Page 48 of Daddies Dark Desires (Forbidden Fantasies)

I bolt the moment the elevator doors open, but Trent is close behind me.

It’s not like I’m walking super fast with a sore ass. Not in these heels. Nope. That’s a sure fire way of getting a cramp. Still, the rustling of my skirt chafes my skin and sparks an echo of Grant’s hand smacking down on my cheeks.

Heat builds, already at a simmer, and I take a deep breath of the fresh—almost fresh—city air. It centers me enough not to topple.

Because Trent is on my heels, his presence is like a firm touch along my back. That simmer is stronger. Part of me wants to merely stop and see if he runs into me. Oh god, I bet that would feel majestic.

I bite my lip, remembering how Grant loomed over me. How it felt to be smashed against his body. The size of his thigh between mine.

I swallow back a strangled noise. I’ve never let a big guy like the two of them take me to bed. Never found one as appealing as they are.

Oliver is more often my type. Lithe. Slumped under the weight of their intelligence. Their baggage. Or far too falsely pleased with themselves. None of them quite as intense as Oliver. Not so quiet. Not so dark.

Mmm. I shake off the thoughts and bask in the freedom and pleasure of being in the sun. Of moving. My head leans back a little to soak in the rays.

Glancing back at Trent when we stop at a corner, I make a face at him. A childish one that makes me seem all the brattier.

But he’s grumpy and serious, his gaze taking in everything. Sour puss.

I send an elbow back at him, but he simply grasps my arm to stop me. He doesn’t even glance my way.

“Hey, you know you can blink, right? I’m not going to bolt.” We’re just getting lunch after all. It’s like two blocks the opposite direction from the train anyway.

“I’m not watching you.”

I frown but don’t press. He’s being far too critical. Too zoned in.

I shake my head, pressing on when the light changes. Grabbing lunch is easy. Sunny called it in the moment Trent dragged me toward the elevator. She’s good like that. And there’s only seven of us.

I grab both bags in one arm and juggle the box of drinks in the other.

“Let me?—”

“No. I can do it.”

Trent only stares at me for a heartbeat before he waves his hand, indicating my lead.

Halfway to the corner, Trent’s hand grabs my arm, hauling me behind him. The drinks jostle, threatening to spill.

“Trent. God. Watch out.” I barely keep them from falling, the bags swinging heavy against my side, making my balance precarious.

“Drop the food.”

“What? No, we just paid for it.”

“Now.”

My body obeys before my brain catches up. I drop it, startled. Bags fall, and the drinks topple like pins; plastic lids scatter, splaying soda and sugar across the pavement and people’s shoes. Sauce splatters.

And that’s when I see it—the way Trent’s body blocks mine, the way his hand goes subtly toward the small of his back like he’s ready to draw something.

Does he have a gun on him?

Sudden panic grips me, and I grab the back of his shirt to maintain contact with reality. I didn’t even see anything wrong.

Soon, I’m inside a car.

What the hell is going on?