3. Landon
LANDON
Jasmine tucks her knees to her chest, head leaning against the window, the shorter strands of her blonde hair sticking to her cheeks thanks to the thick Texas heat. She hasn’t said a word in miles.
Probably still pissed at me for calling her beautiful instead of Jasmine —or Peaches , my personal favorite, on account of her ass being perfect like a ripe summer peach, but I won’t tell her that.
Not yet. Girl already looks like she wants to run me over with a car—no need to hand her a reason with a bow on top.
My eyes flicker over her thick thighs, drawn up tight against her chest, and the cascade of wavy blonde hair spilling over her shoulder.
There’s still a hint of pink in it, evidence that her hair used to be vibrant with streaks of cherry red, but all of that has faded over the past three months to a stubbornly cute pastel pink.
And fuck if she isn’t gorgeous—unapologetically, wildly so. The kind of gorgeous that gets under your skin and settles in like it belongs there.
When I was first assigned to trail her, I was pissed.
Thought it was beneath me. A man like me—sharp, efficient, trained for much worse—should be blackmailed into better use.
International weapons deals, corporate espionage, hell, even stealing classified intel off the back of a warlord’s yacht.
Not babysitting some girl with a garbage bag full of trauma and a habit of walking alone at night.
But then I laid eyes on her. Jasmine Rivera. And for the first time in a long-ass time, I didn’t feel like I was wasting my life.
I couldn’t help it—I thanked the heavens. Thanked Kelly, too, for probably making a deal with Jesus Christ, or more likely the devil himself just to make sure I saw something good every day.
In a different life, I would’ve told her she was mine the second my eyes landed on her. Would’ve walked up, no games, no cover story, and said it straight to her face. You. You’re mine.
Because that’s what it felt like. Like she was already tethered to something in me I didn’t know existed until she looked up, squinted against the sun, and flipped me off for staring too long from across the gas station parking lot.
She didn’t know me then, and that was the closest to the sun I have ever been, until now and fuck does it burn.
We hit a red light in the middle of nowhere. No cars, no traffic. Just empty road and midnight sky. I drum my fingers against the wheel, humming along to some old Billy Ray Cyrus song from Kelly’s cursed playlist—the one she labeled How to Be American.
Jasmine snorts, still staring out the window, as if the shadows offended her and not me. I want her to look at me.
“What have I done now?” I smirk, my eyes lazily looking over her small form. She could fit perfectly curled up on my lap if she wanted. That thought only makes me smile more, because if she could read my mind, she’d punch me in the face.
“Billy Ray Cyrus?” she deadpans, eyes rolling as she rests her chin on her knees. “Seriously?”
I lick my lips—slow—fighting to keep my eyes on the road instead of her mouth or the way her thighs are pressed together like temptation wrapped in denim. I force myself to look ahead, knuckles tightening on the wheel.
Because the truth is, I want to reach across the seat. Grab her by the waist. Drag her across my lap. Lay her bare over my knee and see if she’d still have the nerve to roll those pretty eyes with her ass in the air and my hand wrapped around her throat.
I swallow the thought like poison. Because that’s what it is. Because she’s poison—sweet, lethal, and already in my bloodstream.
“You don’t like Billy Ray Cyrus?” I ask, voice low, masking the tension with a smirk.
She shrugs without looking at me. “I prefer his daughter.”
“I could’ve guessed that.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Her head turns slightly, eyes narrowing.
“Miley Cyrus is a brat.” I glance over, catching the flick of her brow. “And you , Peach, are definitely a brat.”
“A what? ” she says, her tone sharp, half-offended, half-curious—and damn if I don’t want to taste that edge on her tongue. The undercurrent of more, in the same breath that she can’t take anymore. I bet that’s the best thing in the world.
“A brat,” I repeat, letting the word roll slowly off my tongue. “Don’t tell me you don’t know what a brat is, Peaches.”
She stares at me for a beat, a look of annoyance on her face. Then her lips twitch. “I know what a brat is,” she says coolly, “but you don’t know me well enough to call me one.”
I pull into the side entrance of the building, where armed guards flank the gated entrance to the underground parking garage. Surveillance cameras track every license plate, every twitch of movement, and the faint buzz of security drones overhead cuts through the humid Texas night.
I smirk as we approach, slowing just enough to let the system scan my plates. Jasmine stiffens slightly in her seat when one of the guards starts walking toward the car, hand resting on the holster at his hip.
