Which is how I find myself carrying her upstairs to my room.
When I mount the landing and pass through the door, I set her down on my feather-down mattress. She stirs and moans quietly until she finds a comfortable position. Then she lets out a deep sigh and now, it’s my cock that’s stirring. It gives me this weird sense of satisfaction seeing her in my space. That’s not a thought I’ve had very often.
Or at all.
About any woman.
Ever.
And there have been a few. The little narushitel was right about one thing—the revolving door hasn’t stopped in a long time. The question is, was she right about everything else, too?
There was a moment back there when I was caught between the heat of her body and the heat of her words. No one has ever held a mirror up to my face before and fought back.
It’s enough to force me to amend my opinion of her. That’s new, too. No woman has ever surprised me. No woman has ever intrigued me. No woman has ever made me feel like a second meeting was necessary.
But this woman…
She fights fire with fire. Her words were sharp, direct, entirely too confident. Confident enough to make me wonder if her assessment of me was accurate.
I consider it for maybe three seconds before I decide…
Hell no. I fuck because I want to fuck.
End of story.
I should be halfway to her shack by now to tear the whole place apart in search of Sobakin’s impromptu little gift. But for some reason, I can’t stop looking at her. It’s those goddamn jeans. They fit her like a second skin, same as her tank top. Her nipples pushing through the thin fabric show that she’s not wearing a bra, either.
I snort to myself. If she was wearing a bra, there’d probably be a fucking cartoon dog on each cup. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Alyssa Walsh tonight, it’s that she can’t pick underwear to save her life.
The thought of her in black lace lingerie rises up in my mind. Towering heels, a corset to push those—
No. Not going there. I did not bring this innocent little irritant into my house under false pretenses just to stand by the bed and stare at her all night like some moony-eyed teenager.
I turn abruptly and head outside. Since she’s sleeping in my bedroom, it’s only fair that I go examine hers.
When I arrive, my men are already in her house, scoping the place out. Ratimir is in the living room, literally lifting up the couch to see what’s hiding underneath it. As it turns out, the answer to that question is: years’ worth of dust bunnies, cobwebs, and a fair amount of chocolate wrappers. Apparently, Alyssa has a thing for Snickers bars.
I make my way to her bedroom and find it thick with her honeysuckle scent. I breathe it in and walk around. By the looks of it, Alyssa has never met a clear surface that she didn’t hate. She’s managed to fill this tiny room with endless sentimental bullshit. Pictures, knickknacks, handwritten notes. There’s a chair lodged in on the right side of her bed where a bedside table should be. It faces the window, so I’m assuming this is her ‘reading nook’ and, wouldn’t you know—it boasts a direct view of the southwest gardens as well as my front door.
An embroidered lampshade hangs over the chair and a footrest in the shape of a tiny gray elephant sits just in front of it. Shoved off to one side is a battered wooden chest. I root through it and find nothing but bed linens and towels. Scowling, I leave that aside and go investigate the dresser.
The first drawer I open is full of her underwear.
Leave no stone unturned, right?
I start rifling through it. I’m somewhat surprised to find that not all her underwear is of the sad and depressing variety. She’s actually got a few sexy panties and thin, lacy bras in the mix. One lavender lace thong in particular has my cock perking up. It doesn’t look like it gets out much, but at least this one doesn’t still have a price tag on it like most of the others do.
What a fucking waste.
“Boss?”
“What is it?” I snap, shoving the drawer closed so that Ratimir doesn’t see what I was looking at.
His eyebrows rise, but he’s smart enough to keep his mouth shut. “Um, sir, just wanted to let you know that we found this back on your property a short while ago. It was taken in by one of the maids and left on your desk.”
I don’t have to look at the name on the package to know who it belongs to. Alyssa Walsh.
“You’re excused. Let me know the minute you find anything.”
Ratimir leaves the room and I stare at Alyssa’s package. Then, with a sigh, I get to work. As I rip into the box, I tell myself that I’m just being thorough. I need to know that she ordered what she said she ordered. But even when I find the interior box that reads Eve’s Garden: Pleasure of Every Variety in curling white script, I don’t stop. “Pleasure of Every Variety”—that could be anything, right? I need to be certain. So I tear into this one, too.