Page 11 of Nash

“Your Uber app says the ETA isnothing?” He smirks. “What an abstract sense of time for such precise technology.”

“Well,” I huff, “I’ll enjoy the night air.”

“You’ll enjoy standing in my driveway at midnight for over an hour?”

“Yep.” I pop my lips, tipping my head back.Whoops. Tequila.I sway, searching the sky. “I can study the constellations. I’m looking for Orion.”

“You’re looking drunk.”

“I’m not drunk!” Too quickly, I snap my stare back at him, and the world shifts on its axis. I stumble forward, and he’s fast. He catches me in his arms.

His tan, smooth, beefy arms with muscles and veins popping everywhere that I’m not supposed to notice, but fuck my life, I’ve memorized them.He has a scar on his left forearm.I’ve mapped it and his sexy face because that’s the only flesh he exposes.

Even in black-rimmed geeky glasses, Nash Allen is hot. He’s brooding. He’s intense. He studies you like prey and smells like primal sex. Like he’s an animal who just had it, though he acts too uptight to fuck.

For God’s sake, the man fastens the top button of his snug, black golf shirt.

Who does that?

No one. It’s against PGA rules.

Okay, it’s not, but it should be. Because, on most, you look like a nerd doing it and not in a stylish way.

But on Nash Allen? He makes a tight golf shirt collar look as sexy as a BDSM choker. One he yanks as you kneel, wanting to serve him.

He steadies me, my breasts smashed against his chest before he shoves me away.

Glancing over my shoulder, he holds me at arm’s length, his grip controlling as his eyes narrow, suddenly tracking something behind me before he growls, “Get in my car, Vale.Now.”

I’m sorry; not sorry. No man tells me what to do. “Did you eat asshole tonight because you sound like one?”

He raises a thick, dark brow. Intrigued. Irate. “The only ass I’ll handle tonight is yours with a good spanking if you don’t get in my fucking car right now.”

And he always doesthat,too.

He orders you around, making your pride revolt while your pussy purrs. He plays whiplash with your emotions. His mindfuck, next-level. He doesn’t give you a choice; he takes control.

Why can’t he be nice and make me a cheeseburger again? Hell, I’d love his floppy tulips, too.

I barely drop my phone into my purse, letting him yank me by the arm. I barely climb into the passenger seat he promptly drops my ass into. I barely get a chance to protest before he’s speeding out his driveway.

But now, trapped as his passenger … I have all the time in the world to give him hell.

Why? Because Nash Allen has been ordering me around since I was thirteen, that’s when I met his daughter, Alena.

At first, I liked it. My real dad didn’t give a shit about me and my sister. So, I guess I liked Mr. Allen’s overbearing protection, his unrelenting questions about my goals, and the pressure he put on me to succeed. Alena thrived under it, and I practically lived at their house, so Mr. Allen drove me, too.

But now?

Okay, he’s literally driving me again, but he’s not my father. Hell, Nash Allen worksfor menow. He’s the accountant I hired for my employer.

He’s a man so controlling that he does everything three times. Three times, he checks his math. Three times, he’ll save a spreadsheet. Three times now, he checks his rearview mirror before suddenly stepping on the gas pedal, the inertia slamming me back into the passenger seat.

“You know,”—I huff—“if you want to drive like a bat out of hell, get a little sports car because you can’t Tokyo Drift in your big, burgundy minivan.”

He snickers, “Wanna bet?” as he starts flying down the quiet road with the dark ocean on our left and me, looking for cops who aren’t around.

We’re breaking every rule of the road, and usually, I’m a rebel. But now? Hell, no.

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