Page 48 of Mercenary
“And I’m not a nice guy. I’ll take the floor.”
She’s silent for a moment. “You just don’t see yourself the way I see you.”
There she goes again. Trying to twist me into someone I’m not.
Use it. Earn her trust. Use . . . her.
“Right.” I move across to the bed, pull back the covers, then take the second pillow off the bed and toss it onto the floor.
I hear her sigh. She unzips her bag, takes out a red nightgown, and holds it up to shake out the wrinkles. It’s short, with a lace hem, a slight V neckline, and a tiny red flower that, when she puts it on, is going to fall snug between her breasts.
Blood rushes straight through my cock.
I clench my fist, resisting the urge to snatch the sheer material from her and rip the goddamn flower right off of it. I don’t have time for this nonsense. Either I fuck her and get it over with or jerk off in the shower, leaving her alone and more likely to trust me.
“You’re scowling. Did you want to use the bathroom first?”
Yeah, wanking off in the shower shouldn’t take too long. Not with the vivid idea of what she’ll look like in that poor excuse of a nightgown rolling around in my head. Unexpected, that. I’d have thought someone like her would favor comfortable cotton pajamas or some such shit. But lingerie? Sheer enough it won’t hide a thing. The memory of her hot body in that bikini was a sneak preview. Nothing like the naughty promise of a bit of peekaboo material to make a man’s cock rock hard.
“That for your boyfriend?” I ask before thinking.
Fucking rock-star move. This isn’t a conversation I want right now. Or . . . ever.
She glances at the nightgown and her cheeks flush a pretty shade of pink.
“I don’t have a boyfriend.”
I keep my trap shut about the punk on the beach.
“And you?” she asks.
“Me what?”
“I never considered . . . do you have a girlfriend?”
I laugh. It’s not a pretty sound.
“What’s so funny?”
Jesus. “Do I look like a guy who does the dating bullshit?”
She cocks her head and gives me a once-over. Bold as freaking brass. Weak like putty in her naïveté.
“Drop it. Go get changed.”
She doesn’t budge. “You’ve never had a girlfriend?”
I scowl at her, fiercely. A practiced look that makes my enemies cower like frightened lambs.
“I’m a biologist, not a psychologist, but it’s clear that whatever happened to you causes you to push people away. It’s a defense mechanism. Just like you’re trying to do now . . . with that glare of yours.” My girl’s no frightened lamb. No, my girl is out for the goddamn slaughter.
My girl. Fuck.
“You spend a lot of time by yourself, don’t you?”
Everyone’s got a breaking point. I learned that during my first TORC Hell Camp, when I was green and wet behind the ears. I’d brought a stray pup back to the Ranch, Hayden’s compound just outside of Shelby. Don’t know why I did it. Found the cocker spaniel–poodle mix wandering the street leading out of town. Picked him up, took him to the Ranch, fattened him up a bit. Before that bastard Hayden found out and took the pup off into the woods. To teach me a lesson: there’s no room in my life for love.
An easy lesson learned. That pup was the only thing I came close to loving.