“You forget,” I say casually, letting the words drip with amusement as I roll down the window, “I’m your stalker. I know everything about you.”
Jasmine scoffs, her eyes rolling again in a way that makes a growl grow in my chest. “If you know everything, you’d know to stop flirting because I am gay. You understand what that means, right Landon?”
“Oh, I know,” I say, flashing an identification card from the center console and holding it up for the guard to scan. The red light flickers green. “But who said flirting had to lead anywhere? I can just flirt with you because you, Peaches, are a pretty girl.”
“So you don’t care?” She questions, placing both feet on the floor as she pulls her long streaked hair into a high ponytail, the curve of her slender neck on display.
The gates swing open with a hydraulic hiss, and I guide the car down into the private garage. I ease the car into one of the reserved spots near a private elevator, kill the engine, and turn to her.
“Peach, if you ever want to explore,” I grin. “I will be the first guy in line, but I respect you and your sexuality.”
Jasmine unbuckles her seatbelt with a sharp click and leans in just a breath away from my lips. “Don’t worry,” she murmurs, voice sweet as honey. “I’d rather fall down the elevator shaft than ever explore with you.”
Jasmine snorts as she slides out the car.
I chuckle, pulling the keycard from the console and slipping it into my back pocket as I step out. “Ouch, and here I thought we had sexual tension.”
Jasmine leans against the car, arms crossed over her chest, one brow arched. “No, that’s just my incessant need to be a little stabby.”
I lean in, close enough that my breath stirs the hair near her cheek, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “You can stab me anytime, love.”
She shivers—barely, but I feel it—and I laugh as I walk away, the sound echoing through the polished silence of the garage.
She follows me to the private elevator at the far end. I swipe the keycard, and the doors open with a soft chime. Jasmine steps in first, and I take my time stepping in after her—eyes shamelessly drinking in the way she moves.
Her tank top clings to every curve, the thin fabric dampened from the heat, nearly sheer.
Her breasts rise and fall beneath it, nipples peaked against the cotton, tight and obvious.
My gaze trails lower—those muscular thighs hugged by worn jeans, the kind that were molded to her body by time and sin.
Her waist curves into hips that were made to be gripped.
And Jesus Christ, she’s stunning. Wild and soft, stubborn and unaware of the absolute havoc she wreaks just by standing still.
“Who are we going to see, again?” she asks, leaning casually back against the elevator wall, one leg crossing over the other. The move lifts her chest just slightly—and her perky breasts stretch the fabric of her tank top tight.
I grin. “I never said we were going to see anyone.”
Her glare sharpens. “You said there was a man who wanted to keep me alive.”
“True,” I nod, watching the numbers on the elevator tick upward. “But I never said who that would be. Cute for you to act like I did.”
She huffs, clearly annoyed, but I just wink, a smirk pinched into my cheek. Jasmine is a smart girl.
“Do you ever answer a question directly?” she mutters.
“Only when I want to be boring,” I say, casually leaning against the wall, eyes still on her. “And I don’t think you’d like me boring.”
Jasmine turns to face me then, one eyebrow raised, the heat between us tightening like a drawn bowstring.
“I don’t think I like you at all.”
I peel off my jacket, offering it to her. “I think you like me just fine.”
“And why would you say that?”
“Because your nipples are staring right at me through that flimsy-ass tank top.” My grin is wicked, sharp. “And unless you're cold, which I doubt in this sauna of a state, I'd say you’re a little worked up.”
Her cheeks flush a perfect shade of pink—one I’d like to see again, and lower—and she snatches the jacket from my hand with a hissed, “Asshole.”
But before she can throw it back at me, the elevator dings.
The doors slide open to reveal a bachelor pad penthouse fit for a king—or a criminal with a love for decadence.
Dark hardwood stretches across the open floor plan, offset by matte black finishes and marble columns. A sleek kitchen gleams in the corner, untouched. Floor-to-ceiling windows line the far wall, showing off a panoramic view of the Dallas skyline, glittering in the dark like fallen stars.
Low leather furniture, clean lines, and the subtle smell of cedar and expensive cologne hang in the air like sex and secrets.
I step out first whistling, my hands stuffing into my front pockets.
“Esto más te vale que no sea una mamada, cabrón.” A voice growls from the corner of the room, just as I slide onto the couch.
“Cast?” Jasmine hisses from behind me, but I just swing my forearm over my eyes and slump into the buttery leather.