Chapter 3

MELODY

The worst thing is…Several things happen at once.

I lose my balance, my phone becomes airborne, and my mouth falls open as the stranger catches me in his arms without jeopardizing in the slightest the cigarette dangling from his lips.

For a few moments there, my phone lies on its back, my conversation with Thomas on full display while I cling to the man's strong arms, my cashmere coat against his zippered motorcycle jacket, my heels tucked between his boots.

I'm not too tall––or too shortfor that matter––and he is still a few good inches taller than me, so when I lift my gaze, my eyes go to his arched lips first.

A crooked smile barely holds the cigarette in place.

It takes a second to flick my gaze up, and just as fast, I lose sight of his face as he leisurely reaches to the floor and picks up my phone.

His eyes are trained on the words, amusement growing on his face.

His arm hasn't freed me yet, and my hands still rest on his biceps as weboth study something.

He seems engrossed in the text messages on my phone, having no problem reading them, while I peruse his tattooed neck, tight jawline, high cheekbones, and tousled dark hair.

A little voice inside my head tells me his tattoos spread lower than his pecs and may have a meaning.

His skin suggests he's spent some time outside, working, perhaps, although there haven't been many sunny days this month.

His hands feel like they are used to handling bigger things than me, and as I dip my eyes, I learn his knuckles have intricate ink on them as well.

The voice inside my head gets all excited, but not in a good way.

‘Abort, abort," the voice screams as I put two and two together and realize he must be Aretha Stenson's ‘pro bono' work.

No way. Him?

"Who're you, sweetheart?" he asks around his cigarette in a dark, smoky voice that gives me goosebumps.

Is this man for real?

"It's none of your business," I snap in my not–so–ominous way, struggling to yank my phone from his grip.

He jerks the hand latched onto my phone away from me, and shifts his eyes to me.

Collecting his cigarette, he talks, a shit-eating grin on his face, yet hiswords slide past my ears as Isink mygaze into the orbs between his lashes.

I've seen deep, dark waters and cocktails in expensive tall glasses looking incredibly green like that.

The man seems perfectly aware of his eyes" effect on me as he holds me tight, soaking in every bit of mesmerized reaction on my face.

He stops talking as we stare into each other eyes, his lips curled into a lazy smile, my hands stiff on his chest this time, the air electrified as if a clap of thunder is about to happen.

His eyes tear away from mine and move tenderly across my face and lips, warming my skin.

When he starts talking with his eyes centered on my mouth, I foolishly almost forget to breathe.

"Who is this "Thomas guy', babe? And why are you in a therapist's office because of him?"

I ponder a dignifying answer.

"First off…" I croak, my throat dry as hay.

He tips his head to the side, smiling, the glint in his eyes making me jolt back again, horrified.

His grip isstrong, so my attempt to free myself fails, and I remain stuck in his hold.

"What now?" he chuckles.

Hoping to distract him, I make another try to remove my phone from his hand.

He clicks his tongue, shaking his head in warning.

"Tsk, tsk… Stop doing that, babe. Or I'll smash it against the wall," he says, still smiling but with a hint of seriousness in his voice, convincing enough to make me believe him.

"Excuse me… How old are you?" I ask, giving up on recovering my phone and focusing on the puzzlein front ofme.

"How old do I look?" he murmurs, studying my neckline and opening my coat with his index finger to get a peek inside. "Nice dress, by the way," he tosses at me casually.

If I were a dog I'd probably wag my tail justaboutnow.

He lifts his head and looks down his nose at me.

"Huh?" he asks again before rolling his bottom lip under therazor sharpedge of his teeth, andpushing his eyes way down, following a line from the fullness of my lips to the center of my chest, the expansion of my hips and the tips of my stilettos.

Just aspainfully slowly, he drags his gaze up over my entire body and parks it on my lips before searching my eyes for the answer that has failed to come.

"Is it my age…" he drawls, " the scariest thing about me?"

A lifted brow accompanies his grin.

Between what Aretha had said and what he just hinted at, Ibegin tothink I'm indeed off.

Many things about him are scary.

How he's taken control of my body, confiscated my phone, and threatened to destroy it just to show me who's in charge are only a few.

And then there is that wicked grin of his, a mix ofdeepknowledge, dark power, scaring decisiveness, and sheer delight for having me here, unable to react.

