Seven more days until the agonizing ten years of waiting for her ends. I’m going to use every single one of them to warm her up to the idea.
Countless times over the years, I’ve wanted to say fuck it and break the distance between us, but I’ve always known once I get close to her, I won’t be able to let her go. She’d told Damon if a guy really wanted her, they’d wait. So that’s what I’ve beendoing. That all ends the second the clock ticks twelve on her birthday. Then, she’s all mine.
Scarlet steps into view of the picture window that takes up the majority of the front of her brownstone. She’s struggling with the back of her dress, and my fingers itch to go in there and be the one to snap the clasps and slowly slide the zipper down, running my knuckles along her sensitive skin as they move along her spine.
I’m getting hard just thinking about it.
Oliver comes into view and blanches at something she says. He shakes his headnoa few times, but she raises a brow, head tilted at him like he’s being ridiculous, and his shoulders visibly slump as he walks over to her.
He raises his hands to her upper back, and my entire body stiffens.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
I hit Dial on the console just as her top comes undone, the fabric opening several inches. Leather squeaks as my fingers grip the steering wheel to keep myself from crashing in there and ripping him away. I don’t give a shit that he works for me. He knows better than to touch her.
“Hello?” Oliver answers unsteadily.
“Get out here, now.” I can’t keep the growl out of my voice, and he visibly flinches in response.
The way he scrambles out of there would almost be comical if I wasn’t fighting back the urge to slowly cut off each of his fingers.
I’ve hunted down any men that are close to her. I was more than happy to fly across the country anytime Oliver informed me of her dates. I’d enjoyed pulling them into alleys and beating them within an inch of their life for daring to get too close, not letting them leave until they’ve sworn never to go near her again.
Is it fair to Scarlet? No. Do I care? Fuck no.
The passenger door clicks open, and a nervous-looking Oliver climbs inside. His face is turned toward the windshield, throat bobbing with his swallow. I don’t miss when he curls his hands into fists and protectively pushes them deep into his jacket pockets.
“You touched my girl,” I growl, low in my throat.
He flinches. “It’s not like I wanted to. I’d look like an asshole for turning down her request. She probably thinks I’m some kind of perv that can’t get close to women.”
“Why would that matter?”
That startles him, his gaze snapping to mine. “What?”
“Don’t worry about it. You’ve been working for me since she was eighteen. She’ll understand soon enough why you can’t get close to her.”
A thrill rolls through me, knowing I’m so close to getting what I want. My eyes scan over Scarlet just as she lets the dress slip off her shoulders.
My cock hardens as I let my eyes skim down her supple body. Her long, lean muscles are defined from years of working out.
When Oliver told me she wanted to try kickboxing, I arranged for her to go to the best gym in town. They had additional lessons in self-defense, including how to use a knife. The trainer bitched about it being beneath him, but he shut up when I showed him what I’m willing to pay. Wasn’t long before he was sending texts talking about how well she’s doing. Of course she is. My girl’s a fighter.
Oliver’s eyes are trained on his lap, like he’s aware he’ll lose them if he so much as glances up. It’s nice that he knows me so well.
Scarlet disappears upstairs, and her guard’s already climbing out of my car. “She has an early appointment.”
I pull up her schedule on my phone and see it’s for waxing and lift one brow at him.
“Hey, now. I don’t book them. I just bring her.”
I don’t bother replying, and after all this time, he knows not to expect one. He disappears into his car, leaving the responsibility of watching my girl to me.
I’ve lost countless hours of sleep sitting here in my blacked-out Range Rover, but it’s been worth every second. I’ve learned she midnight bakes when something’s bothering her. That she prefers oversized T-shirts to pajamas. Luckily for her, she receives some for Christmas every year. I make sure to wear each one so they smell like me, and I’ve caught her lifting them to her nose more than once.
It’s been hours of me sitting here, long after her lights have gone dark, when my phone rings.
Answering, I say, “I expected you to be back in hiding with your wife.”