Chapter 4 #2
"It's innovative." He picked up another card, and I noticed his hands were shaking slightly. “So damn smart.”
Heat flooded my face. My chest. Lower. That approval in his voice was doing things to me. Dangerous things. Things that made me want to drop to my knees and—
Nope. Absolutely not.
I spun away, busying myself with arranging cards. "Yeah, well, I also painted all emergency exits. Since we're doing show and tell."
"You painted the exits?"
"Glow-in-the-dark." I flicked the lights off without warning.
The shop plunged into darkness for a heartbeat. Then the murals came alive.
Every exit now had elaborate artwork leading to it. Neon arrows, clearly pointing toward escape routes.
"Jesus Christ," Tyson breathed.
"People move toward light when panicked," I explained, still in darkness. "Now they'll have paths to follow. Plus, it looks cool as fuck."
I flicked the lights back on. The arrows vanished, invisible in normal lighting. Just another secret layer in my organized chaos.
Tyson stared at the walls like he'd never seen them before. "Lena, this is—"
"Just paint," I interrupted. Couldn't handle more praise. Not from him. Not when my body was already responding to his approval like he'd touched me. "So, are you gonna talk me through the alarm system?" I asked firmly. "Before I lose my bedazzling momentum."
“Sure. Let me show you.”
The alarm panel lurked behind the front desk—all serious buttons and digital displays that screamed "responsible adult required."
"Six-digit minimum code," he started, all business. "You'll want something memorable but not obvious. Not your birthday or—"
I wasn't listening. Couldn't. Not when he stood close enough that I could smell his cologne—woodsy and clean and making me think wildly inappropriate thoughts. Pine trees and safety and being pinned against one of those pine trees while he—
"You're not paying attention."
Busted. "Codes are boring."
"Codes are important."
I yawned a long, fake yawn.
His jaw ticked. That little tell that meant I was pushing his buttons. Good. If I had to suffer through this attraction, he could suffer through my attitude.
"Hands up."
The command hit me like a physical force. Military voice. The kind that bypassed brain and went straight to body. My hands rose without conscious thought, and fuck, that was hot. That was really, really hot.
He caught them gently—so different from how Cruz used to grab, all possession and control. This was guidance. Protection. The difference made my chest tight.
"Primary code is your choice," he said, positioning my fingers over the keypad. "But it needs to be—"
His chest pressed against my back. Solid. Warm. Everywhere.
I stopped breathing.
"—six digits minimum." His breath moved my hair, sending shivers down my spine. "Muscle memory matters. Enter it slowly first time."
He guided my fingers to the keys. His hands covered mine completely, making me feel small in a way that was deliciously exciting. Each number pressed deliberately. 1-3-1-9-7-2. Random digits that my scrambled brain would somehow have to remember while his body surrounded mine.
"Again," he murmured. "Without my help."
But he didn't move away.
I stood there, caged between his arms, his chest still pressed against my back. Every breath I took brought his scent. Every slight movement made me more aware of how much bigger he was. How easily he could—
Focus, Rivera.
I entered the code. Fucked up the third number because his breathing had synced with mine and it was distracting as hell. Tried again. Got it right this time, muscle memory already building despite my brain being offline.
"Good girl."
The words slipped out, automatic praise in that low, approving tone. We both froze. The air went electric. My body reacting so hard I actually whimpered.
He stepped back quickly. Too quickly. Cool air rushed between us like a bucket of ice water.
"I mean—good job. Professional. Very . . . professional memorization."
I was burning alive. My face. My chest. My core.
"Yep. Super professional. Nothing weird here." My voice came out strangled. "Just two professionals being professional about professional security."
"Exactly."
We carefully didn't look at each other. He stood precisely three feet away—I knew because I was hyperaware of every inch between us. I entered the code again. And again. And again.
Fifteen more times while he watched from that safe distance, occasionally offering tips about finger positioning that sounded way dirtier than they should have.
"Curve your fingers more."
"Steady pressure."
"Don't rush the entry."
Jesus Christ, was he trying to kill me?
By the seventeenth repetition, I had it down. Muscle memory established. Brain permanently scrambled. Pussy ready to stage a revolt if I didn't give it what it wanted soon.
What it wanted was approximately six feet two inches of protective Daddy Dom energy dressed in tactical pants.
"I think you've got it," he said finally.
"Yeah. Got it. Code memorized. Very professional achievement unlocked." I turned toward him, then immediately regretted it.