The fact that he's fearless and doesn't care about society"s norms is just another frightening aspect.

The fact that he won't be mistaken for a gentleman anytime soon is also a bad sign.

Nothing is gentlemanly about his arm locked around my waist, his frame pressed against mine, and his heat creating turbulence in my chest.

And then there is the scariest thing of all.

Resting his hand on me, he takes short trips into my soul with his piercing eyes.

My phone pings in his hand just as I'm about to lie about how scary or not–old–enough–for-me he looks.

He looks like a man.

He also looks like an inmate, and having a rough life in prison usually ages people. Not that he looks old.

That's why I asked what I asked.

A compact wall of muscles, he is covered in tattoos and wears an outfit I'd never thought I'd see in a historic building on the Upper East Side—especially in front of Dr. Stenson"s office.

He could be of any age.

Looks are deceiving these days.

I could pass for someone younger if I put on my sports bra and yoga pants, gathered my hair into a ponytail, and jogged around my neighborhood without makeup on.

He lifts my phone in front of us so we canbothsee the screen, but my cell is still out of reach.

Ispotthe reply I was supposed to send Thomas when Icollided with this man.

‘I'll see you tomorrow."

And then I read Thomas' reply.

‘Melody?'

"Melody?" the man in front of me singsongs while reading Thomas' message. "You left the guy hanging?" he comments, pushing my reply into the ether with a firm tap on the screen.

"Hey. Hey… This is unacceptable," I bark, fighting to get my phone.

Some cute struggle ensues, confirming this man is much younger than me despite his manly appearance.

We tease the hell out of each other, with him refusing to hand me my phone and me insisting on fighting him instead of reasoning with him.

Neither wants to admit it, but we're both having fun doing it.

The more I wrestle to get my phone, the more I lean into his chest and realize how much I like it.

He smells like smoke, icy fresh mint, and dark, long nights between cold sheets––so different than the delicate notes of jasmine, roses, bergamot, and ripe lemons coating my skin.

And then it comes.

"You smell good, baby…" he murmurs, his lips inches away from mine, his breath threaded through my hair.

He buries his nose in my locks and inhales as if the story of my life is buried in my tresses.

My quiver doesn't go unnoticed.

He lowers his head, smiling as I freeze in place.

"Your skin smells even better," he says before dragging his breath over my neck, all the way to my shoulder, where my warm skin gives him a pretty good idea of how I smell naked.

As if my stiffness is not awkward enough, he straightens his back, grips my chin, and tips my face up so he can look into my eyes.

I'm a little mouse in front of a bigbadcat, and everything I've used in my life, at work, in the boardroom, or even when going out on dates, vanishes from my head.

"Why are you seeing a shrink?" he asks.

"She's not a shrink," I retort, earning a slow, knowing smile as he tilts his head softly, studying me with amused eyes.

"She is a qualified professional who offers help for people like me," I say.

"People who can't deal with people like Thomas."

"It's not about him," I say, resolute, yet short on breath and gravely aggravated.

Lowering his eyelids, he narrows his eyes in quiet disagreement as he magnanimously lets it slide.

His sexy bottom lip is crushed under the edge of his teeth again while he examines my body with unwavering focus.

"It's your first fuck with him…" he says dryly, and my lips curl fast and furiously to put some doubt in him.

His thumb is quicker than my mouth, sealing my lips and making me turn to stone.

He is so close with his unmistakable masculine smell that my pulse becomes erratic.

The sensation of danger morphs into a delicious storm of delight, fear of the unknown, and an unsettling premonition that this man is destined toplay animportantrole in my life.

Musteringsomecourage, I bring my hand to his wrist before he releases my lips and allows me to speak.

"It's not my first fuck with him," I say with the candor of a liar.

Lying is not something I routinely do.

I'm too busy to deal with the unwanted consequences, but I'll deliver a lie once in a while if needed.

Not a muscle throbs on my face as I watch him lifting his eyebrows with genuine incredulity before dismissing me with a grin.

His thumb moves over my lips again, the slow motion coming with something erotically enticing.

"You can't lie to save your life," he says. "Besides, I don't need a confirmation. I have it right here," he says, holding my eyes and flicking his head to the incriminating texts.

I havea hard timebreaking my stare away from his eyes and looking at the reply my date just texted me.

Besides, it's useless, but I'm doing it to appease him.

