Gideon

LAYLA

After he sucks my neck and gives me a hickey…um, several hickeys…he lets me go.

What just happened? Something feels different, but I’m not sure what it is yet.

And while I’m just standing here, feeling all confused, ~he~ has an annoyingly smug expression on his face.

“Okay, just so we’re clear,” I tell him. “I don’t let strange men do those things to me. I should have slapped you.”

I’m not really a confrontational kind of person…obviously, look at how my own family can bully me into doing things I don’t want to do.

And I know he’s dangerous and that I can’t pretend I didn’t like what happened earlier…

But I’m pissed.

Pissed that he’s asked me out even though he’s not available.

Pissed that he’s covered me in hickeys even though he’s already engaged or has a girlfriend.

Pissed that he’s making me feel jealous of a woman I haven’t even met.

I’m pissed that I’m hurt. I’m pissed at the way he’s looking at me like he owns me, pissed at the intense look in his eyes—like he’s seeing too much, like he’s looking too deep into my soul.

But most of all, I’m pissed that he’s making me feel this way.

So, yeah. I’m ready to fight.

He smirks. “I know you don’t let strange men do that to you. Only me.”

He’s looking way too pleased with himself. Is my defiance ~amusing~ to him?

He must have picked up on my fury, because his demeanor suddenly changes and something flashes in his eyes.

“So you want to finish cleaning up, isn’t that right?” he says.

What?

He goes to sit in one of the fancy chairs in the corner of the room, undoes a button of his jacket, and leans back.

I was expecting him to argue or something, but he just crosses his feet at the ankles and rests his elbows on the chair arms, then lifts a hand. “You may proceed.”

What am I, his maid? Well, yeah…sorta, but still…

I’m not sure whether to keep arguing or get on with my work, so I just stand there, staring at him warily.

He raises an eyebrow and I blush. He’s throwing me off my game.

But does he really have to sit there and watch me?

I hesitantly start to work, glancing up at him every now and then to try and figure out his angle.

I’m trying to be sly about it, but I don’t think it’s working. I mean, how can you be surreptitious about sneaking a glance at a guy when he’s sitting right there watching your every move?

And he seems to find the situation highly entertaining. At one point, he even places an index finger against the line of his lips, which looks suspiciously like he’s trying to hide his smile.

Darn it! Why does that look so damn sexy?

His bed is bigger than a regular king size, which I guess is necessary to accommodate his height, but I have to stretch when I’m changing the sheet, and my skirt keeps riding up.

Now I’m hating Beth for making us wear this uniform.

He seems very alert, and the hungry, predatory looks that keep crossing his face make me worry that he’s going to try something. But he stays put.

I try not to look his way again, but I can feel the heat of his gaze traveling all over my body.

It’s like he’s actually touching me. But how can I feel a gaze?

And it’s not that I find it creepy or anything; it’s more like I’m liking it too much, liking his attention on me way too much.

The air around us grows heavy again.

I need to remember he’s taken. Taken and a lycan.

When he doesn’t follow me into the en suite bathroom, I’m not sure whether to feel relieved or disappointed.

God! I’m so confused and such a mess right now. A part of me is mad at him, but another part of me wants to impress him so badly. A part of me craves him and yearns for his touch, but the saner part of me wants to run and hide from him.

He scares me, yet he excites me.

And I don’t even know his name! But why would I need to know his name? He’s taken! See? I’m such a mess.

He, on the other hand, is a very clean and organized person. His bathroom looks impeccable. I wipe down everything anyway.

When I get to the mirror, I tilt my head to look at the various red marks on my neck.

There are a couple particularly big ones that I don’t think even concealer can cover up.

How am I going to go out like this? There’s no way Derek won’t notice.

And if I go home for family dinner, everyone will notice. Even Grandma, who claims to be blind when it suits her nefarious purposes.

My first time meeting the guy—the lycan—and he gives me hickeys. He’s even seen my panties, for goodness’ sake.

Darn it! Why couldn’t I have been wearing a different pair? I have a boxful of panties. Panties are my weakness. Where normal people collect things like stamps—I sorta collect underwear.

I can never resist buying them, especially if they’re different. I have cute panties with bunnies and unicorns. I have superhero panties, like the ones I’m wearing now. And…

I have lots of sexy, lacy panties and G-strings. So why couldn’t I be wearing a pair of those today?

Though the more important question is, why does it matter?

***

When I’m done cleaning the bathroom, I walk out to find he’s changed into jeans and a black T-shirt. And he looks just as hot as he did in a suit and tie.

The designer jeans show off his long, muscular legs, and the T-shirt is glued to his cut pecs and flat abs like a second skin, the short sleeves molding to his muscular arms.

