Taking Denver

1. Denver

Chapter 1

Denver

T he gun fires a second time, and I stop running.

I seize the arms of the treadmill and pick my feet up off the belt before I fall. Whirling, my heart in my throat, sweat pours down my face, and I wait for what always follows that sound—screams, panic, blood.

My gaze darts over the hotel gym, from machines to dumbbells to exercise balls and yoga mats. The wall of mirrors shows only me. No masked shooter, no dead body, no barrel to stare down and hope for mercy.

The third shot is louder, closer, and I swear, tearing my earbuds out and throwing them to the ground. More shots sound, but they follow a rhythm. Fuck. They’re not real. They’re in the song I’m playing.

I loose out a breath and push back my sweat-dampened hair. What a stupid fucking idea to add a gunshot behind the track. It reminds me of those songs with police sirens, always making me glance in my rearview for blue lights when it’s instead coming from my radio.

Facing the treadmill again, I slam the emergency stop button and rest my arms on the screen, head down, watching the belt slow until it stops. Droplets of sweat land on the machine, and I let my lungs get the oxygen they’re screaming for.

Adrenaline courses through my body—thick, hot, and fused with the fear I try to fight whenever I hear that sound. Panicking doesn’t help when someone shoots a gun within your vicinity. Panicking could get you killed.

“Are these yours?”

I glance behind me, still struggling to breathe. A man cradles my earbuds in his palm, his head tilted to the side, a towel and gym bag over his shoulder. Tall. Dark hair. Good-looking. He fills out his gym clothes nicely and has biceps I wouldn’t mind pressing my nails into.

Dammit, Denver, take a cold shower.

“Yes,” I say and step off the treadmill before snatching the earbuds out of his hand. I walk by him and to the fountain, leaning over to let the water lap against my tongue.

“You’re welcome,” he mumbles.

The heat across my skin ramps up. If this guy is going to give me attitude, he could at least do it with his chest instead of under his breath like a goddamn coward.

I straighten up, hands on my hips. “Were you looking for a reward?”

He turns to me, a bemused half-smile on his handsome face. “What’s your problem?”

“Right now? You are.”

Why am I being such an asshole? He did me a favor. It isn’t his fault there was a gunshot in a song, and it certainly isn’t his fault I’m in a bad mood.

“Whatever.” He shakes his head and climbs onto a treadmill.

I pull a face and mouth a ‘whatever’ back at him because, apparently, I’m a complete child.

I need to stop doing this. I’ve made at least six enemies at this resort over the last few months. One is a sixteen-year-old girl who flips me off whenever we cross paths (your time will come, Courtney), and another is a Russian couple who took the last cinnamon roll at breakfast (my revenge was snatching it from their table as I passed). It’s a pattern I can’t break. I’m on a war path when I wake up in a mood like this. The staff at the resort have learned to spot it, ducking into rooms or corners as I storm by, but the guests come and go. They have no idea that crossing Denver Luxe, especially on a bad morning with a gunshot ringing in my ear, is akin to crossing the devil himself.

But what they say about redheads and their tempers is true, and I’m living proof of that.

Sitting on a yoga mat, I stare at the guy’s reflection in the mirror and almost scoff when he takes his shirt off. Who takes their shirt off to run inside a gym? It’s air-conditioned, for Christ’s sake. What an arrogant, beautifully sculpted piece of shit.

Still, I watch him, likely giving him precisely what he wants, but I don’t care because I want to look at him. He could probably crack nuts between his shoulder blades.

“Getting a good look?”

I roll my eyes. “As if you don’t want me to. Put your shirt on. This is a family place.”

He turns to me, and my gaze drops to the crisp ink on his right pectoral, unreadable from where I sit. “It’s an adults-only resort. And I don’t think you can talk. Your leggings are practically a second skin.”

I look at my outfit, the burnt orange material a close enough match to my hair that I picked up three pairs last week. “These are nice leggings!”

He leans his hands against the arms of the treadmill, beautiful biceps tensing. “Leggings? Or paint?”

“Just concentrate on your nude running, asshole.”

He blinks. “Did you just call me an asshole? You don’t even know me.”

“I don’t know you? Let me guess.” I hop to my feet and a chill of excitement races up my spine. “Early thirties, professional, played basketball in college, go Vipers!” I throw an imaginary ball into an imaginary hoop. “You drive a Prius because the planet is our friend, but you use so much cologne that you’re probably personally responsible for the hole in the ozone layer. Single because you work too much, no pets because you can’t commit, lifts every day because weights are life, and has song lyrics in his Tinder bio. I’m guessing... Mariah Carey. Am I close?”

