CHAPTER SIX
MADDOX
Me: Get your sexy ass out here before I take you over my knee for being late.
I’ve been escorting Tessa to and from work for more than a week, and she has pretty much resigned herself to giving me the silent treatment. But texting? She can’t seem to resist dishing out snark behind the safety of her phone.
Tessa: Is this a drill? Put me in, Sarge. I’m ready to use my gorgeous Karambit knife.
Me: Oh, for that recreational use you mentioned? You’ve got a one-track mind, Lockhart. If you’re trying to get me to come into your apartment and take you roughly on the balcony, I’m sorry. I’m just not that kind of guy.
Tessa: Aww. Poor misjudged and over-sexualized Dracula, who avoids sunlight and threatens to spank his employees with pure intentions.
Me: Employee.
Tessa: You lost me, and you’re making me take longer with this incessant texting.
Me: You are the only employee I have ever threatened to spank.
Tessa: Oh, wow. Why didn’t you say so before? To be owned by you is truly a dream come true. Please, boss, hang that in the break room so everyone is aware of my achievement. I’m so honored.
My laugh slips out louder than I’d like. I can hear her sarcasm, see her turquoise eyes narrowing, and feel the heat she tries to cool, all through the screen. She might think she’s keeping me from getting to know her, but I’m learning more every day. It’s addictive.
Me: You should be. And I’ll tell you exactly what kind of guy I am.
If you aren’t out here in thirty seconds, I won’t come in there and take you roughly on the balcony.
I’ll drag you down to the lobby, bend you over Harold’s desk, and make you shake and scream until the entire fucking building knows who you belong to.
Baiting her is officially my favorite pastime.
Instead of texting back, she opens her door two minutes later and rolls her beautiful eyes as soon as they land on me. Her two delicate facial jewels glint with a taunt we both sense. Her chest heaves, but she doesn’t utter a word, depriving me of that sultry rasp she has.
That’s all right. Her face says it all—she hates me, but she wants me. A goddamn fantasy. This is absolutely playing with fire for so many reasons, but consider me a fucking phoenix. Tessa can burn me to ash, and I’ll soar within the sting of the flames.
She’s dressed to kill me. Her long-sleeved black mesh top is veiling a maroon tank and the seductive swell of her breasts. And her high-heeled ankle boots and sheer black tights highlight every curve of her long legs beneath her tiny black leather shorts.
Dear fuck.
The thought of other men ogling her has a murderous ire coursing through my veins. I’ll be glued to the security cameras all day, keeping tabs on her. Ready to maim anyone who gets too close.
The more she shuts me out, the more my stalkerish tendencies come to life. I might want to talk to someone about that. My first choice is Ryker. He’d back me up.
She locks her door and struts down the hall, affording me a perfect view of that sexy ass I offered to spank, her pina colada scent wafting behind her.
When we step into the elevator, I hand her the chai latte I got for her. I’ve brought her one every time I picked her up. She’s ruffled that I know her morning beverage of choice, but she can’t deny herself. And every sip she takes makes me want to pump my fist in triumph.
As we plod through the lobby, I wave to my second favorite security guard. “Hey, Mike, if I ever need your desk—”
“Oh, of course, Mr. Noire. For anything you need.”
I chuckle when Tessa’s jaw locks before dipping my chin to Mike. “You’re a good man. We’ll see you tomorrow.”
As I hold the door open for her, I lean in close enough that she’ll feel my words flow over her skin. “Looks like we’re covered, even if Harold isn’t on duty.”
She wants to snap at me, but opts for another swill of her chai latte, to which I smile. Sweet victory.
This girl isn’t as locked down as she portrays. It just requires a little finesse to get her to open up. No idea why I fucking care. I’m sure it’s simply my tendency to celebrate the small stuff. And I’m fed up with her silent treatment.
“Over here.” I point to my cherry-red Maserati GranTurismo when she sashays past it. And that’s what finally breaks her.
“Is there a reason you pick me up in a different vehicle each day?”
Jesus, that voice. It’s a bit more youthful than you’d expect from someone who avoids giggling like it’s a one-way ticket to a clown museum, but it’s still filled with strength. And the more she makes me work for it, the more I crave every sound she utters. Maybe that’s her game.
Ever the gentleman, I open her door and hold it for her. “It was all in my evil plan to get you to speak to me.”
That has her cracking a cynical smile as she takes her seat. “You’re not that intuitive.”
