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He didn’t. If anything, he moved in closer, trapping her more firmly against the wall.

Paige frowned. That was not how he was supposed to respond.

“Stop.” When she shoved against him again, he caught her hand and tugged it close, wrapping his fingers securely around her wri

sts, imprisoning her. She didn’t like that and frowned her disfavor. “Dorian. Stop. I said stop.”

He grinned smugly. “But we’re just getting started.”

Dipping back in, he kissed her neck, giving the sensitive skin a sharp, painful nip with his teeth just as his hand caught the hem of her dress and started working its way up.

Startled by his audacity, she lurched so violently in his arms she was able to dislodge him enough for her to gain a bit of breathing space.

As soon as she slipped out from between him and wall, she took off running, but tripped in the heels she’d borrowed from Mariah. She got another awkward fumbling step away before a big meaty hand hooked her around the waist.

“Hey!” She flailed in his arms as he picked her up off the ground. “Dorian. This isn’t funny. Let me go.”

“Not until I’m finished with you.”

He spun her around, the vertigo catching her unaware. The wall he shoved her into smacked her hard and fast in the face, cutting her scream short. Sharp pain spiked through her cheek and rattled her brain.

Dorian snickered as he pressed against her from behind, grinding roughly against her bottom. “Know what I like most about skirts?” he rasped into her ear, his breath sticky on the back of her neck. “Easy access.”

Panic gripped her. Fingers on the back of her legs tugged her dress up. She felt sick. She swallowed and tried not to lose the Jell-O shots she’d slugged down. “No,” she moaned. “Stop. Somebody help me!”

Dorian slapped his hand over her mouth. She couldn’t even bite him, he held her so hard. She tried to scream for help, but his fingers gagged her.

Bitter cold air rushed up her legs, letting her know he’d exposed her. Her panties tore next, but the sturdy waistband caught and held, keeping him from shredding them off her hips. He cursed under his breath, and she bucked and wiggled, making him lose his grip before he caught her again and tried once more to rip her underwear off.

Terrified tears stung her eyes. Her esophagus burned from the screams he trapped in her throat with his hand. She tried to swing her arms behind her to fight him off. She tried to lever her legs up and push from the wall in front of her. But the attempts were useless. She couldn’t even slam her skull back and hit him in the face; he held her head too firmly against his shoulder.

Just as the fabric of her panties began to tear, Dorian leaped backward away from her, releasing his grip. Relieved, she sank to the ground and shimmied her skirt back down over her thighs. Still in a crouch and not sure if she could stand on her shaking legs, she spun to face him, prepared to fight him off again…when she realized he hadn’t voluntarily left.

Someone had ripped him away. Her savior spun Dorian to face him, putting Dorian’s back to Paige, a split second before he reared his fist back and cracked the star quarterback in the jaw.

From her huddle on the cobblestones, Paige couldn’t see her hero’s face…until Dorian crumpled, revealing a livid Logan Xander, decked out in his bright red Designated Driver shirt.

She gasped as he reached down and picked Dorian up again by the front of his shirt.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

SO FURIOUS THAT HE SHOOK, physically shook, Logan jerked Paige’s attacker off the ground, manually picking him back up by his shirtfront.

Glancing over Dorian’s shoulder, Logan checked on Paige. The tears streaming down her cheeks gave her raccoon eyes while a red smudge rimmed the corner of her lip. And one side of her face—the opposite side of her already bruised cheek—looked significantly darker than the other, as if she’d been hit or slapped. Huddled on the ground, she fumbled to yank up the broken strap of her dress, covering herself.

When a terrified hiccup escaped her, he saw red. Literally. A red haze of anger clouded his vision. Returning his attention to Dorian, he saw the bleeding man in nothing but shades of crimson.

“You need to leave. Now.”

Gripping his nose with his hand, Dorian Wade didn’t leave. He snarled and shoved Logan. “Who ’da fuck do you think you are, hitting me?” When he focused on the red shirt in front of him, he slurred, “Oh, hell no. Designated Dave is not going to kick my ass.”

He swung but missed when Logan ducked out of his way. Then the drunk idiot came back for more. When one of his swings was lucky enough to catch Logan in the temple, Logan reared his elbow back and punched forward. The satisfying crunch of knuckle into jaw actually sounded good to his ear.

But it caused Dorian’s head to snap back and his legs to go limp. Behind him, Paige screamed as Dorian slumped to the ground.

And didn’t stir.

He blinked at the unmoving body, reality seizing him. A flicker of Trace Zukowski’s dead eyes staring up at him as he lay crumbled in nearly the same limp position.