Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
That’s exactly what’s happening now.
I should look away. Step back. Do something besides stand here like I’m waiting for him to pounce…
But I don’t.
He reaches my table in seconds, and I forget how to breathe.
“Get up,” he growls.
My heart hammers. My palms are sweaty. I hate that he has this effect on me. I feel just like I’m in school again—everyone staring, nowhere to go, nothing to say.
“I said get up,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. “This is not a request.”
Fight-or-flight kicks in, but I’m frozen to my seat.
“Excuse me?” I manage, though my voice comes out smaller and squeakier than I’d like. “I’m not a—”
His huge, calloused hand, scarred with tattoos on the knuckles like messages, wraps around my upper arm. Not rough, but firm enough that I know he’s not asking twice.
“You and I will have a talk about my expectations, Erin.”
His eyes drop to my arm, and something dangerous flashes across his face.
“My god,” he says, his voice rising with barely contained fury. “You had the fuckin’ nerve to wear that in here?”
“Of course I did. I’m not with anyone.”
The waitress’s eyes are wide as saucers.
“Mr. McCarthy, she just sat here having a drink—”
“Be quiet,” he snaps without looking at her. “Say one more word and you’ll be turning in your fuckin’ badge.”
She runs away.
“Cavin, you can’t—”
“You too,” he growls at me, his eyes never leaving mine. “Erin. Up.”
Heat floods my face—part anger, part something else I don’t want to name.
“You cannot just walk over here and—”
“I absolutely fuckin’ can.” He leans down so his face is inches from mine. His voice drops lower, meant only for me. “Do you want to have this conversation here? In front of everyone? Or do you want to walk out of here with a shred of dignity intact?”
My mouth opens and closes like a fish drowning in air.
He straightens, his hand still on my arm. His second hand slides over my other arm, and he lifts me to my feet like I weigh nothing.
I think back to that night at his house—forgetting how much bigger he is than I am. How easily he can manhandle me. How utterly powerless I am against his strength.
Is this what it’s going to be? Is this how he’s going to treat me?
“Cavin, I—” I try to pull back, but it’s useless.
“Don’t test me right now, Erin. I’m not in the damn mood.” His jaw flexes, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. “You have no idea what you walked into. No fuckin’ clue. So you’re going to walk with me, and you’re going to go into one of those private rooms where we can have a talk. Understood?”
“Is that what we’re going to do? Talk?” My voice shakes. “Because it doesn’t seem like people go to those rooms to talk.”
My cheeks burn because it seems as if the entire club is looking at me now. Watching. Waiting.
I want to slap him. I want to scream.
But more than that, I need to get out of this spotlight. I need him to stop dragging me around like I’m his property.
“Fine,” I hiss, yanking my arms free. “But you don’t own me.”
His laugh is dark… humorless and cold.
“That’s something we’ll discuss in private.”
I look toward the dance floor, searching for Bridget. She’s there, somehow miraculously oblivious to my confrontation with Cavin McCarthy, grinding against the masked man as if the world isn’t watching me fall apart.
Cavin’s hand moves to the small of my back—proprietary, possessive, burning through the thin fabric of my dress.
I remember the way he punished me, and heat coils low in my belly.
And for one crazy, stupid moment, I wish this were real. That he was mine and I was his, and he wasn’t leading me away to lecture me or punish me or remind me that I’m just a fucked-up political arrangement.
That maybe, maybe, the proprietary, possessive part of him wanted to protect me. That he did it because he… cared.
Whispers follow in our wake like ghosts.
The second we’re in the cool dimness of the hallway, I whirl on him.
“What the hell do you think you’re—”
He cuts me off by caging me against the brick wall, his hands planted on either side of my head, a move that’s laughably easy for him. He’s not touching me, but he’s close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him—can smell the whiskey and smoke and danger clinging to his skin.
“What were you thinking?” His voice is lethal and controlled, a barely restrained snarl. “Coming here. To my club.”
“Your club? It’s not—”
“It’s not public, Erin.” He snaps the words like a whip. “It’s mine. And you don’t belong here.”
“I can go wherever I fuckin’ want—”
“Not anymore, you can’t. Jesus,” he growls, his teeth grinding together. “I had half a mind to call off the wedding for this shite.”