Page 8 of Blocked Score

He’s wearing a t-shirt, and suddenly I’m hyper-aware of the back of my bare thighs pressing skin-to-skin against the dense cords of muscle wrapping around his forearm.

It’s a good thing my arms are crossed over my chest, because the feeling that’s pulsing through me has my nipples pebbled so tight and sharp that I wouldn’t be surprised if they showed through the fabric of both my bra and my dress.

For the first time in several seconds, I remember to breathe. When I pull in a breath through my nose, it’s suffused with a clean, woodsy scent that only discombobulates my brain that much more.

I’m not used to being bowled over and rendered speechless by a man. But then again, I’m also not used to falling two stories into the strong, sturdy arms of one and opening my eyes to the sight of an angular face, shining green eyes, and curling blonde hair like I’m gazing at right now.

“Thanks,” I manage to breathe the word, regaining some of my senses. “I’m … I’m okay. You can put me down.”

A grin splits on his face. “Can I? Sure. But should I?”

His flirty, teasing voice is matched by a playful glimmer in those green eyes. Even in the dimness of this city alleyway, I’m close enough to spot flecks of gold dancing in Lane’s emerald irises.

There’s a part of my brain that’s telling me to go along with this, stay folded up in Lane’s arms and let him march me wherever he wants to go and do to me whatever he wants to do.

But I still need to get my phone from Demi. And I don’t want to admit defeat to the douchebag of a bouncer who I’ve now cast as my sworn nemesis.

“Yes. Because I still have to get inside.”

Lane gently sets me down on my feet and draws himself up, quirking an eyebrow. “So, you got kicked out, huh?”

I sigh and give him the story. After telling him what transpired, his brows are pinched and his lips curled with distaste. “This place sounds scummy,” he grouses. “Wait, how old are you?”

“Twenty,” I answer.

His brow arches questioningly. “Then how did you get into a nightclub?”

I blow out a laugh. “Fake ID, duh.”

“Duh,” Lane mimics, rolling his eyes. “Of course you have one.”

“You don’t?”

“Nope. Guess I’m too square.”

I regard him wryly. “I’ll say. Using the wordsquaredoesn’t help.”

Lane’s gaze ticks up to the window I was just trying to reach. “By the way, how do you know it wasn’t locked?”

My lips press together. Shit, I hadn’t even considered that. I was so single-minded in my determination to get inside that I didn’t envision such an obvious roadblock.

Lane chuckles at my lack of response. Then he just shrugs and says coolly, “Let’s find out.”

My mouth pops open as he scales the fire escape effortlessly, like a chimpanzee on a jungle gym. His movements are lithe and quick, the muscles in his shoulders and arms easily propelling him up the rungs until he arrives at the landing underneath the window in a fraction of the time it would have taken me even if I hadn’t fallen.

He stealthily peeks inside to make sure the coast is clear before testing the window … which doesn’t budge.

In no time, his athletic movements have him back on the ground next to me. “Nope, locked,” he answers casually.

I throw up my hands in frustration. “Well, now what?”

Lane shrugs. “We can just wait outside until your friend comes out.”

I try to ignore the tug in my chest at Lane’s use of the wordwe, like he’s willing to just throw his whole night away to wait with me on the sidewalk.

I scrunch my lips. “That sounds like admitting defeat.”

“It is admitting defeat. You lost.”

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