Page 45 of Bronson

“Perfectly nice man-boy. And I acted as if my obsession with you gave me the right to possess you.”

I wait some more.

His expression tightens. “It did not.”

Now I truly have nothing clever to say.

“I am sorry, Paige.”

“That sounded painful.”

“Excruciating.”

I fight a smile. “Apology accepted.”

We slide into the backseat, across smooth black leather. Our thighs are touching. The scent of his cologne fills the cab.

It turns me on. Shifting in my seat, I cross my legs. Just being near him makes my pussy impossibly wet.

My spine straightens. Excitement pulses through me. I’m alone with Bronson. I’m going to his house for the first time.

His hand rests on my thigh.

I put my hand over his, nudging it further up my thigh.

“Naughty kitten. I haven’t even kissed you yet,” he murmurs, giving my thigh a punishing squeeze.

Yet.

He’s going to kiss me. Tonight. I know he will. Anticipation forms butterflies in my stomach. They take flight, their fluttering wings tickling my insides. My fingers intertwine with his.

“Are we close, Mr. Bachman?” I ask.

He gives me an exasperated look. “Call me Bronson.”

“How about I call you Brauny? That has a nice ring to it,” I tease. I feel light, excited.

His gaze is directed at the windshield. His fingers tighten slightly around mine. He whispers, “Only in private.”

I’d been joking. But he likes the nickname.

We’ve arrived at Bachman’s. We pull down a narrow alley I never noticed. The car stops. I feel my brow furrowing. “How did the cabbie know to go back here? You didn’t even tell him where we were going.”

“He’s not a cabbie. He’s my driver. And my bodyguard. He follows you home every day to be sure you get there safe. I walk you out the door of the store, then watch from the window as he pulls behind you.”

I lean over, whispering, “You have me followed?”

I have asked a senseless question. His brow furrows at me and he states, “Of course.”

I take a closer look around the car. I hadn’t realized I’d been riding in the lap of luxury. The dash is covered in buttons and gadgets I’d never seen before and would have no idea what to do with.

There, on the dash, is a gun. I swallow hard. I’ve never seen one in real life.

The back of the driver’s neck is neatly shaven. A black cap sits on his head. In the rearview mirror, the driver catches my eye and tips his hat to me. “Hello, Ms. Paige.”

“Ah, hello,” I say. I’m unsure how to greet the man who has watched me hike across ten blocks every day. One who owns a gun.

We pull up to Bachman’s store.