Page 38 of The Ripper

“No,” I lied as I struggled to hold his intense gaze.

He chuckled as his finger pressed to the side of my neck. “You’re a doctor, Arella,” he whispered as he kept me captive in his gaze. “Could you tell me what this line right here is?”

“My CP,” I replied as my heart hammered in my chest.

“What does CP stand for?” He continued without moving an inch, still with that half-amused, half-playful voice.

“Carotid pulse,” I explained.

I bit my lip, peeling the skin off as I wondered why he was asking about arteries.

“Do you know what your pulse is telling me?” he grinned, leaning down until his lips brushed the shell of my ear. “That you’re lying.”

He let me go as his touch still buzzed on my skin, then he moved away, giving me a moment to think of an answer that didn’t sound stupid, but my brain felt like it was shackled, unable to come up with something as disarming as his words.

“Maybe I’m just scared of you,” I countered as I turned to face him.

He raised an eyebrow, but somehow decided to end the argument there and walked out of the bedroom.

I wanted to thank God for that, but my relationship with the man upstairs had hit a bump in the road yesterday. I looked around for something to cover myself with, but other than my sneakers, which were carefully placed at the foot of the bed, there was nothing.

After putting on my shoes, I took a moment to analyze the room, and while it was clear that he had impeccable – and expensive – taste, it was lacking one key element to make it a home.

Soul.

Everything seemed almost clinical, from the paintings on the walls, to how neat and clean it was, as though he had copied a photograph from a magazine and pasted it into his bedroom. It looked like a presentation, a mask, devoid of personality and so… empty.

I rolled my eyes and walked after him, wondering if it was a wise choice to allow a drunken criminal to drive me home, then I saw him standing by the elevator doors, so upright and lucid, seemingly unscathed by the pain in his arm.

It was as though all that vodka had been water for him.

“I can’t go out like this, people will see me,” I said as he handed me my purse.

“No one will see you,” he said, a little too sure of himself.

“You don’t know that.” I crossed my arms in front of my chest.

“The elevator goes straight to my garage.” He pushed the button.

“What about when I need to get out of the car and go into my building?”

“I’ll go upstairs and bring you a pair of pants,” he rolled his eyes.

“As if I’m going to give you the keys.”

“What makes you think I need keys?”

“Oh, you sneaky b…”

I couldn’t finish the sentence, because his palm wrapped around my throat and his body pressed to mine, pinning me against the wall. He was so close that I could feel his erection digging into my stomach, and I swallowed the whimper that threatened to escape me as his hand tightened a little, realizing that what was happening between us… was turning me on.

Fuck. Me.

“Cut the crap, Arella,” his breathing fanned over my face as he gritted his teeth. “You and I both know this isn’t about you being seen, since you keep parading yourself in a towel or that flimsy robe on your balcony…”

“What do y…” his palm squeezed tighter.

I was too wet to put together a coherent thought.

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