Page 11 of Sinning for Santa

I gulp.

“Thanks for takingcare of this for me.” He winks, slipping his phone from my grip.

Dammit. I forgot I was holding it. I could have used it to call for help.

“Bag,” he demands.

“What?”

“Give me your bag, love.”

Naturally, I squeeze my bag to my chest, unwilling to hand it over. “What do you want with my bag? I don’t have much money.”

He chuckles, although the grin that pulls at his lips doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I don’t like repeating myself, little mouse. Bag. Now.”

I don’t know why, but everything in me is screaming not to hand it over to him, so I squeeze it tighter to my chest.

“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters, right before he grabs the strap off my shoulder and tugs. I hold firm, which makes him grunt, and before I know what’s happening, the arsehole tickles my ribs, and a second later, my bag is no longer in my possession.

“Give it back,” I demand, but all he does is shake his head, smirking as he takes a step back out into the aisle before rummaging through it.

Once again my cheeks are on fire from humiliation.

Why did I think this man was attractive? He’s insufferable.

Pulling out my wallet, his eyes light with amusement as he glances at me while shoving my bag under his arm to hold it before he opens my wallet and pulls out my driver’s licence.

Shit.

“Jaxcen Isabelle Summers. Date of birth…” he trails off, his brows shooting up before those dark eyes are on me again. “Twenty four years old. You look younger.”

“And yet you still kissed me.” I point out because I know I look young. Some might say too young, especially with so little makeup on. Like tonight.

My mum used to tell me it’s a blessing and that I’ll appreciate it when I’m older, but so far it’s been a pain in my arse.

“Givenyou are roaming the streets so late on a Tuesday night in heels and corporate attire, I assumed you were at least of age.” He shrugs, like the possibility of me only being eighteen is alright despite his age, clearly so much older than me, and how he pressed his thigh between my legs and…

Dammit. My cheeks heat and he notices, his lips twitching, and I just know he knows I’m remembering the few heated minutes we shared inside the confessional.

Turning his sights back onto my ID, he studies it some more. “Your apartment is only a couple of blocks from here.”

“Yes.” I straighten hopefully. “I’ll go straight home. I promise. I won’t go to the police.”

All he does is smirk. No reply. No come back. No disagreement.

I want to smack that smirk right off his face.

Tugging my bag from under his arm, he slips my wallet back inside before bringing out my phone and sliding it into his back pocket, ignoring my gasp of protest.

“Please don’t take my phone. I need that.”

“I’m sure you do, to call someone for help. To be honest, I’m surprised you haven’t already.” He grins and I shrug.

“Maybe I have.”

He chuckles. “Nice try, Miss Summers.” Then, with that infuriating shit-eating grin he wears so well, he hands me my bag, his gaze refocusing on my ID still in his hand.

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