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Enjoying the privacy of my alone time, I get lost in the novel. Totally captivated by the fire and passion in the words. So much so, the pounding on the main door makes me jump and gasp as I clutch my hand to the heart currently beating out of my chest.
Tossing the book, I stand, running my hand down my clammy, hot neck. I can’t deny what I’d just read had turned me on. Flustered and discombobulated, I quickly try to regroup and adjust the tank top that's slid up my abdomen. The startling sound of a fist pummeling through wood continues as I make my way towards the door.
I think about looking through the peephole like the asshole suggested, then decide against it. Why not welcome a random stranger into my bedroom? Maybe it'll be one of the brothers from the Mountain. You only live once, right?
I open the door and am met with rage personified.
There he stands, leaning forward, all six-foot-four of him, bracing himself with his palms on the door frame. The bulging muscles of his biceps flex above me as the sharp edge of his jaw twitches. His head is dipped down, but those gun-metal eyes are glaring up at me with the heat of a raging volcano, bound to burst and melt every living thing in its path.
“Office is closed. Come back during business hours,” I say, pushing to shut the door in his chiseled, perfect, stupid face.
He sticks his foot in the door.
I sigh, rolling my eyes. Does he not realize how dangerous this is for his health? He’s one smart-ass comment away from getting his dick punched.
“You left.” The ache in his tone hits that part inside of me that I deny.
I fake a surprised face, placing my palm on my chest. “He's agile and perceptive? Oh, my.”
He shakes his head once, seemingly taking the hit, never taking his eyes off mine.
“You need to go,” I say, looking down at his Nike lodged in the door.
I peer up, raising my brows, but he just stands there, staring.
“Why did you leave, Dylan?” he asks sternly.
“That can’t be a serious question.” I laugh lightly.
He doesn’t move or say anything.
I give him my best scowl, running my hand through my damp hair. His stone-cold eyes finally leave mine and run the length of my body. His expression changes from rage to whatever more rage looks like. Nostrils flare, and his breathing intensifies. He's like a wild animal, out of control and restless, with his focus hard on me. If he had multiple personality disorder, I'd say I'm finally meeting his other identity.
Football Lake.
I'd call him Flake.
Like a snowflake. Only he’s not soft or fluffy like the beautiful side of snow. No, he’s all the things wrong with it. Cold, miserable, causes painful prickling sensations on contact, resulting in loss of limbs.
He looks ready to break something, or someone.
I cross my arm over my chest to hold my opposing shoulder, realizing I'm only in my pajamas. I feel those things I don't want to feel again. My skin awakens, and even the sensation of my own hand upon my shoulder feels like too much. Goosebumps spring up and sizzle beneath his enraged gaze.
“I left because you're an asshole.” My voice comes out a breathy whisper, and I hate that I didn't clear my throat before uttering the words.
I sound weak.
His chest continues heaving as he repeats, “An asshole.”
He nods, pursing his lips, peering at my nighty shorts that expose entirely too much of my thighs.
I don't know what he wants from me right now. He's not saying anything, just standing there, almost unsure of the reasons he was even brought to my door.
“Open the door, Dylan,” he demands, his eyes now fixed on mine.
I shake my head. “No.”
“We need to talk.”
