Page 164 of Defiant Beta

He’s right. I should go to bed. I’m working tomorrow morning, and it’s just gone ten.

“Or you could stay?”

He groans, one hand flexing on my lower back and the other clasping my hip. “I am trying to be a gentleman, Miss Jackson.”

“You growl it,” I quietly admit, resting my palms flat on his chest, his scent spinning around me. Tart raspberries and rich, dark chocolate. I will never get over how good this man smells to me.

He cocks his head, curious, as his hand tightens on my hip, tucking me closer to the warmth of his body.

“My name. You growl it. That’s why I like it more than I should.” Rising to my tiptoes, I lean in, nuzzling his throat, then kissing him.

Releasing a quiet groan I feel rumble against my breasts, he takes a deliberate step back and removes his hands from my body.

Instantly, I feel bereft.

“I should go. I want to do this properly.”

But the hunger in his gaze tells me he wants to stay.

“Okay,” I agree, slipping his coat off my shoulders and handing it back to him. “Thanks for dinner.”

Vincent watches me, eyes slightly creased, suspicious of my easy agreement.

He’s probably thinking about me ditching them so I could sneak into Haven Academy. He suspects I’m up to something, and he’s right to be suspicious.

I hold my breath as he presses the softest, briefest kiss on the corner of my mouth. “Goodnight, Miss Jackson.”

I smile. “Goodnight, Vincent.”

And as he walks away from my open door, I step inside, trying not to feel too ashamed of the scars on my back as I grip the straps of my dress and nudge them down. I don’t know if there will ever be a day when I stop being ashamed, but I’m more than the scars on my back.

His footsteps stop.

“Your door is wide open,” Vincent calls, his voice slightly hoarse.

“Is it?” My dress stops at my hips, and I push it down so it pools on the floor. “How careless of me.”

I turn around.

Vincent stands in the middle of the hallway, his chest heaving. His hands are clenched tightly, pressed against his thighs. His eyes burn as he looks at me.

I’m in a black lace thong, a strapless bra, and the sandals I wore to dinner. Nothing else.

Somewhere, a door creaks, and he rips his gaze from my body to frown in the direction it came from. “Close the door, Della,” he says, his voice hoarse.

I step out of my heels and turn to walk farther into my apartment. Then I peer over my shoulder, catching his eyes fixed on my ass. “You’d better close the door unless you want someone to see me.”

“I’m trying to be a gentleman, Della,” he whispers, breathing harder.

“Maybe I don’t want you to be a gentleman.”

And I walk toward my bedroom, leaving my front door open, with my shoes on the floor next to my discarded dress.

In my bedroom, I turn on the light and walk over to close the blinds. When I look back, Vincent is shutting my bedroom door behind him.

My gaze drifts over his shoulder, and my lips twitch. “Did you hang up my dress?”

He draped it over the back of a chair and lined my heels neatly under the coat rack next to my now-closed front door. His coat occupies a hook beside my denim jacket.

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