He narrows his eyes and steps off the treadmill, shoulders squared as if heading into battle. I’ll welcome the scrap.

“I’m thirty-two, a veterinarian, and yes, I played basketball in college—it was the Tigers, not the Vipers. I have three dogs! One, two, three, three dogs .” He counts on his hand and then gives me the finger. “I lift weights because I enjoy it, and the song lyrics are Tupac, so suck on that. And you know what? I’m starting to think these are actually mine.”

He snatches the earbuds from my hand, and my mouth drops open.

“No, they are not!”

He shrugs. “Prove it.”

“I’ll kick your ass!”

He snorts a laugh. “Oh yeah?”

“Yes!”

He drops his towel and squares up to me. This guy literally squares up to me. “Come on then. Hit me.”

I step toward him. “Oh, you think I won’t?”

“Oh, I hope you do.”

I clench my fists at my sides and tense my jaw. I’m not backing down. Fuck this guy. I shove him.

Dammit, his skin is soft.

He laughs. “Is that it? Come on, pipsqueak. You want them back? Fight for them.”

“ Pipsqueak? ”

“Yeah. What are you, like, five foot two?”

“I’m five foot six, you prick!”

I can’t believe I’m arguing about my height and threatening to beat up a guy almost a foot taller than me. I’m twenty-seven years old. What the fuck am I doing?

“Give them back!”

“Give you what back? These?” He dangles the earbuds above my head.

I’m not going to embarrass myself by trying to grab them. I’m not going to do that. Do not do that, Denver.

I do, and he snatches them away.

“Come on, tiny little redhead,” he says, moving close. “Where’s all your fight gone?”

He’s dangerously close to me. I could slap him if I wanted to. And I really, really want to. But I’m more interested in how dark his eyes are, how good he looks with stubble around his jaw.

“You’re a prick.”

His lips curl into a smirk. “You’ve got a real mouth on you.”

I’m close to purring, if only to draw this guy in so I can make him regret ever crossing my path. “Oh, you have no idea,” I whisper, each word dripping with vitriol and the desire to hate-fuck this guy into next week.

I wonder if he’d let me. His eyes flare with annoyance, but beyond that is something more—intrigue? Definitely amusement. Fuck, what am I thinking? I’m not going to sleep with this guy. My rule before coming here was strictly no men. Not a single man was to approach my vagina, and I’ll happily smack anyone who tries—verbally or physically.

But the gunshot has my heart racing, and I’m desperate for a distraction. Running is no longer an option, not with this prick so close by, and with the group of tourists who arrived last night, this guy likely being one of them, the pool will be too full for a quiet swim.

I need to exert the energy and panic, and maybe I can channel it into this guy.

His gaze drops to my lips.

Bingo.

I’m never one for sensible choices. Hell, my recent ones led me here—to a resort on a remote island, my booking for two dwindled to one, with a gunshot ringing in my ears long before playing that song. I’m not known for my decision-making skills and likely never will be, which is why I throw caution to the wind.

“Fuck you,” I say, seizing the back of his neck and kissing him.

To my surprise and relief, he kisses me back.

The stranger grips the back of my thighs, lifts me into his arms, and carries me to the far side of the gym. He presses me against the wall, and good god , this man can kiss. I haven’t kissed anyone in months, and the feel of his mouth lights a fire in me. His lips are soft. He tastes sweet. Beneath the unbridled passion lies a softness, a gentle but solid desire that has me relaxing in his hold. When he slips his tongue into my mouth, I inadvertently moan.

“Take off my leggings,” I whisper.

He drops me to my feet and gets to his knees without me having to ask twice, the muscles in his shoulders flexing as he pulls off my sneakers. He pulls my leggings down and runs a tongue up my sweat-slicked stomach, my pulse thrumming throughout my body as he kisses and nibbles across my naval. Fuck, he’s annoyingly good at this. I wish I knew his name so I could say it.

When his lips leave my skin and he stands, I grab my gym bag, pulling out a condom.

He arches a brow. “Why do you have a?—”

I pull his shorts down, and when I tear the packet with my teeth, he doesn’t finish his question. I roll the condom onto him, and when he lifts me again, he’s inside me.

“Oh, fuck.” My head drops against the wall.

Three months. Three months since I’ve had sex, and now I’m letting a stranger fuck me against a gym wall.

But what a reintroduction to sex.

He is—for lack of a better word because words have seemingly abandoned me— perfect . Long, thick, hard as a fucking diamond, and he takes his time sinking deep. With every inch, he pauses, eliciting small, pathetic whimpers from me, whimpers I resist turning into begs for him to fuck me.

