I stand up straighter, crossing my arms. “I don’t need an escort for the whole three-minute walk to my loft, Detective. I’m quite capable of walking myself home.”
A stubbornness matching my own stares back at me and I blurt out the only thing that might deter him from wanting to accompany me home. “I’m not having sex with you.”
He chuckles and the sound is divine, yet surprising to hear from a man who’s so intense. It would be music to my ears if he wasn’t so frustrating.
“Never thought you were going to, Linds. Now are you going to stand here and throw a tantrum some more, or are we leaving so we can both get home to our beds?”
My brows furrow. “It’s Lindsey. Not Linds,” I reply swiftly, my nickname sounding far too satisfying leaving his kissable lips. More of that and I’ll be begging for him to take me on the sidewalk.
“Oliver calls you Linds,” he points out.
“Well, yeah, he does, Mason. We’ve been best friends for seventeen years. He was allowed nickname rights after two of those.”
“Linds,” he reiterates, his tone now more serious than playful. “Shut down your sass and get your ass moving.” Seriously? Who the hell does this man think he is? I sigh, my eyes itchy from lack of sleep and my head’s now pounding. “Fine, you win this round. But don’t ever expect it to happen again.”
“Be back,” he mumbles as he marches off to where Detective Tate, who I now know is Roamyn, is sitting, his back to us with two blondes either side of him. Hesitating, Mason stops mid-stride. “Don’t go anywhere.” Yelling over the music, he eyes me like I’m about to make a run for it.
“Not moving, Mason, now hurry up.” I jab my arm out, gesturing for him to get a move on. If he doesn’t hurry up, I will leave.
After a quick goodbye and cheeky grin from Roamyn, I let Mason lead us out of the bar while giving him the directions to the loft.
Leaning in so close I can feel his hot breath on my ear, he whispers, “Lead the way, sweetheart.”
I melt, melt into a puddle of mush this gorgeous man created the moment he opened his mouth. Those deep blue hues, that foreign chuckle, his hard chest, and that dark hair on top of his head that I just want to run my fingers through, it all screams bad news at my carefully crafted routine I call life.
I want him, bad. I want him to slap those cuffs on, tell me what a bad girl I’ve been, and fuck me into oblivion. I hold back my grin. This is so not going to end well.
“Mother. Lover. Dreamer.”
Ivy Stone is an Australian author. She’s a self-confessed lover of alpha males and happily ever afters. Getting lost in a fictional world is how she discovered her passion for writing. When she isn’t daydreaming up new romantic stories, she’s likely to be found spending time with her family.
Ivy writes sexy romance and is the author of the Unguarded Series. She also loves to hear from her readers.
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