“Is your shirt dirty?” I ask, thinking maybe he got some dead guy stuff on it.
My mouth pulls into a frown. That’d be gross.
“No, just need a costume change.”
“Costume?”
Instead of replying, Hans lifts one knee until it’s pressed on the underside of the steering wheel, holding it in place, then uses both hands to remove his shoulder holster.
“Oh my god, what are you doing? Let me help.”
Hans sets the holster, guns included, on my lap. Followed by the sheathed knife from his hip.
Then, still driving the truck with his knee as we cruise down a highway that is not empty, he reaches behind himself, grips the collar of his T-shirt, and drags it up over his head.
“Hans!” I reach for the wheel, but it’s unnecessary. We don’t so much as swerve within the lines.
And then he’s shirtless.
And I’m speechless.
He’s so perfect. By not being perfect at all.
Scars. Muscles. Chest hair I want to nuzzle my face against.
Warm fabric hits me in the face, and I catch his shirt as it falls into my lap.
“Rude.” I ball up the material.
“It’s rude to stare.”
I look past Hans to the SUV riding in the lane next to us. And the woman who’s staring across at my topless man and not at the road.
Leaning across Hans, I press my middle finger to the glass.
“Cassandra.”
I lean back into my seat, chastised, but the woman speeds up, so I consider it a win.
Then I look up and see the crooked smile on Hans’s mouth.
“She was looking,” I defend.
He shakes his head, his loose hair fully air-dried and shining in the dim light of streetlamps. “You’re a menace.”
I shrug, then pull his backpack onto my lap. “What shirt?” I push around the pile of dark clothes.
“Here,” he says, reaching into the backpack and pulling out an item by touch.
He’s back to steering with his knee, shaking the shirt out.
It’s a gray button-down, and it’s surprisingly not wrinkled.
I snag a corner and rub it between my fingers. It’s super soft and a little stretchy. Definitely some sort of anti-wrinkle material. Great for people who run around with bags of clothes in their truck.
Hans starts to pull it on.
“Can I at least steer for you?” I ask.
“You can do my buttons.”
I lean out of the way as he stretches his arms to get the shirt to sit on his shoulders correctly.
When he has it how he wants it, Hans grips the steering wheel with his left hand and drapes his right arm across the back of the seat behind me.
Twisting toward him, I grip a button in one hand and the other side of the shirt in the other, then start.
I let my fingers brush over Hans’s skin. And I trace one scar for every button I do, loving the freedom of being able to just touch him like this.
I leave the top two buttons undone.
Fuck, he’s so hot.
Pressing my hand to his chest, I smooth down the row of buttons. But my eyes keep trailing down. To the noticeable bulge at the front of his pants.
“Thank you.” Hans’s voice sounds rougher than usual. Then he nods to the other backpack. “Your turn.”
I switch the bags so the one with the orange tag is closest to me. “My turn for what?”
“Change of clothes.”
I look down at myself. At my bare legs, my shorts hidden beneath the hoodie I clearly stole from someone bigger than me. “Where are we going?”
“The Syndicate.” He says the name of a nice hotel, and I suddenly feel uncomfortable about looking like such a goober.
“Why so fancy?”
“I like their room service.”
A flare of anger hits me. “You take a lot of women there?”
“Cassandra.” He’s back to using his scolding tone, but I’ve flipped past reason.
“What’s in here?” I rip open the zipper of the second backpack and see clothing that definitely doesn’t belong to Hans. “I’m not wearing your stash of skank clothes.”
His head jerks over to look at me.
I’m not used to these waves of awful jealousy. I’ve literally never felt anything like this before.
It’s all consuming.
It’s more than I know what to do with.
“I can’t—”
I was going to say I can’t be reasonable about wearing someone else’s clothes, but the arm on the back of the seat hooks around my shoulders, and Hans presses his hand over my mouth.
“You are going to listen to me for one fucking second before you finish that sentence. The backpack is full of your clothes, Cassandra Lynn. Your actual clothes.” My eyes widen. “I’m a sick fuck. I’ve crossed some pretty big lines when it comes to you. I won’t pretend otherwise. And I never wanted to drag you into the mess that is my life, but I still wanted to have you.” He uses his hold on me to pull me into his side. “I wanted to fucking keep you, Butterfly, from the moment I met you. And on the off chance something like tonight happened, I needed to be prepared. So, yeah, I took a few of your things. But now you have what you need.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out. “So be a good girl for me and find something to put on. Or don’t.” He shrugs against me. “You’re a beautiful woman. People won’t question what you’re wearing. But I’m a big creepy dude. If I showed up dressed in tactical black, dragging a girl like you behind me, people would assume I’m one of the trafficking assholes I’ve dedicated my life to killing.”