Page 2 of Scary Hot

His deep voice rumbles throughout my apartment and directly through the nerves connecting my nipples to my clit, making both throb, awakening with desire. “Shy little kitten knows her way around a gun. Makes me wonder if it’s only the metal kind, or if she can handle the flesh and blood kind.”

I gasp at his words, stepping back inside my bedroom doorway. I place my gun on my dresser, yanking open the drawer to pull out one of my Soma nightshirts. I always thought it was an old lady brand… until I felt the soft material against my skin. I’d gotten rid of every pajama I owned and replaced them with these in every color and pattern they made.

Oh, God. Z was going to see me in my old lady nightgown!

Wait a second.

Why am I embarrassed more by that thought than a moment ago when he saw me naked?

Z is not just hot. He’s scary hot.

Hot, I can handle like a champ. I can make hot bend to my will and worship the ground I walk on. But scary hot? Brings out a submissive side of me I’m not 100 percent sure I like.

Taking a deep breath and letting it out, I step back out into the hallway, my brow furrowing when I see Z is no longer in my living room. Peeking around the wall, relief fills me when I see he’s in my kitchen, standing hunched over my sink with the water running. I would’ve been in complete panic if he had left, thinking he was on his way to the hospital and then to rat me out.

But he was the one who broke into my house! It was self-defense! Or protecting my property… or something.

With that thought in mind, I go to ask him what the hell he was doing sneaking in through my window, but what comes out is, “Are you okay? I’m so sorry.” My lip trembles, remembering the hurt in his voice after I shot him.

His eyes come to me when I step near him to get a closer look, his face softening when he sees my regret. “It’s all right. Nothing I haven’t been through before.” My eyes widen in shock, but before I can ask what he means, he asks, “Do you have any needle and thread? Bullet went straight through.”

“Um… no. I’m not that domestic.” I blush.

“Aren’t you a vet tech or something?” he asks, tilting his head.

“No.” I shake my head. “I’m an office manager. I majored in Business Management while July went to veterinary school so we could open up our own clinic.”

I can almost see the idea form in his head as soon as my best friend’s name leaves my lips. He reaches for his pocket, for his phone I assume, but I grab his hand, electricity instantly zinging where our flesh touches. “Please. Don’t tell her I shot you. She’d never let me live it down.”

“She not okay with guns?” He lifts a sexy brow. How can a man’s eyebrows be sexy?

I shake my head. “No, it’s not that. She just doesn’t like me living alone. She’s offered several times for me to move in with her, but I like my space. Plus, working with someone every day and then also living with them… seemed like way too much time spent with one person.”

He gives a short nod before pulling out his phone. He scrolls, finds the name he’s looking for, and then lifts the cell to his ear. “Hey, man. Need you to come pick me up and take me to your vet. I’ve been shot.”

Wes says something, and Z’s eyes meet mine. “Yep, the little kitten apparently has claws. But let’s keep that between us, yeah?” Wes must agree, because Z winks at me and gives another little nod. “I’ll text you the address.”

My eyes narrow at that, which causes him to smirk as he tells Wes bye and hangs up. “You have my address memorized? How did you even find where I live anyway?” I inquire.

“Former military, babe. I have my ways. And I had to scope out the area just in case,” he tells me, pulling out a couple drawers then looking on top of my refrigerator. “Where do you keep your kitchen towels?”

“Under the sink,” I reply. “But scope out the area just in case of what?” I feel like a parrot, repeating his words, but he’s so vague I need clarification.

“In case of anything,” he answers just as vaguely, and I roll my eyes. It’s obvious he’s just as unforthcoming as Wes is with July. He reaches beneath the sink and pulls out a couple of dishtowels. “You have any duct tape?”

His non-answer irks me enough that I forget for a split second he’s trying to take care of his gunshot wound, the gunshot wound I put in his shoulder. “Do I look like the type of woman who owns duct tape?” I ask sassily, popping my hip.


Tags: K.D. Robichaux Books Suspense Books
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