Page 37 of The Forbidden Note

“Here.” She pushes her shirt up and points to the underside of her tits. Eyes dripping with invitation, she says, “You can write your number too.”

I accept the marker from her.

Just then, I hear the familiar rumble of an engine.

My attention snaps away.

Miss Jamieson’s rusty car speeds into a parking spot, wheels burning rubber. She’s going so fast, she almost rams into the yellow parking block.

A grin spreads on my face. Carelessly, I toss the pen over my shoulder. I was aiming for the brunette’s hand, but it hits the ground instead, clattering loudly.

“Hey!” the girls protest.

I ignore them and start moving, eating the distance between me and Miss Jamieson’s vehicle.

The door pops open.

One sexy red stiletto is joined by another. I slide my gaze up her pasted-on jeans and simple flowery blouse.

Damn.

It annoys me that my skin gets hotter watching Miss Jamieson fully clothed than it did when that brunette lifted her shirt to flash me.

“I’m here,” she growls. Her eyes spit flames hotter than Hades, and my body goes hard instantly.

Hell, I must be out of my freaking mind.

Forget the fact that we’re step-siblings, I’m not the kind of guy who goes for a challenge. Not like Dutch.

I like easy.

Which those girls were.

The brunette, especially, seemed down to suck, lick, and swallow anything I dished out. On the other hand, Miss Jamieson goes out of her way to draw the line between us.

Yet here I am, fighting a wild, dangerous tension with the only woman I can’t have. The only woman who’d rather jump off a cliff than admit she wants me back.

Dammit.

I curl my fingers into fists, forcing a crap-eating grin.

For now, this ismygame.

I won’t let her take over.

“You’re late,” I say, leaning an elbow against her door.

“You’re lucky I came at all,” she snaps. Her hair is bigger than usual, the curls expanding all around her face and down her shoulders. The breeze throws soft black coils in front of her cheeks, teasing me with a coconut fragrance.

Miss Jamieson’s hair is one of the things that makes her so freaking irresistible. The curls seem to have their own damn personality—weighed down and shiny against her scalp on some days and big, textured and gravity-defying on others.

I remember sinking my fingers into that mane and yanking her head back while I pounded into her from behind. The memory is visceral. As clear as day. My heart beats so fast I feel dizzy.

“You better have a good reason for dragging me down here, Zane,” she hisses. “Or else…” Her eyes catch on the door of the shop and she makes a startled sound. “Is that a funeral parlor?”

I grin and slam her door closed. “This way.”

We get inside and the funeral director greets us with an enthusiastic smile. For someone who’s in the business of death, he seems rather cheerful.

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