Page 4

CHAPTER THREE

VALE

The briny beach air revives me as I tap on my phone, squinting to read it.

Focus, Vale. Focus.

“What are you doing?” A smoky voice asks from the shadows of the garage.

I whip around, shocked as darkness slices angles across a face until the gas lamp light reveals … it’s Mr. Allen , and like always, I suddenly fight for breath in his presence.

I hate it. I hate the effect he has on me. It’s oddly arousing as I wave my phone. “Getting an Uber.”

“I’ll drive you home,” he orders.

“I’m finnne .” Did I just slur?

“No, you’re not.”

“ Yesssss , I ammm.” Yep, I got a margarita mouth.

“Vale,” he sneers, “you’re not getting into a stranger’s car when you’ve been drinking.”

“Okay, Boomer. That’s what Ubers are for.”

“I’m not a Boomer,” I stumble a bit as he stalks my way, demanding, “and you’ll do as I say.”

Yes, this man is hot, but yes, he can be a royal asshole. He always does this. He always takes over whenever I hate to need him. He did it when I was a teenager, and he’s done it every day since I called him to help me with a big accounting mess I made at my job, and now?

He fucks with my emotions. They shift from enamored to annoyed and…

Wait. Was he out here waiting for me to leave?

Who cares? I’m equally stubborn.

“You always forget; you’re Alena’s dad. Not. Mine.”

“No. You’re my … my guest , and it’s a Sunday night.” He flicks his cigar into the sand. “It’ll take an hour for an Uber to get here, and that’s unacceptable.” He jerks his chin toward a van parked in the garage. “Get in my car.”

“You’re not the boss of me,” I sass back, suddenly sixteen again. “And it won’t take an hour. It says it’ll be here in…”

I check the app and roll my eyes.

“Uh-huh.” He sounds amused, my pulse rising as he nears. “What does it say?”

“None of your business.”

“My property.” He casts shadows over me. “My business.”

I snap my phone behind my back. “It says nothing.”

“Your Uber app says the ETA is nothing ?” He smirks. “What an abstract sense of time for such precise technology.”

“Well,” I huff, “I’ll enjoy the night air.”

“You’ll enjoy standing in my driveway at midnight for over an hour?”

“Yep.” I pop my lips, tipping my head back. Whoops. Tequila. I sway, searching the sky. “I can study the constellations. I’m looking for Orion.”

“You’re looking drunk.”

“I’m not drunk!” Too quickly, I snap my stare back at him, and the world shifts on its axis. I stumble forward, and he’s fast. He catches me in his arms.

His tan, smooth, beefy arms with muscles and veins popping everywhere that I’m not supposed to notice, but fuck my life, I’ve memorized them. He has a scar on his left forearm. I’ve mapped it and his sexy face because that’s the only flesh he exposes.

Even in black-rimmed geeky glasses, Nash Allen is hot. He’s brooding. He’s intense. He studies you like prey and smells like primal sex. Like he’s an animal who just had it, though he acts too uptight to fuck.

For God’s sake, the man fastens the top button of his snug, black golf shirt.

Who does that?

No one. It’s against PGA rules.

Okay, it’s not, but it should be. Because, on most, you look like a nerd doing it and not in a stylish way.

But on Nash Allen? He makes a tight golf shirt collar look as sexy as a BDSM choker. One he yanks as you kneel, wanting to serve him.

He steadies me, my breasts smashed against his chest before he shoves me away.

Glancing over my shoulder, he holds me at arm’s length, his grip controlling as his eyes narrow, suddenly tracking something behind me before he growls, “Get in my car, Vale. Now .”

I’m sorry; not sorry. No man tells me what to do. “Did you eat asshole tonight because you sound like one?”

He raises a thick, dark brow. Intrigued. Irate. “The only ass I’ll handle tonight is yours with a good spanking if you don’t get in my fucking car right now.”

And he always does that, too.

He orders you around, making your pride revolt while your pussy purrs. He plays whiplash with your emotions. His mindfuck, next-level. He doesn’t give you a choice; he takes control.

Why can’t he be nice and make me a cheeseburger again? Hell, I’d love his floppy tulips, too.

I barely drop my phone into my purse, letting him yank me by the arm. I barely climb into the passenger seat he promptly drops my ass into. I barely get a chance to protest before he’s speeding out his driveway.

But now, trapped as his passenger … I have all the time in the world to give him hell.

Why? Because Nash Allen has been ordering me around since I was thirteen, that’s when I met his daughter, Alena.

At first, I liked it. My real dad didn’t give a shit about me and my sister. So, I guess I liked Mr. Allen’s overbearing protection, his unrelenting questions about my goals, and the pressure he put on me to succeed. Alena thrived under it, and I practically lived at their house, so Mr. Allen drove me, too.

But now?

Okay, he’s literally driving me again, but he’s not my father. Hell, Nash Allen works for me now. He’s the accountant I hired for my employer.

He’s a man so controlling that he does everything three times. Three times, he checks his math. Three times, he’ll save a spreadsheet. Three times now, he checks his rearview mirror before suddenly stepping on the gas pedal, the inertia slamming me back into the passenger seat.

