bar last week. Good to know someone is looking out for her.

“It is a meat market here. Wait until I tell all the girls from Pilates; they will be dying to come next weekend,” a taller woman with long blond hair says mischievously, and I growl a little before pulling back, putting distance between us. I don’t miss the pixie one’s eyes as they home in on the movement, widening in surprise at how close we were.

“What happened? Are you okay?” the third woman, also blond but with curly hair, asks, and I feel a little more settled, knowing they are all with her now.

“You should go back upstairs,” I say gruffly. The three blondes wrap around my brunette, making her even more noticeable to me.

“Do you ever smile?” Valerie asks, looking at me with intrigue. I love her eyes on me like this. Like she is actually interested in a guy like me.

“Never.” With my facial expressions unmoving, I keep my asshole features in full effect. Because I am an asshole, and she needs to know that. I leave them all as I back away and strut down the hall, ready for blood.

“Oh, hey?” she yells, and I look over my shoulder at her. “I didn’t get your name?”

“I didn’t give it, sweetheart.” Then I turn and walk away to get back to work.

Leaving Little Miss Perfect and her friends behind.