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She opened her purse, which she had been holding onto for dear life, and retrieved her phone.
The Hunter kidnapped me. Going home with him today instead of tomorrow.
She added an emoji with electrified hair to say she wasn’t okay.
Marcy replied immediately.
What? You got this. Think IMT only and not...
She added a rooster and a horse emoji.
Kensley frowned for a second at her friend's reply, then threw the phone onto her lap as she deciphered the meaning.
She hadn’t wanted to acknowledge it, but when Hunter had pressed his body against her, he had branded every part of her where his cock had touched. She thought if she boxed those thoughts, sealed them, and burned them, she would forget about them. But her body still glowed, and she still felt the imprint of his colossal hardness on her.
At the same time, her gaze flew to his big, muscular hands, draped with thick veins, as they lay lazily on the wheel of his black sports car. Before she could stop herself, she wondered what his hand would look like wrapped around his cock. What her hand would look like—
She spun her head so fast to look straight ahead of her that he may have heard her neck creak.
“What?” he asked, glancing her way. She should not be thinking about him that way, equestrian-like or not. Never.
She had to get a grip. She was the original IMT. Marcy had reminded her. She just needed to activate a stronger level of Ice-Maiden Terror, and she would be okay. Men didn't chase her. She chased them away.
Hunter McLeod was not an exception to the rule. He just happened to have caught her by surprise with his darkly erotic touch and his lips and his hands, but that was now done and dusted. A practice run, which was what Marcy had wanted her to have.
Mutely, she shook her head, saying nothing was wrong but she was too slow to stop him from picking up her phone from her lap. He ran those gorgeous eyes down the screen, then grinned.
“What's IMT?”
“That is none of your business, as is my phone.” She snapped and grabbed her phone from him.
“Everything about you is my business, Kensley.”
“No, thank you,” she said when a wittier comeback failed her.
“Were you stalking me? Is that how you found me?”
“Yes.”
“There's a name for people like you, and it starts with the letter “p.”
They drove in silence the rest of the way to his house, and all the while she tried to straighten out her thoughts by keeping her eyes on her goal. Save her grandparents' apartment and keep her virginity.
His house was as big as a glass mountain; the architecture was ultra-modern but at the same time also alluded to a kind of rugged appeal that made butterflies sing in her tummy.
That was new.
He pulled into the garage, which was already lined with more cars than a luxury dealer had in its showroom.
Her heart started to pick up its pace again when he came to the passenger side and opened the door for her. She supposed she could be obstinate and refuse to move, but that would be futile knowing who he was now, so she stepped out.
With his hand on her lower back, distracting the very nature of her psyche, he guided her into his house. Immediately she was swallowed up in a pool of splendor, not in the least diminished by the sheer masculine minimalistic design of his home.
Pfft. So, his house matched his bank balance. No surprise.
“You live alone?”
“Why do you ask?” He walked her through an extravagant foyer and into what she deduced was his study, which was enveloped in dark leather and heavy furniture and different from the sleek decor of the rest of the home, or rather from what she glimpsed before.
