Page 8 of Illicit

I push the main door open onto Royal Street. “I’m taking you home with me.”

She yanks my hand and comes to a stop. “I’m not going anywhere with you!”

I have to stoop a few inches to get into her face and lower my voice. “If you don’t quit throwing a fit on the street, you’re going to force me to do something you won’t like.”

Her eyes narrow. “You wouldn’t.”

I cock one brow. “Don’t try me. You know I will.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t believe you. After everything we’ve gone through, you wouldn’t do that to me.”

“To save your ass from whatever you were about to get yourself into, I fucking would. Are you going to come willingly or not?”

Her tits rise and fall with angry breaths when she lowers her voice. “I hate you.”

And there it is.

I pull my phone out of my pocket with my free hand, touch the screen three times, and put it to my ear.

Her expression turns to horror. “Rocco, don’t!”

I don’t look away from her when Taylor answers the phone. “Dude, what the fuck was that?”

I swear, tears come to her eyes as she silently begs me not to tell her dad. Tears on her are something I can’t take, and she knows it.

I let her off the hook. “Taylor, I’ll call you later. And if you tell anyone what went down at The Carousel, I’ll rip your balls out through your throat and fry them up like Rocky Mountain Oysters.”

I lose her dark eyes when she exhales a relieved breath.

“Only if you give me the full scoop on your dark-haired little minx,” Taylor says.

“Done.”

He proves how much of a freak he is. “Man, I’m gonna miss you.”

“I’m taking her home. I’ll see you in the office tomorrow,” I say.

“Taking her back to your place so fast. You were boring as hell for the last two years. I guess you’re doing your last few days up big,” Taylor says.

I’ve had enough. “Later.”

I disconnect the call, slide my phone back into my pocket, and look down at her. “Are you going to come willingly, or are you going to make a scene? Because I bet we’re being watched.”

She mulls that over, going through all her options. Instead of answering, she states the obvious that I can’t forget since I can still taste her on my tongue. “You kissed me.”

It’s not a statement. It’s an accusation.

I throw one right back at her. “Yeah? Well, you kissed me first.”

“That was years ago,” she seethes.

“Not quite. Twenty-two months, to be exact,” I correct her. “And I kissed you in there to save your ass.”

“I didn’t need saving,” she spits.

I close what little distance we still have between us and lower my voice. “You have no clue who Jules Robichaux is or who he associates with. Your ass needed saving.”

“I would have found out what I needed to know had you not barged in.”

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