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In fact, my cock is convinced we should be naked and is doing its best to burst out of my suddenly-too-tight jeans.
I should’ve probably waited for her at her apartment, where we could’ve been alone for this meeting, but I was too impatient. After a month of bureaucratic bullshit, I finally got the all-clear from the US government, along with my new identity and citizenship papers, and I hopped on the plane right away—only to learn that instead of coming home, Sara decided to go out.
With two men who habitually drool over her, no less.
I take a deep breath and remind myself that integration is the name of the game. This is what I’ve been working for all these months, the reason why I agreed to let fucking Henderson live—a promise that still fills my throat with bile. It would be stupid to blow it all just because Sara is gazing up at me with those hazel doe eyes, looking so heartbreakingly beautiful that I want to wrap her in a potato sack and carry her off to my lair—after first ripping the balls off every man who so much as dares to glance her way.
“I got a chance to come home early,” I tell her, and despite my best efforts, my voice is far too husky for a public venue. “In fact, I quit my job.”
“You… what?” Her eyes grow huge. “How can you—”
“It’s a long story, ptichka.” I fight the urge to reach over and gather her against me. “Let’s go home, and I’ll explain.”
The redhead—Rory—clears his throat. “Are you two… together?” Both he and Phil are staring at me incredulously—and more than a little enviously.
The fuckers are beyond lucky I’m law-abiding these days.
“Yes,” I tell them, and something in my tone makes them blanch regardless. “We are.” I turn to Sara. “Ready to go home, my love? We have a lot to discuss.”
And firmly clasping her delicate hand, I lead her outside, leaving her stunned bandmates in the bar.
42
Sara
I feel like I’m in a dream. Or maybe a nightmare—I can’t decide. Peter and I are walking on a crowded street together… without the slightest hint of subterfuge on his part. He’s somehow even bigger than I remember, his broad shoulders straining the seams of his soft-looking black T-shirt and his powerful legs flexing in the tight confines of his well-worn jeans. His dark hair is longer than before, waving slightly in the warm evening breeze, and my fingers itch to bury themselves in that soft, thick mass, to clutch fistfuls of it as he goes down on me, his skilled tongue driving me to completion.
A lightning-hot tingle zings through me at the thought, intensifying the burn under my skin. My heart is pounding so violently it might burst, and I’m no longer cold. No longer frozen inside. My body came to life from the moment he spoke, and it’s been humming with need ever since… even as I drown in confusion.
“Are you kidnapping me?” My voice is thin and much too high, but I’m having trouble processing this… whatever this is. How can he just show up out of the blue, after more than nine months, and introduce himself to my friends like some long-lost boyfriend? Out of all the ways I imagined my second abduction, this scenario—where he’d just walk into a bar and lead me out by the hand—never even blipped on my radar. I was ready for a needle in my neck, or a hood over my head—or at least a rough wake-up in the middle of the night. Not a casual stroll down North Broadway in Uptown Chicago. How can he be out in the open like this? He used a different name at the bar, but his face is unchanged. Where are the Feds? After all the months of watching my every move, they just suddenly—
“I’m not kidnapping you. I’m taking you home.” His hand tightens on mine, engulfing it with its heat… just like I feel his will wrapping around me, strong and unbending, as inescapable as a force of nature.
I shake my head in a futile attempt to clear it. “Home?” Does he mean Japan? Because if so, I need to tell him that—
“Your apartment.” His metallic eyes gleam as he captures my gaze. “For now, at least, since you have all your things there. Later, we can move back to the house if you want—or get a new one closer to your work.”
I feel like I’m either drunk or stoned out of my mind. Was there something in the beer I just had? “What are you talking about?”
He stops walking, and I realize we’re next to my car. Releasing my hand, he frames my cheek with his big, rough palm and says tenderly, “Us, my love. I’m talking about us.”
