Damaged Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

So the only way I’ll find out what you keep locked up in that maniacal head is...?

Roland: You’ll have to come see for yourself.

I stare at the phone, my breath trembling, my heart racing hot.

Don’t wait up, I send.

Then I’m up like a shot before I overthink this more and end up talking myself out of something I want so damned much.

An hour later, I’m showered and prettied up in that black dress he chose for the gala. It still makes me feel more beautiful than I ever have in my life.

I don’t tease him with a picture. I want to see the fire dancing in his eyes when he sees me wearing it, not imagining his reaction to a quick selfie.

Hopefully, he’ll rip me right out of it like the overgrown panther he is.

What the hell.

You only live once.

I’m buzzing and weightless by the time I slip on my strappy heels, summon a ride, and head out.

Dad’s still asleep when I pass through the living room. I stop to kiss his brow, whisper “Good night,” and slip into the darkness.

I’m not so familiar with Chicago that I can pick out Roland’s neighborhood by the address on the card, so I’m surprised at how long the drive is from Dad’s place.

It’s also nothing compared to my shock when we’re beyond city limits, coasting down a long curving road that hugs Lake Michigan.

My Uber stops in front of a gorgeous waterfront house with its own pier stretching out into the night-dark waves.

Floored is an understatement.

It’s all wood and glass and crafted style, a secret American castle that just screams Roland Osprey.

“Are you sure this is the right address?” I ask the driver, just to be safe.

“Looks right. Maps is sure, anyway, and I double-checked it in two other apps,” he answers with a bit of humor. “You getting out or you want me to turn around?”

“I...I’m getting out.” I swallow.

It still takes me a minute to steel myself, my eyes wide as I step into the evening.

Goosebumps tickle my shoulder from the lake breeze.

The car pulls away, leaving me alone with my jitters, staring up at the warm golden light shining through the tall glassy front.

My eyes stop on one window, where I can make out a graceful masculine figure drifting through the deep, rich wood tones.

I don’t know if he heard my car pulling away, or if he feels me the same way I feel him, this raw pull stretching across the distance between us.

But that silhouette stops in front of the window, one hand rising to press against the glass.

God. Could I feel like I’m a bigger gothic story?

I don’t remember making my way across white stepping-stones set in a bed of crushed seashells.

I don’t remember climbing the charmingly weathered wooden steps.

I don’t remember knocking on his door.

One second I’m on the curb, my eyes locked on the sex-on-a-stick figure he makes, longing and sweet anticipation rising up with volcanic force.

The next, he’s throwing the door wide open, looking down at me with his eyes fierce and wild and so hot. They nearly ignite my dress as they rake me from head to toe.

I try a smile, but it’s shaky.

I feel singed, smoking.

“I thought I told you not to wait up,” I whisper.

“And I thought you’d figured out by now that I never do as I’m told,” he growls, grabbing my wrist and pulling me inside.

I collapse against his chest as his arms wind around me.

With a single embrace, he tears away every last ounce of good sense.

There’s nothing left when his mouth attacks mine. It’s a kiss that reaches down inside me, grabbing my heart and squeezing until it stops.

Mercy.

It’s like kissing a wildfire and hopelessly trying to contain the blaze.

Roland Osprey is straight-up insatiable, claiming my mouth with a vigor that makes me get what it’s like to be prey. Only, tonight this mouse enjoys being caught.

I clutch at his tight-fitting t-shirt, my fingers numb, my knees blasted weak, my body melting away as his kiss spears deep.

Even the way he snarls his lust into my mouth sweeps me away.

Oh, God.

Each slashing stroke ignites every dark secret I’ve denied since the first time his eyes tore me open and consumed me with desire.

We practically fall into the house together, Roland kicking the door shut.

He has me up against the wall a split second later.

Weathered wood bites my back. His hands skim down my body, delightfully rough, not at all soft like you’d expect from a man who spends his days in the office.

They capture my wrists and pin them over my head, intense but gentle.

His fingers stroke the undersides of my wrists, then move upward, palm to palm, his fingers lacing me together, trapping me as he sears my mouth with more hypnotic kisses.

His lips are so fraught and single-minded it thrills me.