Page 45 of Menace in Vegas

"Say it, sweetheart," he taunts.

I grip my seatbelt like it personally wronged me.

I don’t say anything for a few beats.

Then I snap.

"You lost your goddamn mind back there," I hiss. "Why?"

His fingers drum against the steering wheel.

He turns his head, looking at me matter-of-factly.

"Because," he says casually, “you’remine."

Panic sets in so hard and fast, it temporarily blinds me. “E-Excuse me?”

His attention stays on the road, calmly driving like he didn’t just shatter my entire existence.

Silent as if what he said is fact, and there’s no need for discussion.

"I’m not?—"

Connor chuckles, a low, possessive sound that makes goosebumps race down my spine.

"Sweetheart," he murmurs, "do you really think anyone gets to put their hands on you and walk away?"

I’m officially spiraling into the abyss.

"That’s not how the world works!"

He glances over at me, his gray eyes darkened with amusement.

The fucking knowing look in them makes me want to attack him — slap his broad chest with my hands, then slam my mouth against his.

He arches a brow. "Isn’t it?"

I open and close my mouth, but nothing comes out.

I don’t know how to argue with… this.

With someone who says things that piss me off but makes me want to cling to him and never let go.

Damn him to hell.

I curl my fingers in my lap, digging half-moons into my thighs.

He’s still calmly driving, even after tossing out “you’re mine” casually and confidently, like it’s a well-known fact.

Like the asshole believes it down to his goddamn bones.

Even worse?

I don’t hate it.

Although I should.

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