The Seduction

“You’re the only one in that bar who reeks of money. Even in that waitress outfit, it’s obvious you have class.”

I find myself oddly flattered. I hear my parents telling me that I’m too stupid because I trust too easily. And this guy’s proven he’s dangerous. But he was dangerous on my behalf…

Still. I shore up my defenses.

“Come on. Get your sweet ass into my truck,” he says. Another order. “I’ll take you somewhere safe.”

With no choice, I nod. “Fine. I’m safe in my dorm room.” Except I remember my roommate won’t open the door and let me in. I also don’t want Hot Guy to know where I live. Safety first, after all. I mentally roll my eyes considering I’m already in over my head.

I chew on my lower lip. “You can just drop me off outside my friend’s place,” I say, changing my mind.

He lets out a frustrated groan. “We can debate this on the road. But I’m not just dropping you anywhere. I’ll make sure you get inside safely.” He prods me toward the other side of the lot, settling his hand on my lower back.

Forget zaps. Laser points of heat settle between my thighs. I really thought I was past responding to any man. But Hot Guy isn’t just any man.

“Before I get into that truck with you, I need to know your name.”

He shot me an exasperated look. “Zach.”

“Do you have a last name, Zach?” I annoy him with my question. It might have been on purpose, but I really do need his name. Of course, since I can’t tell anyone else his name, I might be taking it to my grave. But I don’t think so.

Yes, I am going with the instincts that made me a porn star.

“Anders,” he grits out. Then, before I know what’s happening, he lifts me up and carries me the rest of the way to his truck.

“Hey!” I slam my fists against his back, but he’s strong, and it doesn’t faze him.

“I’ll beat a man up for you, but I’m not going to prison because you want to talk my ear off.” He leans over, pulls the seat belt, and snaps it in place.

He smells delicious, like musky, sexy man, and I do my best not to sigh in approval.

He puts the key in and turns the ignition. The truck roars to life, and he starts out of the parking lot. I immediately give him the address to Robin’s apartment. Then I take out my phone and dial.

“What are you doing?”

“Calling 911.”

He slaps a hand to his head, grumbling something I miss. I anonymously report the beaten-up man in the parking lot and disconnect the call.

“Feel better?” he asks.

“Yes. At least he’ll get medical help.” I glance out the window, too aware of the man’s large presence in the front cab of the truck.

“She’d have to be an angel,” he mutters. He grips the wheel harder, winces, and eases up.

“Does it hurt?” I ask softly, knowing his hands must be sore. He defended me, and I haven’t thanked him.

“I can handle it.”

I want to help. “Do you happen to have a first-aid kit in here?” I open the glove compartment and am surprised when I find one. I pull out some antibiotic cream and gauze.

He ignores me.

A few minutes later, he pulls up to Robin’s address and parks the truck. I know he intends to walk me to the door, so I reach for him first. “Let me see.”

His hand is so much bigger than mine, long fingers, calloused from work, and he’s warm to the touch. I turn his palm down and run my hand over his bruised knuckles.

He sucks in a breath. Shudders as if he’s affected by the contact. And suddenly I’m hot too.