Claiming His Forever

Something drops in my belly and twists.

I’ve tried to force the packaged white bundles from my mind all morning, refusing to acknowledge them. Let them be Alexis’ or Tina’s problem. I don’t want anything to do with it.

“I didn’t take any,” I tell him. “I swear I didn’t.”

“No?” he says, eyes flashing as though he’s enjoying watching me squirm.

I want to squirm for him in other ways, writhing my body against his, my soaked sex grinding up and down his thigh. I image those large, powerful-looking hands gliding up my thighs and gripping my ass cheeks.

I imagine him doing it hard, squeezing until I let out a whimper that’s half fear and half maddening desire.

But no.

He’d never want that, not from me.

He’s tall and handsome and experienced.

And I’m … me.

“No, I didn’t take any of your drugs,” I snap, more fire in my voice than I intend.

I guess it’s partly fueled by the rage that surges up inside of me when I think about how impossible my hungry fantasies are. They swarm in me and multiply, a never-ending stream of them, cascading through me so that all I can think about is this man’s smirking lips pressing down on my sex, licking, tasting, teasing.

But that could never happen. He’d never want it to happen.

So yeah, maybe that pisses me off a little bit.

“Are we done here?” I go on, when he just stands there, smirking, seeming utterly at ease.

“No,” he says casually, “we are not even close to done, Kimberly.”

His words hang in there, hot and taut, and full of suggestion. I imagine him saying the same thing when he’s got me bent over, his hand smoothing over my ass cheeks, skirting close to my sex and then down my thighs.

I can feel the way my skin would tingle at the contact, up and down my calves, making my toes curl as he inches closer and closer to my wet, needy hole.

Oh, God, I’m wet right now.

There’s no way he can tell, is there?

“I swear I didn’t,” I say, staring up at him, trying to make my face as brave as possible.

His smirk never leaves his face. His eyes dance with even more light. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was enjoying the sight of my anger.

Maybe he is enjoying it.

Just not in the way I wish he would.

“Then why was the partition shredded to pieces?” he growls. “And why did you look so suspicious when you left the property, cradling that duffel bag?”

I laugh. It comes out suddenly, like a reflex. Worst of all, I make the goofy honking noise that people use to tease me about in high school. I really freaking hate it and I’ve mostly trained myself out of it now, but when somebody makes me laugh unexpectedly, sometimes the noise just comes out.

I cover my mouth instinctively, turning away slightly as if that will turn down the volume of the noise.

“Care to share the joke?” the silver-haired man says, his smirk still fixed to his lips.

“Care to share your name?” I shoot back, masking my shame with forced sass.

“Kristian Cameno,” he says. “And you’re Kimberly Grayson.”

“Kristian …”

I trail off, trying to work out where I recognize that name from.

Then it clicks into place.

“You own the new homes,” I say.

“That’s right,” he says. “And you still haven’t told me what’s so funny.”

I throw my hands up. “Listen, I didn’t take any of your stuff. The reason I looked so shifty when I was leaving the house is that I had my sister’s Chihuahua in the bag. My supervisor is a real witch and she’d freak if she knew I’d taken her to work. Sometimes she likes to swing by when we’re working just to check up on us—spy on us, basically. So if I looked suspicious, that’s why.”

“You wouldn’t lie to me, Kimberly, would you?” he says, his voice husky as he stalks forward.

I take instinctive steps back, aware that he’s crossing the threshold and entering the apartment. He has to duck his head under the door. And then he’s inside.

He reaches back and closes the door behind him.

I’m almost certain I can feel the heat radiating from his skin, so hot it’s a wonder his suit doesn’t erupt into flames. He walks forward until he’s standing inches from me. His cologne and his manly scent wash over me. My throat goes tight.

My heart hammers.

My sex gives a pulse and something deep inside of me lets out a scream of celebration, as though just standing this close to him is a victory in itself.

“I’m not lying,” I whimper, staring up into his eyes.

I should be scared, and yet my body is buzzing with want.

This is so wrong.

He’s clearly a drug dealer or at least involved in that life. He didn’t deny it when I called the bundles drugs.