Voltage

CHAPTER ONE

Carter Steele’s pierced cock and charming smirk won’t work on me. Not tonight.

Nor will his sweet words. Or how he’ll sit and force me to tell him about my day. His attentiveness won’t save him this time.

Biting and cuddling me or telling me I’m his precious woman will do nothing to weaken my resolve.

He’s staying late at work. Again. Has a last-minute meeting at Voltage, the hotel he and his stepdad own together.

Meaning he’s late to see me.

He should’ve been here by now. It’s late and traffic is light.

I sigh, pacing back and forth on the floor of my apartment.

I’m not being fair. I know.

Carter is perfect. Other than being late, he’s a dream come to life.

The man fucks me like he’s on a mission to break my bed. His dirty talk is a love language. His hugs and the way he’d never cheat on me.

He’s the fucking best.

It’s just that I miss him. Here in my apartment, alone, I miss my man so damn much.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My chocolate brown eyes stare back at me. Taunting me. Telling me I was full of shit just a second ago.

Ugh. They’re right, the fuckers. I’m not fooling anyone, least of all myself. I’ll let him in. I’ve been waiting for his hugs ever since I woke up alone this morning.

A sudden smirk tugs at my lips. The smirk doesn’t belong to me. It’s my reflection’s. Little annoying brat.

You’re letting him in. You’ll forgive this tiny flaw in his character. Otherwise, why did you leave the door open for him?

I tug on my long blonde locks, reveling in how my face twists in pain.

You’re not smiling anymore, are you?

When I pull harder, I see the pain in her eyes. Better.

And worse. Now I think of Carter pulling on my hair, and I love it when he does that.

Oh, what the hell. Yes, I’ll let him in. I’ll forgive him.

After that, the rest of the night will probably be pure bliss.

It always is.

He’ll throw a wicked smirk my way. Slam the door to the apartment behind him. Shoot a short apology before pouncing on me.

I’ll have no choice but to walk backward.

His predatorial prowl and gray eyes will make me soak through my thong. His broad, six-three frame will cast a scary shadow over me until I’m pinned to the wall.

The bulge in his black, tailor-made suit pants that match his thick black hair will rip my resolve into shreds.

He’ll open his sexy, annoying mouth again, and that’ll be the end of me.

Strip. Kneel. Bend over. Spread those gorgeous legs for me, pet.

Game over.

Sighing, I continue my pacing. He’s not being intentionally disrespectful. He works long hours and sometimes problems arise at the hotel. It’s just how it is. He did text me earlier. Every single time he makes sure I remember he wishes he could have been here on time.

Problem is, I’m a greedy girl. That’s why he’s been using sex, late-night talks, and soft hugs to pacify me for the past six months we’ve been dating.

And I let him. Not my proudest feminist moment, but fuck it. He’s worth it.

I walk through the tiny apartment, putting things in place.

He’s worth everything. Despite being the youngest man I’ve ever dated—still older than me, though, at twenty-five-year-old, three years older than me, but still—he’s without a doubt the most mature, put-together person ever. We haven’t put a label on our relationship, but he always gives me this forever feeling.

He’s also funny. So funny in that unhinged kind of way of his.

Butterflies fly in my stomach as I remember his crazy, adorable quirks.

Fuck, I miss my muffin.

Swiping my phone from the glass table in the living room, I smile at his texts from the last month.

One of them is a selfie of us. It’s from the night he broke into my apartment while I slept. I’m naked in the photo and so is he. He wanted both of us naked and he took it.

Three other photos are dick pics from another day. He snapped them while he was in my bathroom after he came on the toilet seat, and the text attached to it says: Had a quick lunch break, thought of you, A.

The next is of my pillow from one afternoon that he broke into my apartment. Don’t change the sheets. Sleep on my dried cum. Tonight, I’ll come back to see if you’ve been a good girl.

A smirk curves up my lips. These last four photos were taken while I was working. When only one floor separated us. I was watering the plants in my flower shop, Carnations, and he was here, leaving me pieces of him.

Cutie.

My plan works. My annoyance is no more. I don’t mind him being late. My sweet, psychotic, dominant man.

