The instant we step into the corridor, I release Rico’s hand. From the throbbing ache between my legs, you’d swear I wasn’t simply holding his hand. Just like last week, sparks of energy bounce between us, bristling the fine hairs on my nape and swelling my heart.
“What are you doing here, Rico?” I ask, incredulity heard in my tone.
He doesn’t respond. He just runs his eyes over my outfit, absorbing my knee-length floral skirt, fitted lemon-colored blouse, and modest white sandals. If I didn’t know he’d already seen me naked, I’d swear he was wondering what I’m trying to hide under my goody-two-shoes outfit. He wouldn’t be the first man to accuse me of ‘hiding my appeal with dowdy clothes.’
“Ah, Kitten, you’re every teenage boy’s naughty teacher fantasy.”
My pulse quickens when his heavy-hooded gaze connects with mine. His eyes are dark and dangerous, but innocent and beautiful at the same time. Don’t ask me how that's even possible as I wouldn’t be able to answer.
The throb between my legs intensifies when he mutters, “You look fuckable and sweet at the same time. Two complete contradictions.”
“I could say the same thing about you,” I reply before my brain has the chance to voice a protest.
A flash of excitement brightens his dark eyes and makes me hot and needy.
Striving to lead our conversation back into chartered waters, I say, “I meant the two contradictions part. Not that you lookfuckable.”
The excitement flaring in his eyes doesn’t waver. He knows as well as I do, there's no truth in my statement. He wouldn’t wield the type of confidence he has without having the reputation to back it up. He knows he’s so gorgeous, he merely needs to snap his fingers and women would flock to his feet. That’s why I find it somewhat surprising he’s standing in the hallway outside my classroom, looking at me in a way I’ve only ever dreamed of—like I'm his savior.
Talking through a lump in my throat, I ask again, “What are you doing here, Rico?”
I can feel the heat of his tense gaze studying my profile before he mutters, “I need you to come back to Vegas with me.”
Speaking through the shockwaves rocketing through my body, I protest, “What? No! I can’t…Why do you want me to come back?” I roll my eyes when the last sentence comes with too much neediness clinging to my words.
“You witnessed aneventlast weekend.” His eyes darken with every word he speaks. "In my industry, there are no witnesses."
I balk. “W-what d-do you mean there are no witnesses?”
I’m a stuttering idiot, but I can't help it. My heart was last seen somewhere in the region of my shoes, and even with my brain stuck in a lust-crazed haze, I felt the shift of air between us. It’s gone from steaming with yearning to roasting with danger.
My heavy breaths increase when he tilts in close to my side. Even frightened, I can’t deny my body’s signals; it's riveted by the man standing in front of me. In absolute awe.
My body’s desire to overrule my astute brain flies out the window when Rico explains, "You either come back with me to Vegas as my wife, or they kill you." His words are straightforward and direct, ensuring there's no way I can misinterpret what he's saying.
“They?” I squeak out, my voice as high as the hairs on my forearms.
“Myfamily,” he replies, the timbre of his tone lowering.
When he lifts his eyes to peer past my shoulder, I follow his gaze. Two men in matching black suits stand side-by-side filling the double fire doors at the end of the corridor. The width of their combined shoulders is enough to block the late morning sun beaming into the hall.
I swing my eyes back to Rico. “If they’re yourfamily, why can’t you call them off? Why can’t you—”
“I’ve already tried.” He glances at me with the same vivacity I saw in my flashback last week. “This is the only option I have left. If you're my wife, they won’t touch you. But if you refuse to come with me, my hands will be tied.”
My nose tingles as fresh tears prick into my eyes. Even if his eyes weren’t relaying the truth, I’ve watched enoughTrue Crime Americato know I should believe him. Witnesses are the most critical element in any case. Without them, there's no case. But I can’t just pack up and leave. I have commitments, a life…an ex-husband.
A thick cloud of despair hovers over my head. “We already signed the annulment papers. Your money was wired into my account first thing Monday morning. We’re no longer married.”
"The money was transferred, but the paperwork has not yet been filed.”
I take a step backward, flabbergasted. "Why didn't you file the paperwork?"
I try to keep excitement out of my voice. My attempts are borderline. My reaction can’t be helped. With his eagerness to have our annulment papers signed, I assumed he would have filed them the very next morning.
His dark eyes dance between mine before he mutters, “For the same reason you didn’t let yourfriendthrow you into the pool. If you were planning on having your tattoo removed, any concerns about it fading wouldn’t have been an issue.”
My heart beats triple time, equally shocked and excited. “You’ve been watching me?!”
