Page 3 of Redline
Suffices.I looked at the marble waterfall island in the kitchen and the view of the glowing fireplace in the distance. “It’s fine,” I said, my voice dry.
Once we were alone, Dad collapsed into his room, jet lag winning the fight that his pride had been losing all day. I unpacked slowly, my nerves humming like static. My body was exhausted, but my brain was revving in neutral. I stacked my accounting textbooks on the desk—a boring, stable security blanket in a world made of engines and arrogance. I didn't want to be the girl waiting in the paddock, holding a clipboard and a fake smile while a person risked their life and a bank account for a trophy. I wanted a degree with solid, measurable numbers thatdidn't depend on how fast someone could turn a corner or how many sponsors they could charm.
By 1:00 AM, I was finally under the covers. The sheets smelled like expensive detergent and the kind of wealth that doesn't care if you're comfortable or not. I was just drifting off when I heard it.
A moan. Low, breathy, and definitely not the house settling.
I rolled over, pressing my face into the pillow.Ignore it. It's the wind. It's a very sexual, rhythmic wind.
Another moan. Higher this time. Followed by a light, rhythmic thud against the wall directly behind my headboard.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I hissed into the dark.
The thuds became more enthusiastic, the wall vibrating with the force of whatever athletic performance was happening on the other side. The giggles turned into choked sounds of pleasure that had zero business being in my ears.
I curled my hand into a fist and hammered it against the wall.Thump-thump-thump.The universal code for "shut up or I'm calling a priest."
Everything paused for a heartbeat. I held my breath, waiting for the apology, the silence, the shred of human decency.
Then, the thrusting came back. Harder. Faster. Like the wall itself was a challenge for whoever was on the other side was determined to break.
“Oh God—yes—” the female voice wailed.
My face went nuclear. I didn't just lie there. I couldn't. I shoved my feet into my slippers, grabbed my robe, and marched into the kitchen. If I couldn't sleep, I was at least going to find some caffeine and wait for the performance to end so I could reclaim my peace.
I sat at the island, staring at the dark kitchen, the faint rhythm of the wall still mocking me from down the hall. I opened mylaptop, the glow of a spreadsheet on "Advanced Tax Theory" acting as my only comfort.
Eventually, the symphony of bad decisions died down. The silence that followed was heavy, punctuated only by the soft hum of the refrigerator. I didn't go back to bed. I stayed hunched over the marble island, finishing a chapter on liquidating distributions, the glow of the screen the only thing keeping the profile of this house at bay.
The universe wasn't just screaming at me anymore. It was mocking me.
I must have drifted off right there, my head resting on the surface of my laptop. When I finally jolted awake, the morning sun was slicing through the floor-to-ceiling glass like a physical attack. My neck was stiff, my brain felt like it was floating in lukewarm vinegar, and I had to wipe a stray bit of drool from the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand.
I was a mess—groggy, disoriented, and desperate for caffeine. The rhythmic thumping from the night before was a distant, fuzzy memory, shoved aside by the immediate need to function. I stumbled toward the high-end espresso machine, fumbling with the buttons until the rich, bitter scent of coffee began to fill the air.
While the thing hissed, I dragged my feet toward the refrigerator, my eyes half-closed. I just needed creamer. One splash and I might actually remember my own name.
I swung the heavy door shut, clutching the carton to my chest—and my heart nearly exited my throat.
There was someone standing there. Not just in the kitchen, but right in my space, barely inches from the fridge door.
I gasped, stumbling back against the counter, the fog in my brain clearing instantly.
He was tall—ridiculously so—with broad shoulders and dark hair that was damp and pushed back from his forehead as ifhe’d just stepped out of a shower. He wasn't wearing a shirt. He wasn't wearinganythingbut a white towel slung precariously low on his hips, water still tracing slow, deliberate paths down the deep, defined valleys of his abs.
My first thought, traitorous and involuntary, was that he was unfairly attractive. He had the kind of dark brown eyes that looked like they hadn't seen a no in years. Up close, the superstar from the billboards looked less like a star and more like a fallen angel with a king complex.
Dominic Valerio didn’t move. He just stood there, watching the way my breath hitched and my pulse hammered against the hollow of my throat, a slow, sinful smirk curling his mouth.
"You look lost, sweetheart," he drawled. His voice was a low, dark purr that felt like a physical vibration against my skin. "Or maybe just surprised to see someone who actually fits the decor."
I gripped the creamer carton until the cardboard buckled, the dampness of the container the only thing keeping me grounded. "Who the fuck do you think you are? Get out of here."
Instead of backing off, he stepped into my personal space, forcing me back until my spine hit the edge of the island. He slammed both hands down on the counter on either side of my hips, pinning me in. He was a wall of damp skin and heat, smelling of expensive soap and the clean burn of adrenaline.
"I live here," he said, his voice dropping an octave as he leaned down, his face inches from mine. "The real question is, which one of my father’s little tramps are you? He usually has better taste in morning-after attire, but I suppose the disheveled student look has its own… gritty charm."
His gaze dragged down the length of my oversized gray tee and bare legs in a slow, deliberate appraisal that wasn't a compliment—it was a mapping.
