I shake my head. “Uh, okay?”
He doesn’t move.
“So, uh, thanks. You can go now.”
A slow smirk spreads over his face as his jaw tightens. His eyes look right into mine, like my sunglasses aren’t even on. A warm shiver teases through me, and I shift, my thighs tightening.
“I don’t think you heard me,” he growls. “Let’s go. Now.”
I frown. “Go where?”
“Inside.”
My frown deepens. “Look, I don’t know who the fuck you are…” I shake my head, reaching for the pack of cigarettes on the low table next to me. I don’t even like the things, but my stress levels have been off the charts lately. A new album, trying to lock down more serious roles, the new denim line coming out. Very publicly breaking up with my douchebag of a boyfriend…
Yeah, all that and the threats I’ve been getting in the mail. My stalker.
I shiver, pushing that thought away as the gorgeous, rough, beast of a man looks down at me. I go to pull a cigarette out, but suddenly, he’s snatching them out of my hand. He crumples the box, glaring at me as he tosses it away.
“What the fuck?” My lips purse, my temper rising. Okay, hot and completely gorgeous or not, just what the hell is the mover doing coming over here and giving me attitude? I glance past him, at the moving truck in the driveway that he’s just unloaded — Sofa King Movers, it says on the side of it.
“I think you’re confused,” I hiss at him. “See, you’re the mover. You moved my shit into my new house. That’s your job.” My lips purse as I narrow my eyes at him through the sunglasses. “You’re the mover. Not the boss of me, moving man.”
And slowly, he smiles, like this is funny — a joke I’m not aware of.
“Actually, princess,” he growls, that voice rumbling through me as those eyes lock on mine. “I am.”
I blink. Wait, what?
“I’m your new bodyguard, at least until your security detail gets set up next week.”
My jaw drops, my pulse skipping.
“Uh, no you’re not.”
Yeah, no. No way is huge, hot, and demanding going to be my new shadow.
I snort a laugh, waving my hand dismissively as I look down into my magazine. “Yeah, sure, okay. Listen, if you’re done with the boxes, you can just leave.”
He’s silent, and when I finally glance back up, I almost gasp at the intensity in those eyes.
“I don’t think you heard me correctly. You’ve had threats, and here you are prancing around in a bikini in an open backyard without proper tree coverage. So, for the last time, princess,” he growls, the fierceness in his voice making me gasp and doing all sorts of wicked things to my core.
“Get your sweet ass inside until I can determine the security risks.”
Danny did mention bringing in outside help until my security team can get set up here at the new house. But I was expecting a boring Ken doll with an earpiece and a suit. I wasn’t expecting a cross between a giant and a biker in jeans and no shirt looming over me looking dangerous, wild, and like the god of sex.
I know this guy is right. There have been threats, and in all honesty, I probably should have someone out to plant some more trees or something before I go prancing around out here in a bikini. But, I didn’t make it to where I am today being a pushover. Also, I’m more than a little stubborn. Also, I’ve got this way of testing my limits.
Slowly, I shrug and bring my magazine back up.
“I’ll come in in a little bit.”
I swear I can hear him growl, and I swear, it triggers something dirty inside of me. I swallow, shivering as I force myself not to gasp and to just keep staring at my magazine.
“Now, princess.”
“I’m sorry, are you my security or my fucking baby-sitter?”
“Both.”
I smile sweetly at him, trying to ignore the way those eyes are setting something on fire inside of me.
“I don’t want a babysitter.”
“Then stop acting like a little brat. Let’s go.”
My jaw drops as I pull my sunglasses down my nose to stare at him. “Excuse me?”
“Princess,” he grumbles. His muscles ripple extremely distractingly as he raises one arm and shoves the fingers through his dark hair.
“In three seconds, you’re either walking that bratty little ass inside, or I’m carrying it in.”
I blink, staring at him. “You do know who I am, right?”
“One.” He shrugs. “I know who you are.”
“And do you know how much trouble you’d be in if you picked me—”
“Two.”
My pulse skips a beat, and I swallow thickly. I can feel my skin prickling under his gaze, the heat pooling between my thighs mortifyingly. It’s like the sheer size of him and the gruff, no-nonsense way he’s talking me is some sort of aphrodisiac, as wrong and as completely inappropriate as that is.