She shrugs without looking at me. “I prefer his daughter.”
“I could’ve guessed that.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Her head turns slightly, eyes narrowing.
“Miley Cyrus is a brat.” I glance over, catching the flick of her brow. “Andyou, Peach, aredefinitelya brat.”
“Awhat?” she says, her tone sharp, half-offended, half-curious—and damn if I don’t want to taste that edge on her tongue. Theundercurrent of more, in the same breath that she can’t take anymore. I bet that’s the best thing in the world.
“A brat,” I repeat, letting the word roll slowly off my tongue. “Don’t tell me you don’t know what a brat is, Peaches.”
She stares at me for a beat, a look of annoyance on her face. Then her lips twitch. “I know what a brat is,” she says coolly, “but you don’t know me well enough to call me one.”
I pull into the side entrance of the building, where armed guards flank the gated entrance to the underground parking garage. Surveillance cameras track every license plate, every twitch of movement, and the faint buzz of security drones overhead cuts through the humid Texas night.
I smirk as we approach, slowing just enough to let the system scan my plates. Jasmine stiffens slightly in her seat when one of the guards starts walking toward the car, hand resting on the holster at his hip.
“You forget,” I say casually, letting the words drip with amusement as I roll down the window, “I’m your stalker. I know everything about you.”
Jasmine scoffs, her eyes rolling again in a way that makes a growl grow in my chest. “If you know everything, you’d know to stop flirting because I am gay. You understand what that means, right Landon?”
“Oh, I know,” I say, flashing an identification card from the center console and holding it up for the guard to scan. The red light flickers green. “But who said flirting had to lead anywhere? I can just flirt with you because you, Peaches, are a pretty girl.”
“So you don’t care?” She questions, placing both feet on the floor as she pulls her long streaked hair into a high ponytail, the curve of her slender neck on display.
The gates swing open with a hydraulic hiss, and I guide the car down into the private garage.I ease the car into one of the reserved spots near a private elevator, kill the engine, and turn to her.
“Peach, if you ever want to explore,” I grin. “I will be the first guy in line, but I respect you and your sexuality.”
Jasmine unbuckles her seatbelt with a sharp click and leans in just a breath away from my lips. “Don’t worry,” she murmurs, voice sweet as honey. “I’d rather fall down the elevator shaft than everexplorewith you.”
Jasmine snorts as she slides out the car.
I chuckle, pulling the keycard from the console and slipping it into my back pocket as I step out. “Ouch, and here I thought we had sexual tension.”
Jasmine leans against the car, arms crossed over her chest, one brow arched. “No, that’s just my incessant need to be a little stabby.”
I lean in, close enough that my breath stirs the hair near her cheek, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “You can stab me anytime, love.”
She shivers—barely, but I feel it—and I laugh as I walk away, the sound echoing through the polished silence of the garage.
She follows me to the private elevator at the far end. I swipe the keycard, and the doors open with a soft chime. Jasmine steps infirst, and I take my time stepping in after her—eyes shamelessly drinking in the way she moves.
Her tank top clings to every curve, the thin fabric dampened from the heat, nearly sheer. Her breasts rise and fall beneath it, nipples peaked against the cotton, tight and obvious. My gaze trails lower—those muscular thighs hugged by worn jeans, the kind that were molded to her body by time and sin. Her waist curves into hips that were made to be gripped.
And Jesus Christ, she’s stunning. Wild and soft, stubborn and unaware of the absolutehavocshe wreaks just by standing still.
“Who are we going to see, again?” she asks, leaning casually back against the elevator wall, one leg crossing over the other. The move lifts her chest just slightly—and her perky breasts stretch the fabric of her tank top tight.
I grin. “I never said weweregoing to see anyone.”
Her glare sharpens. “You said there was a man who wanted to keep me alive.”
“True,” I nod, watching the numbers on the elevator tick upward. “But I never said who that would be. Cute for you to act like I did.”
She huffs, clearly annoyed, but I just wink, a smirk pinched into my cheek. Jasmine is a smart girl.
“Do you ever answer a question directly?” she mutters.
