Page 90 of Exposed

I sit back in my seat and lean against the door. It’s not like I can escape. This is his house, and I’ve never been here before.

“Do you know how many confidential informants I’ve had sex with?” he growls.

My jaw goes slack at the audacity of his question, all while a shot of panic cracks my heart. “Excuse me?”

“Answer me,” he demands, reminding me more of the man he was the first day we met—gruff, grumpy, and short with his words.

Not at all like the King who made me coffee and eggs and throat punched a man who tried to touch me.

And absolutely nothing like the man I’ve had a good deal of sex with in the last twenty-four-hours.

I’m afraid of the answer.

“Goldie.” His anger is palpable in the small space.

“I don’t know!” I exclaim. “The thought never crossed my mind, but now I’m afraid to know the answer. Is it a lot?”

“Fuck no!” His answer booms through the car. “The answer is not-fucking-one. At least not before yesterday.”

I exhale and don’t care that he’s angry. “Oh. Well, I can’t lie. That’s a relief.”

He drags a hand down his face and turns to stare out the windshield to the messy garage. A lawn mower sits next to a shelfstacked with odds and ends that are not at all organized. A half-used roll of paper towels even hangs unrolled from the top shelf. I think it’s sitting next to a bottle of ibuprofen.

Ibuprofen in the garage.

Interesting.

“And people want to know why I’m still single at the age of forty-three,” he grits, staring at the same mess I am.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

He doesn’t look at me. “It means women are fucking frustrating.”

I poke him in the arm. “Just for your information, men are pretty stinking frustrating too. If I weren’t locked in the garage of a house I’m not familiar with or have a sleazeball like Rand stalking me, I’d leave.”

He pulls in a deep breath before looking over at me and mutters, “There’s something about you.”

My stomach does a flip-flop, and I don’t think it has anything to do with all the caffeine I’ve had today, even though my nerves are shot. “Why does it seem like you’re talking to yourself?”

“Because I am. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me. And it’s not the sex.”

“The sex?” I bite. I thought the sex was amazing, but it’s been a long time for me. Maybe any sex would be amazing for me, but apparently not for him. “What was wrong with the sex?”

He shakes his head. “I guess when it comes to you, the sex is just a bonus, which I can’t believe I’m saying. I was fucked before the sex.”

My face warms, and I don’t care who’s after me. I’m not sticking around for more of this.

This is mortifying.

“I’m out of here. Goodbye, Kingston Jennings. You are a stressful rollercoaster, and I want off.” I reach for my door. “I should’ve left Florida when I had the chance. I’ll call an Uber.”

The car lights flip on when I open the door, but that’s as far as I make it. His hand catches my arm and stops my escape. I’m no sooner flipped around when he claims my face with his other hand and pulls me to him.

There’s no point in me hanging on. King has me locked in his grip and with his lips. This kiss reminds me of our first at The Pink.

But we’re not strangers any longer.

The drama.

---