Giggling to myself like a girl with a school crush, I realize how nutty I must look to the outside world. I usually am, I’m aware. It’s why I bite the inside of my cheek when attending the few walk-ins that visit my shop or the big businesses I work with.

Carter makes it hard not to be territorial over him.

Although when it’s his stepdad looking at him, I don’t really mind.

No. Forget that. I won’t go there. Can’t go there.

“Last-minute tidying up,” I chime to the empty apartment as I keep fixing it.

Talking to myself and cleaning up is a surefire way to get the rest of these pesky, dirty thoughts out of my head. So, I place my phone on the kitchen counter, wash my coffee mug, and leave it out to dry.

Next, my eyes sweep over the living room of my small one bedroom. There are no crumbs scattered on the small, brown rug. No clothes on the gray, worn-out couch that I’ve forgotten to throw into the hamper. No dust on the old TV set, either.

“What do we have here?” I eye the flower vase on my coffee table. “Sneaky dust,” I chide. I had to throw away the old flowers—my poor babies died this morning—and totally forgot to bring new ones up here.

Quickly, I wash the vase and leave it to dry on the kitchen counter next to the mug.

When I step into my tiny bedroom, I find the bed made and the dresser’s drawers closed.

Spotless.

As is my outfit choice. I run my hands over the cream-colored oversized cardigan I have over a white tank top and look down at my dark blue jeans. No creases. Perfect.

It’s as good an outfit as any for another date of drinking coffee and making out. Carter’s always so comfortable chilling under the Brooklyn Bridge or in my living room in one of his many tailor-made suits.

Despite his wealth, he has never asked me out to a restaurant or a bar. He doesn’t need flashy things. He only has eyes for me.

And he’ll be here soon. He’s late, but my man is coming.

Content and excited at the prospect of having my claws on him, I break into a little dance as I hum “The Bad Touch” by Bloodhound Gang.

My high-heeled black ankle boots go tap, tap, tap on the floor as I sing and make my way to the kitchen. With nothing left to do, I check my phone again for any new messages from Carter. Nothing but the last message that came in almost an hour ago.

Carter: I’m so sorry, pet. I fucking hate that I have to be late instead of being there with you. Biting on your neck. Marking every inch of you. Making you cry like the good girl you are. But I will. Soon. That’s a motherfucking promise.

I remind myself this is the life of the man who runs one of the most luxurious five-star hotels in Manhattan with a demanding stepdad like Killian Murdock. I’m aware of how busy the place is—after all, that’s where I met my Carter.

Asking him to change is out of the question. Carnations is my baby. Voltage has been his, ever since he turned eighteen.

Carter’s mom passed away when he was a baby. He has no one but Killian, and I won’t put myself between them.

Sure, sometimes they pin each other with mysterious gazes. Sometimes, Carter is even okay with his stoic stepdad giving me dark glares. I always shudder at that. Carter forever smirks when it happens.

Noises from the kitchen cut into my dangerous thoughts.

Someone’s picking the lock.

Carter.

He’s out there, about to get me hot and bothered. Seconds from making me desperate for his special brand of crazy.

Yes, sir.

Totally aroused and one hundred percent ready, I let him play his little game. I don’t open the door for him, traipsing silently on my heels to take my place in the center of the living room.

I fill my lungs, ready to scream and play the victim while he fakes breaking into my apartment.

Maybe role-playing a rape scene. Maybe—

What the fuck?

I expected my depraved, hurricane of a man to barge in here.

I expected hot sex.

This isn’t it. This doesn’t come fucking close.

“You’re not Carter,” I growl at the man in the doorway.

Crying out for help would be the smart thing, despite my only neighbor being at work. I should run and lock myself in my bedroom.

Anything to save myself from the six-foot, muscular blond assailant holding me at gunpoint.

Melina, my sensible, sane sister, would do that.

I’m anything but sensible. My family made sure to throw that fact in my face enough times.

Now, I’m just living up to it.

“I said”—I huff—“you’re not Carter.”

“No, I’m not, you dumb bitch.” The fucker makes himself at home, taking a step toward me.

Another one.

