Page 13

“Okay, great,” I say a little too enthusiastically. “I mean, yeah, cool, totally cool.”

Smooth.

We walk down the hall and into the bedroom, which is just as sparsely decorated as the rest of the house. The bed is pretty big, though, so that’s a plus. Maybe I can build a pillow wall between us.

While Adrian disappears into the bathroom, I dig through the dresser, finding a pair of sweatpants and a white cotton shirt. I tuck my newfound clothes under my arm and wait for him to get out.

The door opens, and so does my mouth. My jaw drops, and I think my tongue might be hanging out. My eyes roam over Adrian’s well-defined bare chest, his broad shoulders, his muscular arms, and his six-pack abs. Intricate black tattoos decorate his torso and his arms. I didn’t realize he had any ink since his long-sleeved shirts had covered them. The designs are disrupted by the pale raised flesh of some brutal-looking scars stretching over his shoulder. I cringe thinking about how he must have gotten those. My gaze lowers to his black boxer briefs—the only thing he is currently wearing. I stare at the very visible outline of his package, and all I can think is Oh boy.

“Do you want to come closer to get a better look?” he teases, and my face feels like it just caught fire.

Clutching the clothes like they are a life raft, I scurry past Adrian and shut myself in the bathroom. I catch my reflection in the mirror, realizing my mouth is still hanging wide open.

“Oh God!” I cry out when I take in the rest of my appearance. My face is bright red, contrasting with my smeared black eyeliner. My hair looks ready for a couple of birds to nest in it, and my clothes look like I’ve slept in them for the past three days . . . while camping . . . without a tent.

Springing into action, I quickly do my business, get undressed, and redress in the stuff I found. Luckily there is a brush in the first drawer I open, which I use to tame my hair. Then I clean my face with a washrag and warm, soapy water. Surprisingly my lashes have stayed on through everything.

“What a waste of a good lash day. I’m definitely writing a five-star review on that glue. Title: ‘Kidnapped and Attempted Murder Approved.’ I bet that’s one they’ve never heard before,” I murmur as I pull off the strip lashes one by one. “Fuck!” I yelp when I accidentally pull out a few of my own lashes. “Okay, maybe four and a half stars.”

After one final glance in the mirror and two calming breaths, I exit the bathroom and walk into the bedroom cool and collected, acting like I didn’t check out his dick a few minutes ago. Adrian is already on the bed, the blanket covering most of his body now. Thank fuck.

I climb onto the mattress, sliding under the blanket while making sure I’m keeping enough space between us. Despite there being plenty of room, I feel odd sharing the bed with him, especially knowing he is wearing so very little.

Adrian reaches for the lamp on the nightstand, switching it off. The room descends into darkness, and I tug the blanket closer to my chest, where my heart is beating in an unnatural rhythm.

“You know, I was thinking maybe if we have some extra pillows, we could put them in between us, just in case,” I say into the dark space.

“In case of what?” he asks with a chuckle.

“In case you get any ideas,” I explain.

“Ideas?” he presses on. “As in?”

I clear my throat, mostly to buy some time. “Ahm, like sex stuff . . .”

Another deep chuckle makes the bed shake. “I hate to burst your bubble on pillow safety, but if I wanted to do ‘sex stuff’ with you, a feather-stuffed rectangle is not going to keep me from doing so.”

His words should probably concern me, but instead there is a tingly sensation between my legs. The same feeling I get when I read a really good sex scene. Ignoring that completely, I press my thighs together and close my eyes.

As I lie in the dark, exhaustion does finally catch up to me. My body is tired, but my mind won’t let me rest, not without knowing anything about the man lying next to me.

I don’t want to start out with a question, so I go with talking about myself first. “You might have gathered this already, but I’m a writer . . . a romance author, to be exact. Most people know me as Piper Pen. I write spicy books for a living. That’s actually what the porn was for. I watch it for research.”

“So no virus on your laptop?”

“No, that was a lie. I don’t even know why I lied. I just word-vomited the first thing that came to mind. I mean, I don’t usually lie. Really I prefer to tell the truth. Even as a kid, I could never lie to my parents.”

“You’re a good girl,” he states.

“Yes . . . but not in a vanilla way,” I clarify.

“You mentioned that.”

“How about you? What do you do for a living?” I ask innocently.

A few beats of silence pass before he answers. “I’m a private contractor.”

That could mean anything.