His eyes rake over me, molten and slow, like lava moving under the surface of a mountain just waiting to break. “And trust me, love—Iwantto do it the hard way.”
My pulse stutters, panic and a sharp flicker of electricity sparks down my spine.
“I thought you don’t fight women,” I manage, narrowing my eyes, trying to cling to my slowly withering irritation.
“I don’t,” Landon murmurs, stepping in close enough that the air between us thins. “But carrying you over my shoulder? That’s not fighting. That’s just arelocation strategy.”
My jaw drops slightly, and I let out a sharp laugh, part disbelief, part excitement to see if he would really do it. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Oh, Iwould,” he says smoothly, flashing a wolfish grin as he turns around to pop open the passenger side door for me. “But lucky for you, I like watching you walk ahead of me better.”
I sputter for a second, before sliding into the passenger's seat, muttering curses under my breath, because as much as a part of me wants to walk away I could not withstand him touching me right now.
“That’s it, Peach,” Landon calls after me with a laugh. “March that cute little attitude right into my front seat.”
As I secure my seatbelt with a little more force than necessary, and then I glance up at him. “You know, for someone supposedly trying to help, you’reawfullyclose to getting punched.”
Landon closes the door, and jogs over to slide into the driver’s seat, shooting me a grin that somehow manages to be both infuriating and stupidly attractive. “Baby, if that’s what it takes to keep you alive, I’ll take the hit.”
My cheeks flame and I slouch in my seat, arms crossed over my chest as the engine rumbles to life.
3
LANDON
Jasmine tucksher knees to her chest, head leaning against the window, the shorter strands of her blonde hair sticking to her cheeks thanks to the thick Texas heat. She hasn’t said a word in miles.
Probably still pissed at me for calling herbeautifulinstead ofJasmine—orPeaches, my personal favorite, on account of her ass being perfect like a ripe summer peach, but I won’t tell her that. Not yet. Girl already looks like she wants to run me over with a car—no need to hand her a reason with a bow on top.
My eyes flicker over her thick thighs, drawn up tight against her chest, and the cascade of wavy blonde hair spilling over her shoulder. There’s still a hint of pink in it, evidence that her hair used to be vibrant with streaks of cherry red, but all of that has faded over the past three months to a stubbornly cute pastel pink.
And fuck if she isn’t gorgeous—unapologetically, wildly so. The kind of gorgeous that gets under your skin and settles in like it belongs there.
When I was first assigned to trail her, I was pissed. Thought it was beneath me. A man like me—sharp, efficient, trained for much worse—should be blackmailed into better use. International weapons deals, corporate espionage, hell, even stealing classified intel off the back of a warlord’s yacht. Not babysitting some girl with a garbage bag full of trauma and a habit of walking alone at night.
But then I laid eyes on her. Jasmine Rivera. And for the first time in a long-ass time, I didn’t feel like I was wasting my life.
I couldn’t help it—I thanked the heavens. Thanked Kelly, too, for probably making a deal with Jesus Christ, or more likely the devil himself just to make sure I saw something good every day.
In a different life, I would’ve told her she was mine the second my eyes landed on her. Would’ve walked up, no games, no cover story, and said it straight to her face.You. You’re mine.
Because that’s what it felt like. Like she was already tethered to something in me I didn’t know existed until she looked up, squinted against the sun, and flipped me off for staring too long from across the gas station parking lot. She didn’t know me then, and that was the closest to the sun I have ever been, until now and fuck does it burn.
We hit a red light in the middle of nowhere. No cars, no traffic. Just empty road and midnight sky. I drum my fingers against the wheel, humming along to some old Billy Ray Cyrus song from Kelly’s cursed playlist—the one she labeledHow to Be American.
Jasmine snorts,still staring out the window, as if the shadows offended her and not me. I want her to look at me.
“What have I done now?” I smirk, my eyes lazily looking over her small form. She could fit perfectly curled up on my lap if she wanted. That thought only makes me smile more, because if she could read my mind, she’d punch me in the face.
“Billy Ray Cyrus?” she deadpans, eyes rolling as she rests her chin on her knees. “Seriously?”
I lick my lips—slow—fighting to keep my eyes on the road instead of her mouth or the way her thighs are pressed together like temptation wrapped in denim. I force myself to look ahead, knuckles tightening on the wheel.
Because the truth is, I want to reach across the seat. Grab her by the waist. Drag her across my lap. Lay her bare over my knee and see if she’d still have the nerve to roll those pretty eyes with her ass in the air and my hand wrapped around her throat.
I swallow the thought like poison. Because that’s what it is. Becauseshe’spoison—sweet, lethal, and already in my bloodstream.
“You don’t like Billy Ray Cyrus?” I ask, voice low, masking the tension with a smirk.
