Page 91 of Chase

“Maybe you, but he’s quite happy to ignore my calls. Seriously, Trouble, he’ll be walking around Canary Wharf to clear his head. Connor likes to beat himself up when things go wrong. I did tell him the guy was cooked; the evidence against him was watertight.” He switches on the television again, and a reality show on a desert island flashes up on the screen. He flicks to another channel.

“If you won’t help me…” I turn on my heel and stalk off toward the elevator. “I’ll go get someone who will.”

I don’t reach the doors before he’s behind me, strong arms wrapped around my middle. His sheer force stops me in my tracks. Sharp teeth skim my neck before sinking softly into my skin. One hand spreads over my stomach, then lowers so his fingers sit just above my clit.

“Okay,” he says. With one hand, he keeps me from moving. In the other, his mobile appears from heaven knows where. He drops it in front of us both so we can see the screen.

On the last page, a small red app sits alone with a simple “T” in the center of the icon in black. He taps it, and a map of London opens. A few little blue dots are scattered over the streets. Most are marking what is clearly The Level. I glance up at him, but he doesn’t look at me.

“Is that what I think it is?”

“Depends what you think it is.” His thumb taps the search bar, and he types “Co.” The name Connor pops up. The map immediately zones into an area close to the river known for bars and restaurants. “See, I told you, he’d be drowning his sorrows.”

“Do you have me tracked?” I ask him, knowing damn fine the answer is yes.

“You? No. Your phone, however…”

“Controlling unhinged arsehole,” I mutter, wriggling from his grasp.

“Not just me. This app has five user logins,” he tells me with a deep chuckle. “You’ll always be safe with me, Trouble. I’ll always know where you are.” He runs his fingers across my lower back. I will my body not to respond, but like the treacherous bitch she is, my nipples pop hard.

“Not if I leave my phone at home,” I jibe. He spins me to face him, holding my arms by my sides. My neck cranes as my chin rises to look at his darkened face.

“Deliberately leave your phone at home, and I’ll install a tracker in your arm. Fucking men like us will bring you enemies. Being loved by men like us can be a death sentence.” He cocks his head, astute but slight wild eyes running over my face. “I told you before. No matter what happens, you’re now ours.”

“What bar is that?” I ask him, signaling to the phone crammed next to my skin with my eyes. He takes the bait and releases me, his attention moving back to where his brother is. Possessive idiot.

“I don’t know or care. A shitty one. Come to bed. Connor’s loss will be my gain. Why should our girl lose out tonight because he’s had a bad day?” There it is again, that phrase: our girl. Russell uses it more and more, and it gives me a tentative hope that we could sort out some arrangement. If only Connor would compromise, too.

“No, I’m going to find him. Something has happened.” I pull my remaining arm from his grasp. “Stay here and jerk off, or come with me and help.”

He rolls his eyes, then turns and walks off in the direction of his bedroom.

“Where are you going?” I call to his retreating back.

“To get some fucking clothes on. What does it look like?” I watch as he strides away, his tight ass gorgeous in the silk. “Sometimes I wonder who’s fucking in charge here.” When he returns, he slides his arm around my waist before leading me to the elevator. We step in, but he looks furious at the inconvenience and doesn’t speak.

“Do you want the answer to that question?”

“Which one?”

“Who is in charge?” He scowls and I step forward, placing one foot between his. “I am, Russ, because I could hold out a hell of a lot longer than you. Amenable men are much more enticing to pleasure than arseholes.”

“I would love to pleasure your arsehole,” he tells me.

***

Russell

The Union Jack Bar, London

The temptation to lift her onto my waist, hit the stop button, and fuck Trouble to hell and back in that elevator had been hard to contain. But she also questioned my ability to hold out, and as hard as it was, I didn’t want to prove her right within five minutes.

So now we’re standing beside a back street tavern that’s heaving with drunkards on a Friday evening. They spill out onto the streets, staggering around as if it were the early morning hours already. Sam, unfazed, weaves through the crowd toward the bar; I follow her like a puppy dog.

The bartender is tall and dressed in a grimy white T-shirt with jeans. His blonde hair is slicked back as if it hasn’t been washed for days or a whole tub of hair gel was emptied on it this morning. Perhaps both are true. His mouth widens when he spots Sam at the bar, exposing yellow teeth and raw red gums.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he drawls, spit oozing between his cracked lips. I step up beside her, and he glances at me. “Brought yer rottweiler with you, doll?”

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