Page 7 of Flawed

I put her dry cleaning in the backseat then motion for her to get in. "I'm taking you home. There's no point fighting me about this."

She shakes her head.

"Do I need to force you into the car?" I ask.

She seethes, "Is that how you operate? I shouldn't be surprised!" She sneezes again then coughs.

I don't know why she's so angry with me, but I plan on figuring it out. I tug her head into my chest and kiss her hair. Lowering my voice, I assert, "You're ill. Let me take you home."

Her body melts against mine. It's just like the night we met. Every part of me wants to keep her against me forever.

A bolt of lightning streaks through the sky and thunder booms in the air. She jumps, and rain pours over us.

"Get in!" I demand.

She obeys.

I shut the door and race around the car.

"It's not right to kidnap women," she hurls.

I grunt, reach for her seat belt, and keep my face in front of hers. She inhales sharply, and green flames ignite in her gaze. My dick turns hard. It's the same look I fell for the night I met her, even though she's way too young for me.

I'm thirty-two, and she's eighteen. It was the first time I had ever slept with anyone so young. I assumed she was twenty-two or so. When I found out, I cursed myself. She's of age, but what if she had been younger? It made me wonder if the Abruzzos were somehow subconsciously influencing my decisions.

Still, even though I now know her age, it's not stopped me from thinking about her any chance I get. The fact she won't let me see her anymore hasn't helped. Maybe if I knew why, I could let her go. But all I do is wonder where I went wrong. All she ever says is that she's not interested.

Everything about our night together tells me it can't be the truth. Unless I've lost touch with reality, every moment, every kiss, every touch was unlike any woman I'd ever experienced. Surely, if I felt it, then she did, too?

I refrain from kissing her and secure her seat belt. Then I drive toward her apartment.

"How do you know where I live?" she asks when I pull up to her building.

I glance at her. "I'm a man who gets what he wants, Chanel. You're who I want. It's my business to know where you live."

She gapes at me. I can't tell if it's fear or anger.

"I'd never hurt you," I claim, surprised I feel the need to make such a bold statement.

She shuts her mouth then reaches for the door handle. "Thanks for the ride."

I grab her dry cleaning, hop out, then meet her near the entrance. I hold the door for her.

She steps inside and turns. "Can I have my dry cleaning?" She sneezes three times.

I maneuver her through the people in the lobby and into the crowded elevator. I hit the button for the eighth floor and tug her close to me.

Her body stiffens, but by the time we get to her floor, she's leaning against me as if too weak to stand on her own. The elevator opens, and I lead her down the hallway. Then I take the key out of her hand.

"What are you doing?" she mumbles.

"You're sick. You need a hot shower, good food, and rest."

"Who said I was sick?" she says, then goes into a coughing fit.

"Go," I order, opening her door and pointing for her to go inside.

"How do you know which unit is mine?" she questions.

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