Page 10 of Throttle

“Ow,” I hiss.

“If you touch it, it’s gonna hurt,” Throttle scolds.

“Thanks, Dad,” I snarl back, but he only grins.

“No problem, sweetheart. Bathroom’s over there. Go shower.”

My eyes follow the direction of his hiked thumb. “What?”

“You’ve had a helluva fucking night and I’m sure you’ve been rolling in mud and dirt and shit. I’m not about to sleep next to someone smelling like outside. Plus, I just changed the sheets.”

I momentarily gape at him with wide eyes before finding my tongue. “I’m not sleeping with you.”

He shrugs, the gesture so casual it’s irritating. “Then I guess you’re sleeping on the floor, Princess.”

A nightmare. I’m having a nightmare and, any minute now, I’ll wake up and this will all be over. That’s the only explanation for everything that’s happened in the last eighteen hours. I just need to wake up and all of this will go away, including the gorgeous asshole standing in front of me.

“Wake up, Sienna. Wake up.”

“You talk to yourself often? Exactly how hard did you hit your head?” Throttle cranes his neck to the right as he narrows his gaze at me.

So, it’s not a dream and this is in fact my fucked-up reality. I’m a helpless woman who’s been threatened by her murdering creep of a client. A dangerous man who sent his homicidal goons to do his dirty work by attacking me in my own home. Yet, by the grace of God, I narrowly escape death, only to find myself hidden inside the city’s most formidable motorcycle club. Then, the president of that same club has the bright idea of assigning the most audacious, rudest biker he can find to be my bodyguard for the foreseeable future, even if said biker is sexy as hell.

I just need this day to be over. I don’t think I can take much more.

I drop my chin to my chest as I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You can’t be serious right now.”

“As a heart attack, honey.” Throttle looks me up and down, the sympathy previously evident in his eyes now gone as he strips to his black boxer briefs and climbs into bed.

He turns on his side to face me, his head resting on his knuckles. He pats the empty spot on the mattress, indicating for me to come. When I don’t move, he shakes his head and chuckles while I admire his well-defined pecs.

I wonder what he tastes like…

“You can wash off the filth from the day—which we both know will make you feel better, but you’re being a stubborn mule and don’t want to admit it—and get in this big, comfortable bed. Or you can keep being pig-headed and sleep on the floor, because of some stupid idea that you can’t sleep in the same bed with me. Is that it? 'Cause I’m not getting out of my own bed, woman.”

That is it, but it sounds dumb when he says it out loud. It certainly didn’t seem so childish in my head.

“Fine with me, girl. I’m not the one who’s gonna wake up in a world of hurt after spending the night on the hard floor. Extra blankets are in there.” He points to the closet.

“Aren’t you going to help me set up for the night?” It’s not as if I can’t figure it out on my own or do it myself, but it’s good manners to help out when you have company. And for a gentleman to assist a lady. But this… biker is not a gentleman, nor does he have good manners.

So why am I surprised? He’s a Satan’s Disciple, not a Rockefeller.

“Woman, I offered you the chance to sleep in my bed. Warm and cozy with a fluffy, pillow-top mattress. If you decline, that’s your problem.” He smirks as he lies back with his fingers clasped behind his head.

I ball my hands into tight fists, the urge to hit him bubbling to the surface. “Fine,” I grit out as I huff to the bathroom, hearing the cotton sheets ruffle behind me as I go.

“Oh, and when you finish, Princess?” I look over my shoulder, but don’t turn to face him. “Make sure you turn off the lights before you go to bed. On the floor. Like a stubborn puppy.”

I. Am going. To kill. Him.

7

SIENNA

Iwake with an ache in my back and my bruises painful to the touch. Sleeping on the ground didn’t do me any favors after a traumatic evening of evading ruthless killers.

Last night, after I came out of the shower, I borrowed one of Throttle’s shirts and pulled it on. Then I made a pallet using the blankets from his closet and a pillow stolen from his bed. He was already sleeping, snoring the night away, but I resisted the urge to smack him so he could suffer as much as I was. Within minutes of resting my head on the pillow, I drifted off to much-needed sleep.

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