Page 24 of Direct Action

I made the call to my insurance company, which confirmed I had roadside assistance and that a tow truck would be sent.

We dealt with the police and Mr. Jacknut, whose name turned out to be Ken—not Kenneth, just Ken, because of course it was.

We waited until the tow truck arrived, but it was Ryan who talked to the driver while I sat in his truck, watching my mangled prized possession get hooked up while also having a mild panic attack about how I was going to pay my deductible and still help my mom pay this month’s invoice for my dad’s care, not to mention how I was going to get to the Vault tomorrow night. Thankfully, I could walk to the Plank, but it was the walking home after dark that gave me pause. I was still in mid-freakout when Ryan drove us away from the scene of my latest drama.

“Chloe?”

I blinked. My knees, along with the hem of my jean skirt, came into focus, and I looked out the window.

I didn’t know where I was, but we sure as shit weren’t at the Plank. We were in the driveway of someone’s house.

“Where are we?”

“My house.”

His house. Thankfully my screech was in my head, or I would’ve been paying to replace his cracked windshield.

“I need to get to work,” I unnecessarily told him, since he was the boss and made the freaking schedule.

“First we’re talking.”

“This is kidnapping.”

“You got into my truck,” he reminded me.

“Yes, Ryan, I got into your truck so you could take me to work. Not abduct me and bring me to your house. What’s next? Are you going to cuff me in your red room of pain and torture me with your flogger?”

Sweet holy mother of my Lord and Savior, please tell me I didn’t say that out loud. Pretty please with whipped cream and cherries.

That prayer was in vain. Ryan’s lips twitched. “That was oddly specific.”

Someone please put me out of my misery.

“Take me—”

“Oh, I plan on taking you, Chloe, though my room’s beige, not red. But don’t worry, baby, by the end you’ll be seeing colors. Maybe even tasting them.”

The air in the cab charged. He had no idea I’d been harboring a fantasy-rich crush on him for a long time and just how cruel it was to plant new ones where he whispered dark-and-dirty sweet nothings in my ear.

Or maybe he did know. He’d alluded to something similar earlier.

On that embarrassing thought, with my panties wet and the need to flee before I did something regrettable—like throw myself at him—I demanded, “Take me to work.”

Thankfully, he switched back to his earlier claim. “We’re talking first.”

That wasn’t happening. If I entered that house, we’d be doing more than talking, and it would be me who instigated it.

“Ryan. Please. I’m begging you, just take me to work.”

“That’s asking nicely. Begging is something altogether different.”

Holy hell, the man was lethal. And I really double extra didn’t need to know his mental foreplay game was top notch.

“I need to get—”

“You’ve got two choices. You either walk in, or I carry you in.”

“You wouldn’t—”