Page 39 of Falcon's Prey

The last fewdays had not been kind to me. Whatever sort of truce Ren and I had fallen into was now gone. He was short clipped when he talked to me, barely around only when I really needed him. If I stayed home, he would lock himself in the surveillance room and ignore me.

Silas had sent me one text message.

I want him gone.

And I knew Ren’s days were limited. With that in mind, I knew the chance to get him in my bed was diminishing by the second. I was being nice for that whole purpose alone, but nice wasn’t working.

Last night Ren had to go out. Who the fuck knew where he went or what he did.? Poor Marcus was stuck with me, and since he didn’t bitch or moan, he just did the job. I went to the club, and when I got there, I realized it had been a while. When I got home, I could have sworn Ren was pissed, but he didn’t come directly at me; he just yelled at Marcus.

Now my head was pounding, and one thing I knew for sure was that Ren Falcon was going to fuck me and fuck me over before he left me—and I was okay with that. What was one more mistake in my long list of fuckups?

My hair was a mess from last night’s party, and my mascara had run a bit. I’d learned a long time ago to just run with the look; it gave me an edge. There was no one in the living room or kitchen, and I knew Ren would be done with his workout soon. While he got done with that, I went to the fridge, then sat my ass on the kitchen counter and waited.

It didn’t take long for Ren to emerge. He was wearing sweatpants that low rode on his hips—and damn. I didn’t know what that V was called, but I knew it was like arrows pointing straight to getting the D. I wanted the D, and I wanted it bad.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m having a mimosa,” I said.

“Where’s the orange juice?”

I took a sip of my champagne glass, then answered, “We ran out.”

“So basically you’re having champagne for breakfast,” he stated in a judgmental tone.

“A mimosa sans the juice,” I corrected.

He didn’t say anything; he just kept looking at me with his icy stare.

Grabbing another bottle, I handed it to him. “Can you open this for me?”

“No,” he snapped

“Excuse me?”

His response ticked me off.

“You. Work. For. Me.” I glared at him.

He really was handsome, by far more attractive than all the men who came before him. He had a good five to six years on me. His hair was not too short, but perfect “pull me while I eat you” type.

“My job, darling, is making sure nothing happens to your body, and that’s it.”

I got chills whenever he saidyour body. He looked like he could give my body a good time. Manly hands, muscles in all the right places, not too thick, but not thin. I would sleep with him soon because time was running out. I hadn’t pushed the issue because when I fucked someone, it was, “Thank you. Next,” and I didn’t want to let him go.

I crossed my legs, relishing when he followed the movement of my exposed flesh.

“Nothing is going to happen to my hot little body,” I said in a breathy tone. “Nothing ever does.”

That seemed to anger him; I could tell because he had very expressive eyes. The blue became icy.

“You change guards faster than you do underwear. You don’t think people notice this shit? It leaves you vulnerable.”

“I don’t wear underwear,” I replied casually. “And the way I see it, I could get hurt with the cork of this bottle. It can hit me in my eye and blind me, and then you will have failed in protecting my body,bodyguard.”

I stretched my hand at him and smiled when he made his way over to grab the bottle.

“I’m glad you could see things my way.” It was hard not to gloat.

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