Page 32 of My Masked Stalker
“What’s wrong with my clothes?” I ask. “I’ve got everything I need in my apartment.”
He gives me a resigned sigh. “You’re not going to your apartment.”
“Fine.” I poke his ridiculously firm chest with my finger. “Then you’re going. You probably know your way around my underwear drawer anyway.”
His grin is unrepentant. “Why would I need to poke around your underwear drawer when I could poke around your underwear instead?”
I flush, thinking back to the night I woke up and found him going down on me. The little K he carved on my mound is just a scratch, but I can feel it acutely right now.
“You’re crazy,” I mutter, trying to get around him to exit this whole freaking tactical room. Killian’s arm shoots out, and he stops me, pulling me flush against him.
“Crazy about you,” he whispers, then seals his lips against mine. God, he’s such a good kisser. The way his tongue dances with mine, the way he unabashedly explores each crevice of my mouth like he has every right to it all. And I know he thinks he has every right to all of me. Why is that so hot? It really shouldn’t be.
Gun oil mixes with his steely cologne and the warm musk that is just him, his way-past-five-o’clock shadow rasping over my cheeks. I squeeze my legs together, imagining it marking my body, scratching me elsewhere, and he chuckles against my lips.
He knows everything. I should feel terrified. Instead, I feel safer than I ever have.
For the rest of the morning, Killian doesn’t let me out of his sight. I make us a late breakfast, his kitchen surprisingly well stocked for a bachelor, and we eat together at the breakfast bar,laughing over stories about our friends. Like a normal couple. So freaking normal.
Barbara calls, and I tell her about the man I met in the taxi last night. She squeals when I describe his blue eyes and muscled build, Killian smirking at me the entire time, making my face burn red.
Killian’s friends don’t call—they show up unannounced. The knock barely echoes before Killian’s already swinging the door wide, a scowl etched deep. “No.”
And then the door slams.
“Killian!” I gasp, horrified, rushing forward, clutching my cloak around me. “You can’t just?—”
The door opens again, and two men shoulder their way past him like they’re used to ignoring his attitude. The taller of the two, a green-eyed brunet with an easy grin, sticks his hand out toward me. “Ethan. Army intel specialist. Professional pain in Killian’s ass.”
The other, blond with sea-blue eyes that feel like they see everything, gives me a nod. “Damien. Former corpsman, now EMT. I patch them up when they’re idiots.” His gaze flicks to Killian’s leg, and he sighs like he’s already tired. “Which is often.”
Killian growls. “I didn’t invite you.”
Ethan smirks, leaning on the breakfast bar like he owns the place. “Yeah, well, if I waited for an invite, I’d never get to watch you play house.” He winks at me. “Nice cloak, by the way. I heard Little Red gave the Big Bad Wolf one hell of a chase.”
I choke on my coffee, and Killian’s glare could melt steel.
Damien pinches the bridge of his nose. “Jesus Christ, Ethan. Subtlety?”
“What?” Ethan shrugs innocently. “I’m just saying, he’s been broody for months, and now he’s smiling like a psycho at a petting zoo. I’m happy for him.”
Killian steps forward, fists clenched, but I grab his arm before he can start World War III in his kitchen. My palm tingles at how solid he is under my hand.
“So,” I say quickly, trying to steer the conversation back to sanity, “you’re… all soldiers?”
“Different flavors of stupid,” Damien says dryly. “Army, Navy, Marine. Somehow we survived each other.”
“And now,” Ethan adds with a grin, “you’ve got front row seats to the dysfunction.”
Killian’s arm tightens around my waist possessively. “She doesn’t need front row. She’s got me.”
Ethan raises a brow, clearly entertained. “God, you’re insufferable.”
“Better than dead,” Damien mutters, already heading toward the kitchen cabinets like he lives here. “You got any actual food, or just protein powder and ammo?”
“Actually, he has tons of food,” I chirp. “Help yourselves.”
I laugh at the glare Killian shoots me, but don’t feel afraid at all. I already feel like I belong here, in the middle of these men, making sure my grumpy one doesn’t kill his more easy-going friends. Though Damien seems… sad, maybe? Like something is missing in his life.
