Page 34 of Mexico Can Choke On It
“This was fun, but you should probably call your security detail to come get you. I’d rather not have a SWAT team rappelling through my window at three a.m. I’m already kissing that deposit goodbye—let’s not add broken windows to the bill.”
I pat down my pockets, coming up empty. “My phone’s in the Aston.”
“Fantastic. Okay, Billionaire Boy, you can’t just stand there looking traumatized by my poverty all night.” Petra jumps up from the bed, sweeping a mountain of clothes off her couch with one dramatic arm gesture. “Let me check out the damage I inflicted on you.”
“I’m fine.”
She presses a single finger against my chest—pain explodes like fireworks beneath my skin. I collapse onto the sofa with an embarrassing groan.
“Dear God,” I wheeze. “What did you do?”
“Fifty thousand volts of ‘don’t creep up on women after dark,’” she says. “Now take off your shirt so I can see how bad it is. But don’t get too comfortable, or I’ll charge you rent.”
I shrug out of my ruined tuxedo jacket and start unbuttoning my dress shirt. When I glance up, Petra has gone uncharacteristically quiet.
Her gaze tracks my fingers as I undo each button. The faintest hint of pink spreads across her cheekbones, and for the first time since I’ve known her, she looks almost… shy.
“Damn, Moneybags. I’m surprised the taser even penetrated that wall of muscle.”
I can’t help the small, satisfied smile that escapes. Seeing this girl flustered is both unexpected and oddly gratifying.
“Dude, you should tell your trainer to up your weights. Since I took you down twice in one day.”
She leans in to examine the angry red mark blooming on my chest, her fingers—surprisingly gentle—trace the outline of what will no doubt become an impressive bruise. My skin ignites wherever she touches, a completely different kind of electrical current now racing through me.
I should be terrified of her. She literally brought me to my knees tonight. But goddamn I want more of it, more of that delicate press of her fingertips against my bare skin.
Do not focus on her hands. Not her pale, soft skin. Not the fact that she smells like jasmine and fresh morning coffee. Not those red lips that are inches from my chest.
Her touch softens further, featherlight fingers stroking across my pecs with hypnotic rhythm. The pad of her thumb catches on my nipple, and we both gasp. Then—as if burned—she jerks her hand back.
“Oh yeah, that’s gonna bruise. Let me get you an ice pack.”
She practically sprints to the mini-fridge and yanks the door open so hard the whole thing wobbles.
“So…” Petra says, her head buried in the freezer, “what was that nonsense you were spouting about Amanda? Something about teenage vampire blood and a lake house. Sounded like a weirdTwilightsequel.”
I freeze. The haze of post-taser delirium had me forgetting the Amanda situation and the well-rehearsed story we’d agreed on.
“She’s at her family’s lake house. Her mother’s recovering from a procedure.”
For a moment—a single impulsive, reckless breath—I consider telling her the truth.
“Anti-aging treatments,” I say instead. “Her mother is very dedicated to them.”
“Rich people. Always finding new ways to avoid reality.”
Petra places a plastic freezer bag in my hand, filled with small green balls. The weight is substantial, the cold seeping through instantly.
“You’ll have to forgive me. I don’t have ice cubes in my budget. This should work.”
I lift the bag, eyeing it with deep suspicion.
“Are these… narcotics?”
“God, I wish. No. It’s cookie dough.” She unzips the bag and holds it under my nose. “Take a sniff, Moneybags. I promise they’re not edibles, though I would love to see what you’re like high.”
The scent hits me immediately—sweet, earthy, with a weird green tea aroma.
