Page 38 of Dirty Little Secrets
XAIDEN
Ilay in bed on Saturday night, replaying our conversation. How she looked with her blouse unbuttoned, the swell of her breasts before finding the small cut on her arm above the red mark most likely will bruise. Telling her to call me by my first name. The way it sounded on her lips. I imagined all the ways I could make her say it repeatedly with my cock.
Fuck.
I’m kicking myself for going too far, but what I want more is to fucking slit Landon’s throat for touching her. She isn’t mine. I’m not into hurting women. Not unless they ask for it during sex and even then, I never go too far. Ever.
I close my eyes and try to stifle the headache creeping in. It always happens when I overthink. She could go to HR and file a complaint against me. But I didn’t force her to unbutton her blouse and she wouldn’t want to draw attention to the incident at the meeting.
But Mike is right. I saw it in her eyes. She’s innocent. An innocence that makes me overprotective, but what’s worse is the way I’m fantasizing about her. The depraved shit that crosses mymind when I look at her... has me thinking I should send her back to work with Kristina programming Emma.
This needs to stop.
My cellphone rings. Bash’s name s flashing on the screen.
“Yeah.”
“Sir, I got him.”
I press the pads of my fingers to my eyes knowing I could never send her back with Kristina. “I’ll be right there.”
I press the gas on my Koenigsegg Jesko. The only car in my garage that hits well over 300 mph. I need to get to the warehouse at the docks and fast. It’s 3 am. No traffic but there is still life on the streets. I cross each intersection careful not to attract cops breaking every traffic law. The less eyes I have on me the better. When I get back, I need to swipe the city’s camera feed.
I tap the touchscreen and press play, drowning out the brutal exhaust with “Dangerous” by Sleep Token. The look in her eyes when Landon grabbed her—raw pain and fury—flares in my memory. My rage ignites like a shot of adrenaline feeling the power of the car.
Ten minutes, later I pull into the dockyard near the warehouse, parking behind Bash’s blacked-out Chevelle. As I step inside through the back entrance, I find Bash seated calmly in front of Landon—hog-tied, groaning on the cold concrete.
“It smells like piss,” I mutter.
Landon twitches when he hears my voice. His head’s covered, and his mouth’s duct taped. Muffled whining escapes his throat.
“He pissed himself,” Bash says, spitting on the floor. He’s bigger than me—six foot five, barrel-chested, arms like tree trunks. Before I brought him to New York, he worked for my grandfather in Mexico. First as security. Now, full-time.
“Did you leave any marks?” I ask, kneeling to pull the black cover off Landon’s head.
“Not yet,” Bash says, stretching from his metal chair.
I rip the duct tape from Landon’s mouth.
“What the fuck, Drazen?” he spits. “You can’t be serious. Is this some kind of joke?”
I grab a fistful of his greasy hair. He yelps. I squeeze harder, annoyed at how slick it is from whatever gel he soaked it in. He’s a walking fire hazard.
“I assure you, it’s not a joke. I don’t think you realize what you’ve done.”
He snorts. “This is about Nori?” Blood dribbles from his split lip.
I glance at Bash.
He shrugs. “It’s not my fault he breaks easy.”
“You’re fucking her.”
I look back at Landon, lean close, jaw clenched. “If I were, you wouldn’t be breathing.”
“She’s just some broke bitch from Seattle. A nobody. Why the fuck do you care?”
Why do I care? I’m still figuring that out.