His skin is smooth and golden like he’s been sunbathing on a warm, sunny beach or a tropical island somewhere.

The sight of him makes my mouth suddenly feel dry. “I’m, uh… It’s all done. I’ll be going now. Have a good day, sir.” Wow. That sounds ridiculous somehow.

Those intense golden-yellow eyes narrow, and his nostrils flare as if I’ve just said something that pisses him off.

Maybe he doesn’t like “Have a good day.” Maybe I should have said “Good evening” instead. Have a good day, sir… Ugh, Layla, you suck.

I plaster on a bright smile. “Okay, bye!”

“Don’t,” he growls, then circles my upper arm with one hand and grips my waist with the other.

His hold is hard and possessive, and sizzling heat scorches every inch of skin he touches. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s like being zapped by a delicious jolt of electricity that travels all the way down to my center.

He closes his eyes and leans in until his nose is almost touching my neck, then takes a deep breath and releases it in a gusty sigh, teasing tendrils of my hair.

He’s so close, we’re breathing the same air. All I would have to do is lean in and tilt my face up an inch or two, and our mouths would touch.

His lips look so tempting…

“Gideon. Call me Gideon.” His warm breath fans over my cheek, and I almost moan.

He loosens his grip on my arm and caresses it instead. When I look down, I see his long, elegant fingers stroking my upper arm as if he can’t stop. Goosebumps flare across my skin.

He’s wearing a few rings, including one on his pinky finger that looks like a signet ring. It has a crest or an insignia of some sort and reminds me of the one Caspian wears on his little finger.

I wonder what it means. Do all lycan men wear them?

He clears his throat and drops his hand away. “Are you going home now?” he asks, stepping back. “Or do you have somewhere else to go first?”

“Ummm…home?” I answer breathily before I gulp and clear my own throat. “I usually work tonight, but Beth changed the schedule.”

“But that’s okay,” I hastily add. “I’m not complaining or anything. In fact, I’m relieved. I could use the time to work on my assignment or watch a movie or finish reading—or sleep.”

Oh God, I’m rambling and I can’t seem to stop.

“I haven’t had time off yet this week, so it’s great. Usually, I work on Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday nights. But this week, I’m working Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Friday night.”

Please, somebody smack me on the head already and stop me from talking.

Surprisingly, he looks like he’s listening intently to my verbal diarrhea, as if he finds whatever I’m spewing right now very interesting.

“That means tonight, Thursday, no work for me. So, yay!” I raise a fist and punch the air weakly.

Seriously, shut up, Layla! I turn away and concentrate on gathering all the rags and cleaning products.

“How are you getting home?” he asks, picking up the mop. “Do you drive?” He grabs the vacuum cleaner and pulls it toward the door, then follows me out of the room.

I feel bad about the client helping me do my job, but I get the feeling that we’d be fighting over the mop and the vacuum cleaner if I tried to stop him.

“No, I’m taking a bus,” I reply as I put all the cleaning supplies back on the shelves in the utility closet.

“I’m driving you home.” It’s not a question or an offer. He’s so bossy, even when he’s helping out.

I look at the wall behind him. “You don’t have to. I can get home myself.”

Apparently, whenever I stare into his stupidly beautiful eyes, my brain takes a vacation. So as long as I don’t look directly at him, I’ll be fine. I think.

But I’m probably burning a hole in the wall with how intently I’m staring at it. “I always take the bus.”

“Layla?”

“Yeah?” I wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t say a thing until I allow my eyes to slide up and over to meet his golden-yellow ones.

“I’m driving you home.” His voice is firm.

“Yeah…okay.”

And before I can think of anything else to say, he ushers me along the hall to the stairs, his big, warm hand pressing on the spot between my shoulder blades. My skin tingles from the warmth of his palm through the cotton fabric.

Did I just say okay? Ugh! Do lycans have some kind of mojo or superpower that renders brains useless or something?

I need some of that to use on my family and friends—and on him. Basically on everybody I come in contact with.

When we get to the foyer, I grab my bag and sweater from the console table, and he presses an envelope into my hand.

I shake my head. “It’s very generous of you, but I don’t deserve it.”

“You did a very good job. So I think that you do deserve it.”

“But I fell asleep on the job. In your bed.” I hate to bring that up again, because that was bad—really bad. I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t report me to Beth.

“You were in my bed,” he agrees with a wolfish smile, and I feel my face get hot. He stares at my reddened cheeks but seems to be weighing something in his mind before he says, “Okay, let’s make a deal, Layla.”

I stare up at him warily. Why do I get a mental picture of a wolf—or rather, a lycan—just about to pounce?

But since we’ve established that staring into his eyes makes me prone to stupidity, I open my mouth and say the following words:

“What kind of deal?”