Page 74 of Killaney Fire
He nods and puts the SUV into drive, and as we leave, I can feel it again.
That tension simmering between us.
Not just the kind that happens when you argue with someone who wants to throw himself between you and a bomb.
The kind that happens when you're not sure if the next time you touch them, you'll stop.
This isn't just protection anymore. It's way more fucking complicated than that.
And if I'm not careful, it's going to swallow me whole.
20
OCTAVIAN
Igrip the steering wheel hard as I drive in silence through Boston.
The rearview mirror gives me another perfect view of her. She's completely unaware that I've glanced at her more times than I care to admit.
It's been eleven times, I think. Of course I know.
I watch how the light hits her red hair, how it slips across her cheek when she tilts her head. She's scrolling, maybe texting, I don't know, but I'm watching her.
I adjust in my seat and force my eyes back to the road.
This is getting worse.
I stared too long at the café. The woman she met with definitely clocked it. I felt her watching me watch Keira.
I rub my forehead.
Gone are the days when I treated jobs like this as routine. Babysitting is what I used to call it. Easy money. Guard the richgirl, keep her from doing anything stupid, pocket the paycheck, and move on. Easy money and no complications.
But now, with this woman in my backseat, I'm noticing more than I should.
Like how she moves. How she talks with her hands when she's passionate. The way she bites her lip when she's unsure. How her voice drops when she's lying, not lying to others, but to herself. How her hands shake when she's scared but won't admit it.
And her damn scent, too.
I swear I've started to smell her even when she's not in the room. It's something soft, expensive, and completely fucking intoxicating. I've been ruined by it. I walked out of the gym the other day when she was there with a hard cock and nowhere to put it.
I'm losing myself in her, and I don't know how to stop.
The lines are blurring. I can't tell anymore if I'm protecting her because I'm paid to or because she's mine and I'd rather die than let someone else touch her.
I turn left onto her street and steal one more look in the mirror. Her legs are crossed, foot bouncing gently as she types something on her screen.
How the fuck can some woman in Boston manage to be so beautiful it makes a man reckless, while wielding a fire that would burn you alive, and you'd still want to be consumed by her?
I shake my head as I pull into the driveway and turn off the car.
She doesn't move right away. Just finishes whatever she's typing, then glances up and catches my eyes in the mirror.
For a second, neither of us looks away.
"Sorry," she says, clearing her throat and putting her phone away.
She opens the door herself before I can get around to help her, and I follow her inside, my gaze dropping too low.
