Page 8 of The Chance

Sighing, I drag in a lungful and squint against the smoke that pokes at my eye as the number on the elevator ticks down to the floor my apartment shares with our resident security staff’s living quarters.

“Seriously?”

I huff when the roach is plucked from my lips before I can even make it to my door and my bodyguard is snuffing out the lit cherry on the heel of his boot.

“Jesus fuck,” I snap and throw my arms out. “Why are you being a fucking killjoy?”

Jordan’s brow quirks when he straightens, and it disappears behind his backwards hat.

“Why are you being a little shit?” he shoots right back as he tucks the rest of my snuffed smoke into his pocket.

A frustrated groan rumbles out of my throat, and I roll my eyes as I brush right past the man into my apartment without an answer.

I don’t bother locking the door. Hell, I’m not even sure it closes fully as I walk across the marbled floors, tugging my shirt off as I go. Pockets are emptied onto the counter. Shoes toed off and abandoned as I step out of them.

I’m down to my boxers when I hit the couch in my foul mood, remote in hand and a Mark Wahlberg movie primed on the screen.

Marky Mark always makes me feel better.

“You just watched this one.”

I scoff and hit play anyway, ignoring the way the other end of the couch fills out withman.

“Four Brothersis top notch, and I will die on that hill, Tyro.”

“You think anything with Wahlberg in it is top notch.” It’s like I can hear Jordan’s eye roll, but I do nothing but huff in agreement. Because it is.

“He’s hotandtalented.” I nod for no reason, my eyes glued to the screen. “Hard to find both.”

Jordan makes some kind of hum that’s neither an agreement or a denial, and by the time I tear my gaze from the screen, my bodyguard is stretched out with ankles and arms crossed, his hat pulled low to cover his eyes.

I roll mine.

“You know you can go home, right?”

He grumbles something incoherent, but doesn’t move.

I let loose a sigh, shoot a text to Toby to check in before I forget, then use the remote to turn off the lights.

The room is bathed in a grey light from the gritty vibe of the movie, but even as the scenes move along and the story progresses, I find my attention slipping back to Jordan passed out on my couch more than I’ll ever admit out loud.

He’s all hard lines and sharp edges with a shadow of dark stubble coating his jaw, harsh and dark tattoos lining his right arm—a geometrical sleeve tat I sat with him through, though he wouldn’t tell me what the soundwave around his wrist is—and rocking the shit out of hisplain clothes. Which are really just jeans that hug him in all the right ways and a plain black tee that’s ridden up juuuust enough to give me a tease of the tanned skin covering the defined V that disappears beneath the denim.

The very same denim that bunches and bulges between his pressed-together thighs.

My mouth waters and I force my sight back to the TV, only to see a shirtless Marky Mark fill the screen.

Groaning, I sink farther into the couch.

This is like being in a room full of hot guys while wearing a cock cage.

It’s torture.

But then my mind does this wonderful thing where I imagineJordanbeing the one shirtless, and now I’m trying to figure out a way to make that happen without getting up from the couch.

“Go to sleep.”

My eyes roll at the gravel in my bodyguard’s voice and ignore the way it makes my dick jump.

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