Page 51

But he didn’t get off me. He plucked something from the fridge door, shut it, then lowered his head until his cheek was pressed against mine. “You smell like me and it’s making it really hard to think right now, Whitney. All I want to do is take you back upstairs, lay you out, and taste every last inch of you that’s covered in my scent. I can’t stop thinking about how beautiful you’d look, spread open for me. So don’t tell me to get off you.” His voice was low, quiet, and deep, sliding under my skin and constricting my lungs until I couldn’t breathe. “Tell me to give you what you need. Whatever you want, it’s yours.”

His lips against my cheek were soft and warm. Then, satisfied he’d stripped me to my core, he straightened, turned, and began loading up my plate with food as if he hadn’t just rewired my brain.

I was beginning to learn that with just a few words and a slight touch, Court could utterly decimate me—and that made him the most dangerous person in my life. I didn’t know how to protect myself against someone like him, but I needed to learn fast.

I took a deep breath, promising myself I’d do better. And like I always did, I directed my anger and frustration outward. “Fucking prick,” I whispered.

Court paused. “What was that?”

“I asked if you had any chopsticks.”

“Mhm. It’s interesting, your word count never seems to add up.” There was amusement in that deep voice of his. “And no, we don’t. But even if we did, I’m not sure I’d trust you with them. You’d probably shove one in my eye.”

I ignored him and grabbed the creamer he’d set on the counter, pouring some into my coffee. I had to remind myself that I barely knew him. After this job was done, I was getting out of here. Soon enough, Court—and the rest of these guys—would be nothing more than a distant memory.

My chest felt tight all of a sudden.

After I put the creamer back in the fridge, Court handed me a plate piled precariously high with what looked like ten pounds of food.

My mouth dropped open, and I pointed to the plate. “Is that for you or me?”

“It’s for you.”

“You’ve seen me, right?” I gestured to myself, and regretted it when he took that as an opportunity to do a slow perusal of my entire body.

“Not as much of you as I’d like,” he said slowly, his eyes finding mine and burning right through me.

I snatched the plate from him and almost dropped it. I wasn’t prepared for how heavy it was, but managed to not let it fall. “Christ, Court, I can’t eat all that.”

“Try.”

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

Bossy bastard.

I glared at Court and walked to the table. The only empty seat was between Vincent and Brooks, so I took it. Cade eyed me from across the table. I ignored him. He obviously didn’t like me or the fact that I was here, and that wasn’t going to change, so it was pointless engaging with him.

Suddenly a hand was on my shoulder, and then Court was laying a stack of papers down beside my plate.

I looked up at him over my shoulder. “What’s this?”

“That’s your study material.”

Study material?

I tentatively lifted the corners of the pages, flipping through them. Some had sticky notes on them with scribbled notes. I paused on one.

This is the blueprint of the bunker Brooks created - make sure you memorize every inch of it.

His handwriting was as neat as he was. Crisp, clean letters in confident strokes. I kept flipping, stopping on every note. There were a lot of them. Had he written all these for me? He’d gone to so much effort just for me?

When I looked up at him again, he was standing with his arms crossed over his chest, head cocked as he studied me. “I want you to be fully prepared for what we’re doing. What you’ve agreed to. You need to memorize all of that.”

I lifted my brow at him. Did he think he was going to keep me busy with homework? He had no idea that it wouldn’t take me very long to commit all of it to memory.

He pressed a finger into the stack. “The last fifty pages are something you can look at if you ever doubt why we’re doing this. You don’t have to look if you don’t want to, but in those pages are detailed accounts of his business ventures and everything he’s ever done. Every woman he’s ever hurt. It’s proof, if you need it.”

“Right,” I said, not really knowing how else to respond. How many fucking women had he hurt? What kind of man were we going up against?