“You were saying?” I ask him softly.
While it would be poetic justice to slice and dice the arsehole with his own knife, Abby’s beside me and that isn’t a memory of me I want her to have.
Plus, blood is a real bitch to wash out, and this is one of my favorite sweaters.
But, he can’t go without retribution. Life doesn’t work that way.
I don’t work that way.
“My girl here, she’s quick as a whip—brilliant actually. Do you want me to demonstrate?”
He’s not so snarly now.
“No.”
“Too fucking bad.”
Still holding the knife, I brace one hand against his shoulder joint in front and grip his bicep with the other. Then I push and pull up and back at the same time. And pop goes the weasel.
He screams, but I hold him still.
“What’s the diagnosis, sweetheart?” I ask Abby without taking my eyes off him.
“You . . . you just dislocated his shoulder,” she replies quietly.
“Right-o.” I smile, taunting the aspiring assailant. “Should we go again, for old time’s sake?”
“No,” he whimpers, “wait!”
Too late.
Another howl, and his other shoulder bites the dust. And he stands there, groaning, both useless arms dangling at his sides.
“Well, my job here is done.” I give him a small shove in the right direction. “The hospital’s that way. Make better choices.”
After I’m sure he’s gone, I toss the knife in the bin and wipe my hands off on the front of my trousers.
Then I chance a look at Abby.
And she’s not fearful anymore. Or disgusted, as some might be.
She’s turned on. Staring at me with a mixture of shocked awe and spiked desire.
Her green eyes are dark and round and her nipples are two hard, beckoning points beneath her dress and her soft pink lips are parted and panting in a way that goes straight to my dick.
Fucking Christ, I want her. And she’s right here, for me, for the taking.
“So . . . your place or mine?”
CHAPTER NINE
Tommy
THE WALK TO MY APARTMENT isn’t far, but it seems to take forever—the way the best Christmases always seemed to take too long to arrive when you’re a child.
And also because of Abby’s shoes.
They’re a work of hard-on art, but they aren’t made for high-speed walking—or walking at all. The urge to manhandle her, to just toss her over my shoulder and carry her like a caveman, is strong. Pure, primal adrenaline is pounding in my veins. Having the gorgeous girl you’ve been lusting after for ages tell you she wants you to put your cock inside her will do that to a man.
But I tamp it down and settle for holding Abby’s hand instead.
I unlock the door to my flat and lead her in, tossing my keys on the table near the door. I don’t turn on the lights—the silver sheen of moonlight coming through the windows gives just enough illumination to see and sets the mood I’m looking for—shadowed and secluded and shrouded enough to let loose.
Abby slips out of her coat and I hang it on the hook while she moves to the center of the room. “I like what you’ve done with the place.”
She’s being polite again—because except for the epically large-screen television, black recliner and sofa, and dark gray crocheted blanket, courtesy of my mum, folded across the back, I haven’t done much.
“Moved in?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says with a smile, “it’s obviously a bachelor pad, but it’s warm—laid back. It feels like you.”
I wander closer to her. “Do you want something to drink?”
Now I’m being polite too.
Abby shakes her head, her eyes drifting down to her shoes.
And she suddenly looks fragile to me—unsure and out of her depth. Because despite the fierceness I’ve glimpsed from her—her brilliance and ambition—I’m hit with the certainty that Abby doesn’t have a lot of experience with men. That a one-night stand or fucking without commitments is unchartered territory. That knowledge makes me feel privileged, honored—and ferociously protective.
“Are sure you want to do this, Abby? It’s all right if you change your mind. I can take you back to your friends at the pub.”
She lifts her chin, looking into my eyes. “I don’t want to change my mind.” Abby inhales a deep, slow breath—the kind that you take right before you dive straight into deep water. “I’m sure that I want this. That I want you.”
She puts her hand on my chest, her fingers pressing into the thick roped fabric of my sweater.
“Come on, Tommy. You can’t back out on me now.”
And there’s something about my name on her lips that captures me—holds on and doesn’t let go.
Because when it comes to women I’m used to doing the chasing. I like the chase and I’m good at it. And the pinnacle of the best seductive pursuits is that singular moment when you know in your bones that you’ve won . . . and all that you’ve been craving is right there at your fingertips.