Page 14 of Taking Denver

I roll my eyes. “You’re really fishing for compliments?”

“From you, yes,” he says, and I almost laugh at the admission. “Indulge me, Denver Luxe.”

I wet my lips and try to erase the memory of how he’d felt against me. His power, the urgency, the fire that hadn’t just flickered but almost devoured us both.

“Because I’m in love with you, Ethan.”

He erupts into laughter, and I can’t help it—I smile. He has such a beautiful laugh—light, real, carefree. I wonder how often he does it, what makes him laugh the most, and, more importantly, how I can make it happen again.

“Seriously,” I add. “Head over heels. Marry me?”

“Sure,” he says, tilting his head. “How’s tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow works for me. Can I wear white?”

He snorts. “I think that ship has sailed.”

I give him the finger. “Prick.”

“And there’s that mouth again.”

My body heats rapidly, his words like sinking into hot coals. The hammering of my heart fills my ears, and I hope he can’t see the flush in my cheeks.

I’ve grown up around men who are hard lines and harder whiskey, cigars over territory talk, have unhappy wives, and impatient mistresses. My view of men and love is more than skewed; it’s torn-up paper promises, the pieces blown away in the wind. I’ve been careful only to be loved by two men in my life. The first was my father, who had showered me with adoration and a desperate need to keep me alive until the day he died.

The second drowned me in love. He’d gripped my hair and tilted my head back and poured his obsession into my willing mouth, and when I drank, I drank deep.

I wonder how Ethan would love. I imagine he’d be kind. Thoughtful. He’d remember shit that didn’t matter—dates offirst kisses and songs that were ours. He’s probably the kind of man you bring home to your family and has you dreaming about Christmas morning proposals.

My family would’ve placed a gun on the dinner table and waited for Ethan to piss himself and leave. I would expect him to do just that.

But maybe I’m wrong. While I doubt that he’s anything like the men in my father’s office that I’d avoided when I’d developed curves and tits, Ethan isn’t exactly vanilla fucking pudding, either. The beautiful, perfect-dicked vet has layers—a tart aftertaste that has my cheeks tingling.

“So, where’d you learn to fight, Rocky?” I ask, reaching for his hand. A weak excuse to touch him, but one I’ll use tonight. I run a gentle thumb pad over pinkened knuckles. “Did you have to wrestle tigers in vet school?”

He smiles. “I took up boxing a few years ago.”

“Professionally?”

“Almost.”

“Is it a hobby now?”

He searches my eyes. “Something like that.” His stare climbs into me, like warm honey mixed with smooth cream, sweetness spilling down my throat.

I look away. “Should we head back? I’m tired of waiting.”

When we reach the hallway to our new rooms, an unexplainable itch starts at the back of my brain. My legs lock, my head spins, and as the walls seem to close in, my vision does, too.

Alone. I’ll be alone. And I’ve been alone for so damn long, it shouldn’t feel any different, right? But before this place, before the mess, before the ringing in my ears,he’dalways been there. Every. Fucking. Day.

And then everything had exploded at our feet. Sticky blood on ivory Jimmy Choos and that horrible, awful stone floor, made uglier by brain matter and a gold casing.

I can’t be alone. Not tonight.

“Do you want to come inside?”

Ethan pauses his key in the door. “Um?—”

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