Adrenaline races through my veins. I stomp my foot and put my hands on my hips instead of backing up to the opposite wall, ready to unleash my anger.

I’ve never been too good at the flight part. Much to my parents’ dismay, I’m a fight girl through and through.

“Your money.” The man in black shuts the door behind him, edging closer. No more than three feet separates us. “Hand it over.”

My eyebrows knit. My lips curl in a snarl. I don’t budge.

This wasn’t supposed to be like this. This man is ruining everything.

“You better go. My boyfriend”—jerk here doesn’t have to know we haven’t put a stamp on our relationship—“will be here any minute. He’ll kick your fucking ass, you ass.”

The double use of the word ass doesn’t go unnoticed by me. Too bad it won’t get my ass any action. By my muffin.

My God, why am I thinking about sex right now?

Carter, you freak. You broke me.

“The black suit guy?” The ugly creep raises an eyebrow.

When I glare at him, mouth agape, he chuckles. Psycho.

“We both know he won’t get here until much later. So tell me, Amara Carmichael, owner of Carnations.” He eliminates the distance between us, looming over me. “Where. Is. The. Cash? And don’t you dare scream. Unless you want a bullet in your pretty head, that is.”

The reality of my situation dawns on me.

He’s been planning this. Stalking me. Counting on Carter being late.

He’s not wrong, either. Carter will be here later.

Until then, I have myself to rely on.

Myself, and my pissed-as-fuck mood.

But no vase.

Jesus, of all the days, this is the one I had to choose to wash it? It could’ve become handy in knocking this guy out.

I’ll have to think of something else. And I do.

I bet he doesn’t believe a little florist like me could fight back.

I’m smaller than him. A ton more unhinged, too.

Fuck the barrel of the gun aimed straight between my eyes. My hands ball into fists. My muscles strain, begging to be put to use.

Because this isn’t just about this shithead anymore. This isn’t about the wild sex I won’t be having. Or Carter being late.

While I don’t have money stashed anywhere in the apartment, I have my grandmother’s diamond hairpin. She was the only family member who showed me kindness. The only relative to ever love me.

I’ll fight this burglar to the death.

“There’s nothing here for you,” I lie, giving him a furious glare. Hoping he doesn’t see the truth in my eyes. “Since you’re a fucking stalker, you have to know that. You know I deposit my revenues in the bank every day after work or send my employee to do that.”

“I know.” He doesn’t seem deterred. Why?

There’s no time to contemplate. Not a second when he presses the gun to my forehead. I smell the metal and gunpowder.

My heart hammers louder in my chest. It pushes against my ribs, almost breaking them.

That sensible girl I mentioned before, Melina? She would’ve been terrified.

I should take lessons from her.

Too bad we’re not talking.

“So what does that tell you, genius?” In what can only be described as batshit crazy, I poke the burglar’s chest. He really is a muscular motherfucker. “Get lost. You’re wasting your time and mine.”

“There has to be something.” He lowers his face, and I smell sausage on his breath. Gross. “I did some digging. Your parents are wealthy, Amara. Tell me where you keep the money and you’ll get to live another day.”

“Hey, idiot.” I seethe, leaning forward. The barrel of the gun digs into my head, painful and lethal. I don’t cower, though. “Did you miss the part where my parents and I weren’t talking when you spied on me? When was the last time I’ve been photographed with them? With my sister? Huh? Jesus, you’re as dumb as you look. All muscle and no brain.”

His forehead creases in thought. I jump on the opportunity. “I told you there’s nothing here. Get the fuck out.”

“I don’t buy it.” The creases on his forehead smooth over. His eyes are no longer lost. “The hard way it is, bitch.”

One moment, my forehead burns with the metal pressed to it. The other, I watch the stalking thief raise the gun high up above me.

The door opens just then. My eyes find the much taller and stronger man standing there.

My man, filling the doorway.

Carter dons a black suit as always. His black hair is styled in a beautiful mess. His gray eyes breathe fire and violence.

He’s rage in its purest form.

But I don’t get to call for him.

I don’t get to say another word.

The burglar pistol-whips me. Strikes me right over my temple.

The world turns black around me until I can’t see my apartment anymore.

Lights out. Goodbye, world.