I step onto the front steps, hands in my pockets, face neutral while my heart does whatever the hell it wants behind my ribs. My driver climbs out first, then circles the car to open the trunk and haul out Jessica’s suitcases.
This is it. The little menace is moving into my home.
My jaw locks and the muscle ticks.
This is what I agreed to. PR nightmare, my academy, my legacy.
Doesn’t make me want to kill anyone less.
“Good morning, Mr. Moreal,” my driver grunts as he takes down the last suitcase.
“Morning, Frank,” I say, stepping out to the luggage lined up in front of my house.
One big suitcase, one carry-on, and a ridiculous pink duffel with a sparkly keychain hanging from it.
The sight pisses me off.
My space. My quiet. My order. All about to be invaded by a girl who almost made me lose control in a club bathroom a few nights ago.
The memory of it is still under my skin like a splinter. Her lips were wet and parted and right there.
I’d wanted to kiss her. Not just fuck her, not just drag her into a dark corner and pull her panties aside. Actually kiss her. I rarely kiss. It’s too intimate. It’s for people who confuse chemistry with whatever the hell they call love.
And I had my mouth a breath away from hers like some teenager who can’t control himself.
I slam the trunk shut harder than necessary.
“What do you want me to grab first, Mr. Moreal?” Frank asks.
“I’ve got it,” I say, already reaching for the largest one. I don’t even think about letting him carry it. Something territorial and ugly moves through me at the idea of anyone else touching her things.
I loop my fingers around the handle and lift. It’s heavy. She probably packed nine pairs of heels and five lip glosses per outfit. I turn and come face-to-face with Jessica as she climbs out. My eyes sweep her and my heart kicks.
She’s in pink leggings and a matching sports jacket, a clean line of skin showing where the jacket falls away and the strap of a sports bra peeks out. Her hair is in a ponytail, and her infuriatingly beautiful face is bare except for the gloss on her lips.
Her eyes flick from the suitcase to me and widen fractionally. “Oh, I was going to get that.”
She steps toward me, small hand reaching for the handle, and tries to tug it out of my grip. Like that’s happening.
I tighten my hold. “I’ve got it.”
“I can carry my own luggage,” she says, fingers wrapping the handle again.
She pulls.
I don’t let go.
Her perfume hits me—the same one from the club. The same one stuck in my memory.
“I know,” I say, voice rough.
Her brows pinch. “Then let me.” She tugs again.
I lean in a fraction, enough that she has to tilt her head back to look up at me. Her eyes flick to my mouth for the smallest second. There it is again: that urge. Fast and vicious. To close the distance. To see what she tastes like.
I crush it.
“Just because you can doesn’t mean you have to.”
