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I’m about to congratulate myself on getting out of that sticky—literally, I can still feel a little stickiness between my legs—situation, when Marcus’s jaw tightens and he turns abruptly with a curt, “I’ll be right back.”
He disappears into his ginormous walk-in closet and emerges a second later in a dark blue robe. Without so much as a look at me, he strides out of the bedroom, and I hear his footsteps in the hallway. They’re fast, almost angry.
Crap. Did I upset him somehow?
I hope he doesn’t think I’m trying to trap him with a baby, because that would be totally unfair. He’s the one who forgot to use a condom, not me. Unless it’s again whatever it was that got him upset earlier?
My cats destroying his place, maybe?
Increasingly worried, I find the fluffy pink robe I wore the last time I was here and throw it on, then tiptoe out of the bedroom to peer down the spiral staircase.
Marcus is downstairs, talking to Geoffrey. Their voices are pitched low, but I catch the words “pharmacy” and “pill” and blow out a relieved breath.
For a moment, I was afraid he might be telling Geoffrey to pack up my cats’ things and throw all four of us out on the street.
I turn to head back into the bedroom—and nearly trip over Mr. Puffs, who’s decided that stretching out on his side directly behind me is a great idea.
“Puffs!” I bend down to grab him, but the evil cat flips over with lightning speed and streaks away, fluffy tail raised high.
If this were my apartment, I’d catch him after a few minutes of determined chasing—there are only so many places to run in a tiny studio—but Marcus’s mansion-sized penthouse is a different matter, and the cat seems to know that. With a gloating look over his shoulder, he disappears into the library, and I decide against pursuing him there.
From what I recall, all the pricey first editions in Marcus’s collection are under glass, and in any case, my cats don’t usually mess with books.
I’d like to think it’s because I raised them to respect the written word, same as I do.
Sighing, I return to the bedroom and go into Marcus’s closet, where I’m unsurprised to see my jeans, sweaters, and blouses hanging neatly—and looking particularly cheap and ratty next to Marcus’s sleek Italian suits and perfectly pressed shirts.
Oh, well. Not all of us shop at Bergdorf Goodman, or wherever it is that billionaires get their stuff.
I’m flipping through the meager selection, trying to decide what to wear to work tomorrow, when Marcus appears in the doorway.
“Geoffrey’s gone to pick up the pill,” he says, leaning against the doorframe. His face is partially in shadow, making his expression hard to decipher, but his voice is even, the earlier abruptness gone.
Maybe he’s over whatever caused his funk?
“Okay, thanks,” I say and take a breath. “So, about tomorrow… I have to be at work by—”
“Wilson will take you.” He straightens and comes toward me. “And he’ll bring you back.”
“Oh, no, that’s okay. I’ll take the subway and—”
“I promised your grandparents.” He stops in front of me, his face set in uncompromising lines. “They want you safe and warm, and so do I.”
I stare up at him, fighting a warm sensation in my chest. I should be irritated by his autocratic manner, but I find his overbearing protectiveness oddly sweet. Still, I can’t just use his private driver willy-nilly. “Thank you, but—”
“No buts. Wilson is driving you, and that’s all there is to it.”
Okay, now I’m irritated. “Marcus—”
“And I don’t want you going back to your place tomorrow night.” His gaze burning into me, he captures my hands. “Stay here, kitten. Permanently. Starting with tonight.”
24
Marcus
Emma’s expression turns stormy, her small hands tensing in my hold, and I know I’ve gone too far. Even as the words were coming out of my mouth, I knew I was making a strategic mistake, but I couldn’t stop myself.
I need Emma locked down, tied to me, and I need it now.
The thought that she might get her cats and leave tomorrow, that she might walk away from me, even if only for one night, is exacerbating the seething cauldron in my chest. I feel like I’m on the verge of losing it and doing something totally insane—like handcuffing her to me and hopping on my plane to take her to some remote location. Say, an underground bunker in the Himalayas or an island in the middle of the Pacific. It doesn’t matter where, as long as it would be just the two of us and she wouldn’t be able to escape.
And yes, I know how fucked-up and criminal that sounds.
With the right person, she said, implying it’s not me. Up to that point, I’d been debating if I should tell her how I feel, risk the pain of rejection to find out if we’re on the same page. Yes, I’ve had to chase her pretty hard throughout our short relationship, but I could swear there’s a certain softness in the way she looks at me, a glimmer of the same addiction in the way she melts each time I touch her.
