Page 2 of Like You Want It

Correction.

There’s a pounding on my door.

A fierce wallop that shakes the hinges and has the devil on my shoulder rubbing her hands together and giggling like Yzma inEmperor’s New Groove.“Ha ha ha ha ha!” I laugh loudly, quoting my favorite line. “I win.”

I drop the pan and wooden spoon into my sink with an aggressive clank, and storm over to where my door is still getting the abuse of its life. I throw the heavy thing open with the strength of a mother lifting a car to get her child, prepared to go to battle.

I’m expecting a woman, since the only person I’ve seen upstairs over the past few days has been female. But maybe that was an assistant. Or a sibling. Or a wife.

Because the man standing on the other side of the door is someone I don’t recognize. Although that’s not what catches the majority of my attention.

Not truly.

Unfortunately – or fortunately, depending on your opinion – I’m a bit distracted by his shirtlessness, low hanging jeans, and the hands resting on hips that have my gaze focusing on that ‘V’ fit men have at the waist. What does Dina call that area? Sex muscles? Dick lines?

I drag my eyes away and come back to his face, which is gritted in an expression that has that same little devil on my shoulder jumping up and down with glee and giving me a round of fucking applause.

It really is quite a handsome face, with a chiseled jaw clenched tight, narrowed brown eyes, and adorable little wrinkles between his brows as he glares daggers at me.

Any other day, I might have taken a moment to blush and swoon. He has that broody male thing going on that seems to hit all of my good buttons.

I mean, who doesn’t get a little turned on at the sight of a delicious alpha male? My body was literally designed to spring into action to procure him for reproductive purposes. It’s why I follow all those Norwegian Viking guys on Instagram.

Hubba, hubba.

But just like everything else going on this morning?

Today is not that day.

Nope.

Definitely not.

So, instead of taking any more time to further appreciate the view in front of me, I give him a confused expression and shout “Can I help you!?,” my voice barely traveling with the force of the music behind me.

“It’s six o’clock in the morning,” is what I think he says.

But I don’t know for absolute certainty because he isn’t shouting to be heard. He just speaks at me, allowing the rigid glare of his eyes to communicate his disdain, the annoyed wrinkles on his forehead becoming aggressively more pronounced.

I furrow my brows and shake my head. “What!?”

“I said,” he repeats, taking a step forward, his voice rising only slightly, “it’s six. O clock. In the morning.”

I shrug and put a hand up to my ear. “I can’t hear you!” I shout, schooling my expression to keep from smiling.

God, I feel fucking evil right now. I almost laugh at my own absurdity. Is this really the most atrocious thing I’ve ever done to someone? I try to think back to whether or not I’ve ever really been a dick to another human being in my life.

But before I can complete that thought, he does something I donotexpect. He steps past me into my apartment, stalks over to the wall of bookshelves where my stereo rests, and hits the power button.

The noise ceases instantly.

As much as I’m enjoying that look ofI’ve-just-been-startled-the-fuck-awakethat covers his face, it is a much appreciated break on my abused eardrums, and I fight the urge to let out a sigh of relief.

Holy goodness that was loud.

“Oh, I amsosorry,” I feign concern, my hand coming up to my chest and resting daintily at the base of my throat. If only I had a pair of pearls to clutch. “Could you hear my music?”

“Could I hear it?” he repeats back to me, his voice dripping with disbelief, though the deep timber surprises me. “Are you serious? It sounded like someone set up an amp next to my face and started playing at max volume. At six in the fucking morning.”