Page 70 of Desperate Actions

“A day early?”

I nod.

His fingers tighten slightly on my waist, but not in protest. Just in acknowledgment.

“Are you sure? What happened?”

“Nothing,” I say, shaking my head. “The girls made some remarks, and they made me feel anxious.”

Sammy’s jaw tics.

I place my hand over his heart, feeling the steady, powerful beat beneath my palm.

“It’s just that I know we’ve got music to face back home, and I want to meet it head-on,” I tell him, watching for his reaction.

He studies me for a second, then nods.

“Okay. Want to leave tonight or in the morning?”

Just like that, he agrees.

No protests.

No convincing me to stay.

Just pure, unshakable support.

My chest tightens.

“Morning is fine,” I say. Then—unable to help myself—I smirk up at my sexy-as-sin husband.

“I have other plans for tonight.”

Something dark flickers in his eyes.

Something dangerous.

Then he’s moving us toward the exit, his hand firm on my lower back, his body shielding mine from the crowd as we weave through the club.

I don’t even care that we didn’t say goodbye.

Because Sammy is guiding me to the limo, and it’s like all his focus, all his energy, all his concentration is for me and me alone.

Nothing else matters.

Not the club.

Not the people.

Not the questions waiting for us back home.

Just me and him.

Just us.

Someone carelessly steps into our path, a large man, loud and oblivious.

Sammy growls.

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