When he withdraws, I curse. “Stop that.”

“Stop what?” he breathes into my ear. “This?” He pulls out further, and I tighten my legs around his waist.

“Fucking tease,” I groan.

“There’s that mouth again.” He nips my earlobe. “Should I fuck the attitude out of you?” He inches back inside, stretching and filling me until I can’t grasp the right words to put this motherfucker in his place. “Oh, now you’re quiet.”

I groan, eyes fluttering closed. “You?—”

“What?” He pushes deeper. “Use that mouth again.”

But I can’t. My mind is a jumble of colors and feelings and him . This beautiful, arrogant, perfect-dicked stranger is doing what countless men have tried to do to me in the past—shut me up.

“Silence?” he teases, his hands firmly gripping my ass and kneading the muscle there. He runs his tongue from the juncture of my neck, stops below my ear, and whispers, “Good girl.”

He slams into me.

I cry out, my eyes flying open, pleasure tearing through me. The pressure that has built gradually over months dissipates, a coil of tension unraveling so quickly it sends me dizzy.

He withdraws and slams into me again and again, the seconds between each meeting of our bodies far too long. He kisses me, his tongue massaging mine, and it steals whatever strength I have left.

My body is a whirlwind of tingles centered at my core, growing with every movement of his hips. I’m teetering close to the edge, that wonderful, glorious edge, but I need more.

“Fast… faster—” I beg, fully aware of how pathetic I sound, fully prepared to hate myself for it later.

He covers my mouth, his palm pressing against my lips, and I breathe quickly through my nose.

“You better keep your voice down,” he whispers, his thrusts still slow enough to tease and torture me. “Or do you want people to come in here and see you taking my cock?” His words heighten the sensitivity between my legs, his voice dangerously low in my ear. “Is that what you want? To be watched while I fuck you?”

I press my fingernails into his biceps as I cry out into his palm. Who the fuck is this guy? With his dirty words, perfect dick, and?—

I gasp as he uncovers my mouth, his lips meeting mine, and then he gives me everything .

He starts fucking me jackhammer fast, and I can’t remember when I last had any thoughts in my head. My back slams against the wall. My head is filled with nothing but the moment. It’s strangely peaceful, like hurtling off a cliff and feeling only the freedom of falling.

The tightening between my legs intensifies, goosebumps scatter across my skin, and my orgasm hits me. Hard. Fast. It’s almost painfully beautiful.

My mind scatters. My body follows. I’m no longer in his arms but weightless, drifting beyond sensible thoughts or decisions.

He bites into my neck as his orgasm follows, and the sound he makes is enough to make me want to go again. Precise, hot, and vocal? What a shame he’s a total dick.

He slows. He stops. He holds onto me, his face in my neck, my legs still tight around his waist.

“Are you okay?” He lifts his head to meet my eyes, and I search his face, unable to hide my surprise that he’d asked.

Why does he look like he cares?

“Can you put me down?” I wriggle in his grip, and he nods, placing me on my feet.

To my total mortification, my knees dip. He grips my elbows to keep me upright, and I resist mumbling a thank you.

I pull my leggings up as gracefully as possible. “I believe these are mine,” I say breathlessly, snatching up my earbuds and bag and leaving.

With my sneakers dangling from my fingertips, I try to remember how I normally walk. My legs tremble, my knees lock, and the dampness between my thighs has me already aching for more.

For those glorious minutes he was inside me, I forgot what I was running from, and I wonder how many random hook-ups it would take until I forget that night. My rationale tells me that guilt doesn’t ebb away with orgasms, and adding notches to my bedpost isn’t a sensible distraction from bloodstained hands.

I finally release a breath once I’m inside the elevator and heading back down to my room. The mirrored walls show a woman thoroughly fucked, and I know, without a doubt, that if word gets back that I’ve slept with someone, all hell will break loose.

I’m already running out of time, and I’ve likely just made things ten times worse for myself. The clock that is my life is closing in on the end. So is everyone’s, I suppose, but mine has picked up speed since I had a choice between life and death and chose wrong.

My phone vibrates, and I take it out of my bag.

DO NOT ANSWER is calling. I close my fingers over the phone, staring at the contact photo. The dark eyes, sharp suit, and handsome face that took my breath away the first time I saw it.

I stare at his face until the phone stops ringing, his missed calls ticking from seventy-six to seventy-seven.

By the time I step out of the elevator, my head is high, my shoulders are squared, and I resign myself to shower away the guilt and the man from between my thighs.