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Ignoring the sickening shiver that careens down my spine, I climb onto the counter, filling the cups with water from the sink and dumping it onto the floor, like I’m dousing a fire. This is a long shot, but it might buy me time. And my options are limited. He’s twice my size and far stronger.
“Fuck,” I hiss, watching the flood slowly rise in terror, time whizzing by too fast.
He continues to spew threats and vivid pictures of what he’s going to do to me when he breaks the door down, but I block it all out.
All I see is the flood. All I hear is the streaming water. All I feel is the steam blanketing my battered body. I assess the cord length and plug in the hairdryer, perching on the countertop and visualizing the SS Thistlegorm.
Strength destroyed.
Peace in the sea among beautiful wreckage.
Fragility in the formidable.
Death to the indestructible.
The door handle rattles in warning. My time is up. This is my only play.
My final checkmate.
The door swings open with a bang, the resistance of the towel causing him to barrel through it with more force than necessary. A cloud of steam obscures the monster as he scrambles toward me, and life slows and blurs and melds into one crashing breath of a moment.
One thudding heartbeat.
One life-altering choice.
His feet fly out from under him, the scornful slur, “Bitch,” leaping from his lungs as I hold in the GFCI trip button, switch the blow-dryer on, and toss it into the flood.
Thump.
Spark.
Splash.
Sizzle.
I can’t see his face through the steam, but his body jumps like when they defibrillate someone on a medical show. Legs twitching in the water. But that’s it.
Except for the crackling storm outside, the cascading water still rushing to the floor, and the low sob pouring from the depths of my stomach.
He’s stopped. Still. Flattened. I need to get out of here. He said he has a team. What if they find me before my guys do? The most beloved up-and-coming politician in the country is probably dead.
Jesus, I … what the hell did I just do?
As if this nightmare can’t get any worse, I hear the suite door squeak open.
It hasn’t been an hour.
And Rex would’ve knocked. My team would’ve fucking knocked.
LIAM
After I left the restaurant, I climbed into my McLaren 765LT and tried to convince myself that I should drive home and meet Celeste there, like we had discussed. But I couldn’t do it. Leaving her in the booth—glowing and flushed and satiated—was hard enough. Leaving her at the hotel was impossible.
I’m not a patient man. Maybe that’s not true. I can be. My work often requires it. Wells certainly attempts to strengthen that muscle in all of us. But when it comes to her, everything feels urgent.Every touch crucial. Every whimper paramount. Every smile and laugh a dire longing to earn.
I crave her. Ache for her. Need those big brown eyes latched on to mine, or nothing feels right. A savage compulsion to claim her, to keep her leashed to me for all eternity, veils my entire thought process now.
Fighting it when she was tucked safely at home, out of sight from the lecherous intent of anyone with eyes—and a cock—was one thing. But tonight, the vision of her in that seductive cherry dress with another man sent me into a tailspin. Once I knew everything between us was mutual, there was no reason to fight it. I’ll handle whatever fallout ensues.