He looked wrecked. Hair slightly messed from running his hands through it. Eyes dark with something that wasn't about alarm codes. That careful control cracking around the edges.
"Lena—"
"Bathroom," I blurted. "I need to—bathroom. The bathroom. Where people go. For bathroom things."
I fled before he could respond. Locked myself in the single-stall bathroom and slumped against the door.
My hands shook as I splashed cold water on my face. My reflection looked wild—pupils blown, cheeks flushed, that just-been-fucked look without any of the actual fucking.
Good girl.
Two words in that commanding voice and I'd nearly come in my jeans. What was wrong with me? Besides the obvious—touch-starved, praise-hungry, desperately needing something I refused to name.
I pressed my thighs together, trying to ease the ache. My clit throbbed in time with my heartbeat.
I couldn't go back out there. Not like this. Not when my body was screaming for things I couldn't have. Shouldn't want. Definitely shouldn't want from the club’s uptight security specialist who was just trying to do his job.
But I did want. Wanted so bad it hurt.
When I went back out, mercifully, there was a distraction.
Mandy was there, looking like sunshine in a sundress, all flowing fabric and joy and everything I'd never let myself be.
Thor's massive frame filled the entrance behind her, protective and proud and so obviously gone for his girl it made my teeth hurt.
Tyson was nowhere to be seen.
"Baby girl, you sure you need more ink?" His voice held indulgent fondness, the kind that said he'd give her anything she asked for. Probably already had.
"Daddy, it's for our wedding! Matching tattoos were your idea!" Mandy bounced—actually bounced—to my station while Thor settled into the waiting area. The plastic chair groaned under his bulk, but he made it look like a throne. King of his domain, watching over his princess.
I swallowed past the knot in my throat and pulled out my sketch pad.
"Hey babe!" Mandy hugged me, smelling like lemon and happiness. "Ready to design something amazing?"
"Always." I forced brightness into my voice.
“Did you see Tyson?”
“Yeh,” Thor growled. “Sent him on a coffee run.”
I nodded. That was good. I didn’t know whether I could act normal with him around right now. "So,” I said to Mandy, “What are we thinking? Traditional? Modern? Viking berserker to match your man?"
Thor chuckled from his throne. "No berserkers on my baby girl. Something soft. Pretty like her."
The casual possession in 'my baby girl' hit like a physical blow. So easy. So natural. Like breathing.
"Flowers," Mandy said, settling into the client chair. "Forget-me-nots for remembrance, maybe some lavender for devotion?"
I started sketching, letting muscle memory take over while my brain tortured itself. Every few minutes, Thor would make some comment—checking she was comfortable, asking if she needed water, reminding her about dinner reservations—and Mandy would respond with perfect trust. Perfect ease.
"Daddy, I'm fine," she'd say, or "Whatever you think is best," or "Thank you for taking care of that."
Each exchange was a knife between my ribs. Twisting deeper with every casual intimacy.
My pencil moved faster, creating delicate flowers while my chest compressed into a black hole of envy. This was what it looked like. What I'd convinced myself I didn't need. Didn't want. Couldn't have.
Someone strong enough to hold all your chaos. Someone who saw the little girl inside and cherished her instead of exploiting her. Someone who made you feel safe enough to be soft.
"Be right back, baby girl," Thor announced suddenly. "Bathroom."
"Okay, Daddy."
Simple words. Devastating in their simplicity.
“So,” Mandy said. “How’s your morning?”
“Not bad. Tyson’s been here, doing security stuff. Got a bee in his bonnet about looking after the place.”
“Oh yeah? And it’s just the place he wants to look after?”
Mandy loved to tease me about Tyson. To be honest, everyone I knew teased me about Tyson.
“That’s right. He’s just doing his job.”
“I bet he’d like to do a job on you.” She waggled her eyebrows.
My pencil skidded across the page. "There's no me and Tyson."
"Sure. That's why every time you’re together the sexual tension makes my teeth hurt."
"I don't know what you're talking about." I focused on fixing the ruined sketch line. "He's here for security. Duke's orders. End of story."
"Uh-huh." She leaned forward, studying me with those too-knowing eyes. "When I first came in, he was here, and you know what he said?"
“What?”
“He said, ‘No funny business going on here.’”
“Right. See. That means—”
“Don’t even! No funny business? That means that there was a ton of funny business going on! Admit it!”
"We have nothing in common. He's all rules and protocol, I'm chaos incarnate."
"Uh, you know opposites attract, right?"