Balking at her miscalculation with a boastful scoff, I sling my retort. “Proof says otherwise. It’s working.” Then I shut her inside and round the hood.
Without missing a beat, she carries on our conversation as soon as I jump in the driver’s seat. “And yet you ruined it, like always.” She shakes her head, exasperated. “You open your mouth, so I shut mine.”
Hmm. A challenge. I bet I can keep her mouth open. Yes, with my dick, but that’s not the method I was thinking about now. Okay, fine, not the only method I was thinking about.
Pulling out onto the road, I shift lanes and gift her with one of my knowing smirks. “I see what this is. You’re pouting because I haven’t picked you up on Tessa yet.”
Her brows furrow before she taps my Americano in the cupholder. “That didn’t make any sense. Are you having a stroke, or do you need more caffeine?”
“It made perfect sense.” I lift the cup and draw out my words by taking a hefty sip and watching the road intently. “You like motorcycles, don’t you? I saw you eyeing her the other day.”
“I do.” There’s a hint of amusement lacing her tone, and it has me on the edge of my seat, wondering if she’ll grace me with a chuckle at some point. “I’d actually love to have your mouth muzzled with a helmet. But that’s not what you said. You said you hadn’t picked me up on Tessa yet.”
“Right.” I nod and return my coffee to the cupholder, my eyes flitting between the traffic and the rearview mirror as I change lanes. “Tessa is my bike’s name.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” she roars, indignant. “You named your bike after me?”
That reaction was even better than I’d hoped. I wish I’d recorded it.
“All righty then. Someone’s self-absorbed.” I pull my chin back as though I’m floored she could be so narcissistic. “Tessa is not named after you. It’s just a coincidence.”
“A coincidence?” Her silver hair is down in large, soft curls today, and the thick strands fly around her from the force at which she whips her head toward me.
“Yep.” I glance at her with a serious-as-my-spank-your-ass-threat expression. “Ask anyone. I’ve been talking about how hard and fast I ride Tessa for years.”
“Oh my God.” Her hand comes up to her mouth, and she turns her head, determined to refuse me the laughter I’m salivating for. “You’re fucking with me. That bike is a year old.”
She knows motorcycles. I’m not surprised because she also loves cars, and I thought I saw her eyes light up at the sight of my MV Agusta the other day.
“That’s true. She’s young. A virgin when I got her,” I concede and adopt my most stoic, nostalgic air as we stop at a red light.
“But she comes from a long line of Tessas that I’ve owned.
Tessa’s grandmother was a wild one. I rode her until she was fucking sputtering.
The old broad begged me to take her one more time. Well … they usually do.”
And then it happens. She doesn’t just laugh. She cackles. Her head falling back against the seat, eyes creasing. It’s unexpected and melodic and a bit husky. A burst of mirth that fills my car with an overwhelming shower of joy.
I want more. Need more. What the hell is going on with me? I’m one step away from burying my face in her hair and taking a whiff.
Shaking that off, I drive the next half mile to La Lune Noire in silence, but before the quietude has a chance to grow thick, I check myself and keep our teasing going. “See? Sometimes, you like it when I open my mouth.”
She bites her bottom lip, composing herself.
“Rarely. But that was funny.” She pauses.
It’s laden, so I let her have the space to formulate her thoughts as I pull into our private garage and park.
She unbuckles and shifts toward me in her seat instead of getting out.
“Are you going to tell me what this is about? Why, after more than two years, you’ve suddenly decided to escort me everywhere and watch my every move? ”
She came armed today. A take-no-prisoners outfit, laughter, and gentle imploring.
“I told you, it’s time we get to know each other.” That answer is partly bullshit, but that’s my problem. It should be complete bullshit.
Her doll-like features sharpen to stone. “And I told you, I don’t want that.”
I’m not sure why that spears me. I shouldn’t want that either. I loathe clinginess. I’ve designed my whole life to evade that getting-to-know-someone intimacy most people long for. That shit leads to soot.
I only told her we should get to know each other to hide why I needed to escort her.
So, what the fuck is my problem? I’m just stressed—that’s all.
Or it’s because she asked me the last thing I’d expected when she inquired about my role with the staff.
And I found myself telling her about my mom, someone I rarely talk about, and I was eager to share more. That’s a first.
We are entering dangerous territory. I should clear this all up right now by telling her the truth so we could both breathe easier in each other’s presence.