“You know,”—I huff—“if you want to drive like a bat out of hell, get a little sports car because you can’t Tokyo Drift in your big, burgundy minivan.”

He snickers, “Wanna bet?” as he starts flying down the quiet road with the dark ocean on our left and me, looking for cops who aren’t around.

We’re breaking every rule of the road, and usually, I’m a rebel. But now? Hell, no.

“This is a dad-car with duffel bags and golf clubs rolling in the back,” I snap. “I bet your minivan wets lots of MILF panties, but I’m not impressed by speed. Slow down!”

“I’m not into fast MILFs.” He stares ahead, making those thick glasses too sexy. “I’m in a new Honda Odyssey with a one hundred and twenty-nine horsepower, V6, three-point six-liter engine and?—”

Fuck this. The speedometer reads eighty-one, physics works, and I’m scared. And when I’m scared, my mouth starts firing.

“I don’t care if you’re Lewis Hamilton rocking sexy braids, a nose piercing, and a Formula-One winning Mercedes. Yeah, he’s hot. And I’m sure he fucks as fast and furious as he drives, but I can assure you, no man, sex, and certainly no burgundy minivan are worth dying for! Slow down!”

I grip my seat belt, glancing in my side-view mirror. Ironically, a dark Mercedes is following us, and … damn, they’re close .

“Sounds like you’re having bad sex.” He smirks. “Furious fucks are hot. Fast ones are not.”

“We’re racing over a three-mile bridge!” I shriek. “We can plunge to our death at any moment, and you have the nerve to lecture me about sex?”

“You brought it up.”

“As an example.”

“Oh, so you’re not having fast and furious sex?”

“I have sex all the time!”

“Quantity,” he swerves around a motorcycle not traveling at the speed of light like we are, “is not quality.”

How is this happening? How did I go from a good buzz on a quiet night celebrating my best friend’s engagement to racing down the road with her hot dad, lecturing me about my lousy sex life?

I’d be mortified, but death is imminent. It’s impossible to care.

Besides, he can’t know. No one knows how right he is.

His glance flicks to the rearview mirror. Three times. Again. Then, he slams the pedal down more.

“What are you doing?” I screech.

“Getting you home safely.”

“Safely?” We reach the end of the bridge before he burns rubber on a left turn. “I’ll arrive home in a pine box if you don’t slow down!”

“Come on now.” He pats my thigh. “I’d pay for a nicer coffin than that.”

His sudden, warm touch thrills me, and if I live, I’m having a serious talk with my pussy. “Don’t joke!”

“I’m dead serious.”

“Don’t say dead !” I grab the oh-shit handle, watching in horror. “Red light! Red light!”

“It’s just a suggestion.” He ignores it, blasting under it at Mach 5.

“No, this is just a one-way ticket to my grave.” I howl, “Slow. The. Fuck. Down.”

He’s driving so fast, deftly weaving the van around cars, blasting through intersections, while the Mercedes behind us does the same. Other cars honk, angry at the deadly risk we impose, and I agree.

I can’t look. I squeeze my eyes shut.

Who is this reckless man?

This isn’t the uptight man I grew up with—the one who insisted on teaching me how to change a tire when I started to drive or taught Alena and me how to get out of chokeholds. He was obsessed with our safety, so when I went to college, I asked Mr. Allen to track my phone because, yeah, he was tough on me, but I always felt safe with him.

But now? He’s scaring me, and not in the way I’ve felt for so many years. I’m used to the terror of wanting Nash Allen.

With one whiff of his cologne—leather and vanilla. With one look, my body wants him while my mind suffers so much guilt about it. He’s my best friend’s dad. I’d never betray Alena, though I ache for something I’ve never had.

Is it a father figure? Or is it more? I don’t know, but he’s the only man I’ve ever felt safe with.

Until now.

For minutes, I can’t speak. I’m sweating. I’m scared. I’m going to throw up again. I fight tears, and I don’t cry. I won’t cry. Still, emotion floods my voice.

“Please, Mr. Allen, slow down,” I quietly beg. “My mom died in a car crash.”

Instantly, the engine stops revving high. He slows down. I feel him grab my hand, his warm touch brushing over my thigh again while he commands, “Vale, look at me.”

I open my eyes. I obey. But when I turn to him…

What the…

I’m not looking at “Mr. Allen,” the irritating man who practically raised me. The caring man who’d ask about my exams. The controlling man who thinks he’s the boss of me. The uptight man who has to do almost everything three times. Or the cold man who ignores me now.

No. He’s taken off his nerdy glasses. He’s unbuttoned his collar. All the way.

Oh, my inked God, his tan pecs are covered in black designs. His light brown eyes are suddenly heated, foreign, and menacing while he swears, “I’ll never hurt you, Vale, and I’ll kill anyone who does.”

I’m in awe.

In shock.

In love?

The Mercedes taps our bumper, and I scream, stunned out of my stupor, as he drops my hand and accelerates. Popping open his low center console, he pulls out a gun.

“Now,” he orders, “for once in your life, Vale Monroe, don’t give me hell. Do exactly as I say. Do you understand?”

It stammers over my lips, “Yes, sir.”

“Good girl.”