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Lola: Oh, God, Ben!
What the fuck?
For a split second, I sit there and wonder what to do.
Something must be wrong.
She’s in danger.
Someone is in her apartment.
My mind moves to the bruises.
The bruises.
My body starts moving, grabbing my phone and starting for the back door.
I don’t even tell Hattie where I’m going, slamming the back door behind me and running up the stairs two at a time. Panic is suffusing my system in a way I’ll have to look into deeper another time.
Right now, I have to go save my woman.
She doesn’t know it yet, but I’ve just decided she’s mine—in every way.
But first, she’s mine to protect.
“Lola!” I shout, pounding on the door. “Lola! Open up!” I hear shuffling through the thin, shitty door.
It’s now on my list to replace.
“Lola, open up or I’m breaking the door down!”
“Jesus, hold on! Leave my door alone!” I hear her shout, and a small drop of relief washes through me.
She doesn’t sound scared or traumatized.
Annoyed, yes. Which to be honest, I should be embarrassed how that kind of turns me on.
Fuck.
Before I can think too long on that, the door opens.
Lola is standing there.
Her light hair is pulled up on top of her head, a messy bun with whisps falling around like she’s been lying in bed, moving around with it.
Her shirt is askew, off the shoulder, and through the thin material I can see pebbled nipples.
And her shorts.
Loose sleep shorts that aren’t pulled up all the way, stuck on a hip, revealing an expanse of creamy pale skin.
Finally, her chest is moving rapidly.
She’s panting.
Trying to catch her breath.
Like she’s . . .
