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“You look beautiful, Foxglove.” He has both hands tucked loosely in his pockets, and my body purrs to life at the way my name sounds on his lips.
I thought I’d hate someone using my full name like that, but he makes it work, goddamn him.
“Thank you…I hope you realize you wear the hell out of a suit.” I wave my hands in an appreciative arc, my lips curving into a tiny, awfully nervous smile. “Mere mortals could only dream of making bespoke tailoring look so good.”
He’s a stone wall, but there’s a flex in his jaw that tells me Thorne Calliano is, in fact, not frozen solid—even though he seems immune to my compliment. Turning on his heel, he gestures with a dip of his chin for me to follow him. Lengthy strides carry him quickly to the curb, and I’m not sure how long it’s going to take this man to thaw this evening.
I guess he’s still in the ‘uncomfortable around strangers’ zone.
As I stuff my keys in my clutch, I look up and nearly forget how to walk.
“My security.” He offers no further explanation, as the sight waiting to greet us throws me completely off guard.
Flanking my handsome devil are two men in black shirts, dress slacks, and earpieces. These must surely be his henchmen. Or pussy slayers. Jesus, these three could all cut glass with their cheekbones and muscled jaws.
If this is what security looks like, sign me up for twenty-four-seven surveillance.
One of them has unruly-looking black hair, a boxer’s nose, and a deep tan. He’s also littered with tattoos crawling up from below his shirt collar, and my pussy squeals with delight at the sight of his ink. The other is a straight-up Viking descendant who chose to live on the beach, I’m sure of it. He looks like a Norse god and a mermaid had a baby, with long sun-bleached hair tied up in a bun and the kind of lean, muscled frame that yearns to be floating in the ocean.
Each of the men seem to be the same height as one another, except the broody, tattooed one is slightly bulkier than the other two. He’s stupidly cut, with a look about him that screams, ‘I scrap in the back alley for fun.’ Those muscles of his are displayed wonderfully by the way his black shirt is snug around his shoulders and chest. The other man is leaner but pure muscle. He looks like the kind of person who lifts weights like it’s his only job.
They’re so insanely good-looking, my knees give out a little as I try to gracefully move closer to the ink-black armored tank they’ve turned up in.
These men couldn’t travel in a normal vehicle? It’s big enough to seat seven and looks like it would survive a nuclear fallout.
“Well, if you aren’t just a stunning jewel.” Nordic surfer-boy takes my hand and stoops to kiss the back of it. His short beard lightly scratches me, while his mouth is plump and warm. There’s the tiniest hint of wetness as he brushes those lips over my skin.
I fight back a shudder of pleasure.
“I’m Kyron, over there is Raven.” His chin gestures in the direction of the tattooed man, who seems intent on ignoring the rest of us. “What’s your name, then?” Still holding my hand, his eyes drop to meet mine. They’re a mossy green with gold flecks, and for a moment, I wonder if Thorne minds that his excessively hot bodyguard is locking eyes with me while rubbing the pad of his thumb over the palm of my hand.
“I’m Fox,” I murmur. More than a little entranced.
“Pretty name for a pretty girl. You can call me Ky.”
Lord, he’s smooth. I’ll give him that. My guess is that this man only has to crook a finger, and bras spontaneously pop open everywhere he goes.
If Thorne has any thoughts about this interaction, he’s keeping them to himself.
“I’m surprised this old grump got you to agree to go with him this evening.” Another slow glide of his thumb sends my pulse racing. “Did he kidnap you? Force you into it?”
There’s a cheeky glint in his eye, and goddamnit, a dimple pops below his facial hair as he flicks his eyes across to Thorne, then back down to me.
I shake my head with a twist of my lips. “No, he was a complete gentleman.”
That very kissable-looking mouth twitches. “Blink twice if you need to be rescued.”
Oh, fuck me. He’s funny, too. I’m not equipped to be surrounded by such a buffet of man-sized delicacies.
Do not, under any circumstances, flirt with your date’s bodyguard.
Rolling my lips together to hide the laugh that threatens to bubble up, I gently extract my hand and use it to tuck a curl behind my ear.
“No force, no coercion. I’m here of my own free will.”
I’m still struck by the incandescent green of his eyes. Shit.
The other man on Thorne’s security detail—the living statue—moves now for the first time. He has a predatorial air about him. A big fuck off sign stamped across his forehead: Do not approach.
