* * *
You can probably guessthat things don’t exactly go my way. Honestly, it’s not remotely a fair fight — a jacked MMA fighter armed with adrenaline and a full bottle of syrup, up against a girl in garters who generally considers running through the mall sufficient weeklycardio?
Yeah.
He moves like lighting, chasing me around with the bottle held aloft. Screeching louder than a cat in heat, I turn and sprint for the other side of the apartment. There’s little point — I’m not even running in the direction of the front door, so I’ve got no chance at escape unless I plan to hurl myself from the balcony into the harbor five storiesbelow.
I hear him close on my heels as I race toward the sectional. The wood floors are slippery beneath my stockings; I nearly face plant multiple times, but somehow manage to remain upright as I make a flying leap up onto the cushions. Don’t ask me why, but the only tactic I can seem to remember from all my years of binge-watchingGame of ThronesandVikingsis that high ground always has the advantage in abattle.
And that’s exactly whatthisis.
Abattle.
No —awar.
“Don’t even think about it, Buchanan!” I scream over one shoulder, laughing like a lunatic. I whirl around just in time to see him charge the couch, a blur of sinuous athletic grace. There’s a look of such dark thrill on his face, it makes my throatcloseup.
Oh,boy.
I realize, too late, that running from Luca will do me as little good as pleading with him. In fact, by doing so, I’ve given him what any alpha predator enjoys most in all theworld.
A goodchase.
He jumps up onto the couch along with me, landing on the cushion with such force my entire body is launched three inches into the air. Bouncing like a kid on a trampoline, I try to save myself by spinning around and dashing madly for the other end of thesectional.
Maybe I can make a run for the bathroom and barricademyself…
But it’s far, far too lateforthat.
I’m mid-leap when Luca’s arm snakes out and hooks me around the stomach. Before I know it, I find my course fully reversed, all forward momentum halted like a car hitting a brick wall. I’m hauled straight back into his chest, plastered so tight against him I can feel his every chiseled chest muscle firmly against myspine.
“Gotcha,” he mutters victoriously, flexing his grip like a cat playing with the mouse between his paws. “Any lastwords?”
My chest heaves beneath his hold. I couldn’t answer him, even if I wanted to. My pulse is pounding like a war drum as his face ducks down to the exposed slope of my shoulder. Nudging his still-sticky nose against my bare skin, he wipes the residual syrup in a streak across my thumping jugular vein. I try to laugh but, for some unfathomable reason, it comes out sounding more like a squeakoffear.
“Delilah,” he growls against the hollow beneath my ear. His voice is thrumming with dark delight. I hear the pop of a cap — the syrup bottle opening — and begin to struggle inhishold.
“Noooooo! Don’t you dare!” I plead, breathless with laughter and other emotions I really don’t care to define too closely. “You let me go right this minute, LucaBuchanan!”
A dark chuckle vibrates inmyear.
“Apologize, and maybe I’ll let you go.” His free hand, the one not wrapped around my midsection tighter than a bungee jumping harness, brings the syrup bottle into my line of sight. “Or don’t… and face the consequences…” He raises the open bottle menacingly, until it’s poised over my face. One tilt of his hand, and I’ll be astickymess.
“Fine,” I hiss, eyes locked on the gaping mouth of the bottle, where syrup threatens to flow. “I’msorry…”
Hearing my admission, Luca’s hold loosens fractionally. He thinks I’m giving up. Little does he know, I’m never one to admit defeat, nor am I about to pass up the prime opportunity for escape he’s justgivenme.
In a single fluid motion, I strike an elbow sharply into his ribs, then let my body go totally limp and duck out of his grip before he can react — a move I learned in a self-defense class I took last year, mainly because I thought it would help me meet cute guys. It’s nice to know I actually got more than a few phone numbers out of theexperience.
My Krav Maga instructor would be soproud.
Crowing with victory, I bounce from cushion to cushion like a kid playing a round of The Floor is Lava.With a massive leap, I hit the ground running and race for the bathroom like my life depends on it. (To be fair, itprobablydoes.)
Thrilled by my escape, I can’t help taunting himabit.
“I’msorryall right…sorry you’re such asucker!” I yell over myshoulder.
I hear his answering roar, the sound of his feet hitting the hardwood as he dives off the couch and races to catch up with me. Grinning like a total maniac, I keep my eyes fixed on the bathroom door, on escape, determined to beat him there, running as fast as I can toevadehim…