“Good.” A second later his mouth hits mine, delivering a lingering kiss that makes my mind spin. Things are just getting good when he breaks away. “We have to go.”
My bottom lip juts out in a pout. “I still don’t understand why I have to leave tomorrow.”
His eyes find mine and there’s no mistaking the serious look in them. “I can’t do this with you here, little bird. The thought of them coming after you, hurting you again…” His head shakes swiftly. “When I think about that, I can’t focus on anything else. Hell, I can barely fucking breathe.”
My face softens. “Nate—”
“I need you safe.” His voice is firm. “And you won’t be, until you’re away from here.”
I sigh, frustrated but resigned. I’m not so pig-headed I can’t see the logic behind his words.
“Fine,” I whisper. “I’ll go. But I won’t like it.”
He nips my bottom lip playfully. “I put Boo’s water bowls, food, and leash in a bag by the door. Does he need anything else?”
“Stuffed duck toy,” I say immediately.
“Okay. I’ll make sure we grab the duck on the way out.” Nate’s eyes crinkle. “You finish packing your shit?”
“Yes.” I tilt my head toward the bag resting by the fridge. “Though it wasn’t easy, since I have no idea where you’re sending me.”
“Somewhere safe.”
I give him a look. “Vague, much?”
His lips twitch as he strolls across the room and picks up my bag.
“Christ, this is heavy. What’s in here? A grenade launcher?” Before I can say a word, he’s unzipped the duffle and peered inside. “Three pairs of heels? Really, West?” He shakes his head in exasperation. “You’re going to a safe house, not Paris Fashion Week.”
“Don’t you dare touch my shoes, Nathaniel Knox!” I hiss, hopping off the counter and striding toward him, tugging the hem of my black Prada mini-dress as I go. “I need those!”
“You don’t.”
“I do!” I screech, watching as he pulls out two pairs and sets them on the counter. “Hey!”
“Little bird, I’m telling you — you don’t need the damn shoes.”
“What if I have to go out somewhere fancy? What if some kind of formal engagement comes up out of the blue? What if….” I search frantically for reasons to justify my need for the shoes. “What if the President invites me to dinner at the White House? Or what if my invitation to this year’s Academy Awards as Bradley Cooper’s date — which was surely lost in the mail up till this point — arrives? Huh? What then, Nate?!”
He stares at me, mouth twitching. “You think that’s likely?”
“Ugh!” I smack him with a Ted Baker slingback. “That’s not the point.”
“Whatisthe point?”
“You never know what’ll happen! You never know when a quality designer pump is going to be needed!” I glare at him. “Just because you’re a barbarian with no appreciation for high heels—”
He removes the deadly weapon from my grip, locks his hands around my wrists like manacles, and backs me up against the fridge in one swift move. He’s so close, I can feel each breath move through his chest as he presses into me. His mouth is millimeters from mine, his eyes never shift from my face, and I think he’s going to kiss me again. Instead, he speaks. (To my vast disappointment.)
“I have the highest appreciation for them,” he says, eyes on fire. “They’ve been driving me fucking crazy since I came home from my first tour and saw you’d switched from Sperry’s to stilettos overnight. Do you know how many times those damn shoes have given me hard-ons in the past ten years? How many times I’ve pictured you wearing nothingbutthose damn shoes while I’m buried deep inside you?”
He’s breathing hard — so am I. His admission is so hot, desire returns in a swift instant until every atom in my body is practically buzzing with it.
“Oh,” I murmur, eyes on his mouth.
Kissmekissmekissmekissme.
“Yeah,” he says roughly, barely in control. “Keep looking at me like that and we’re going to miss your party.”