"I see nothing of that nature. And it's not your business, after all," I say again, not showing interest in taking possession of my phone, as if I'm no longer invested in what happens to it.

He reads the dialogue, entertained.

"The only reason he cooks for you is to spread your legs open."

"How do you know?" I taunt him.

I don't know if he needs to be someplace else––I'm sure Aretha no longer expects him to show up––but I've got time, and my legs are no longer tired.

I forgot how eager I was to have a smoke, not to mention that my conversation with my therapist had lost its relevance since I ran into this man.

"You don't seem the kind of man who cooks," I opine.

He looks at me briefly before laughter echoes up the stairwell, bouncing off the walls.

I shush him.

He doesn't stop.

"Don't do this," I scold him. "Some busybody might log a complaint against my therapist."

His laughter subsides before he loops both his arms around my waist and presses me into his chest.

He looks younger when he chuckles, and I remember I had gotten nowhere when I had asked him about his age.

His sultry look is a trap.

"Do I look like someone who needs to cook to get in a woman's pants?"

I feel the contour of his bulge against my lower abdomen.

"I know nothing about men like you," I say, fingering his chest.

"Would you like to?" he tosses back at me, a crooked grin tugging at his lips.

A shiver sweeps through me.

"I see no reason why."

I press my lips together, aiming for a stern look.

He seems immune to my tricks.

Sliding his hands inside my coat, he gives me a sample of what he'd like to do to me.

His eyes follow his hands while mine soak in the story of his face.

He's a gorgeous man, but inside him lives a tattooed devil.

I like how both of them make me feel.

"I can give you a thousand reasons why," he says in a hoarse, sultry voice that makes me quiver.

"Why are you shaking?"

He looks straight into my eyes.

I'm not shaking.

That lie doesn't make it to my lips.

"Why would someone like you need someone like Thomas anyway?" he drones on.

"I don't need Thomas."

His eyebrows move into a puzzled expression.

"Sure… Why would you fuckhim now?"

I arm myself with patience to refute his statement, but I don't get the chance.

"Stop pretending, and just say it. You don't care about Thomas. You see a shrink because you care about yourself."

"Don't you?"

His eyes turn cold.

"Seeing the doctor is part of my conditional release."

My heart stops for a second before climbing up my chest.

"Isn't that too much information?"

"I don't like to waste my time. Plus, an authentic life is lived in truth."

"Truth had put you in jail."

"I have no regrets. How is that for scary?" he asks.

"I'm not scared of you."

"Well…"

His lips open slowly with a smile.

"Ofcourseyou're not. You have me pressed against your body. My intentions are kind of clear. And are in no way criminal…" he drawls, drinking me in.

Never in my life, a man has looked at me like that.

And then again, men like him would probably look ‘like that' at women in general.

That aside,the sticky fingers of a blush cover my cheeks as I struggle to look unaffected.

Slowly, I slide my hands down as if wanting to pull away, but my plan doesn't come to fruition when the manin front ofme brings his lips to mine and breathes into me.

"Forget about that Thomas guy. He's not for you. His food is not even that good because he lacks passion. His dick won't make you happy, and you'll keep coming back to your shrink until you're old and bitter."

His eyes fly to the name stenciled on the door.

"She'll make a ton of money off your fears," he says, teasing my lips with his.

His words are thoughtful, bearing the edge of truth.

"I can do whatever I want with my money, including seeing a therapist in perpetuity," I say softly, my breath colliding with his.

"You can surely do that," he says, straightening and curling his fingers around my neck while reading my eyes. "But it won't give you the answers that you need."

Sober and overly serious, he searches my eyes.

"Thomas isn't your guy, babe," he says as if he knows something I don't.

He brings his lips to mine again while I wait, fearless and powerlessat the same time.

His parted lips press against mine, and for a secondtherehis tongue touches mineanda flicker of electricity rams through my body, a gasp lifting off my chest.

He gallantly leaves my lips alone while my fingers sink into his arms.

"I almost killed my father," he says evenly before freeing me for good and leaving me with my mouth open and my eyes wide.

He steps back, his focus entirely on my phone.

He punches a few numbers on the keypad and places a call before a quiet sound wafts from the back of his dark jeans.

Satisfied, he hands me my phone.

"You have my number, and I have yours. Don't let that guy touch you, or he'll regret it," he says, not entirely joking, and I don't know what to believe.

My hand is sticky from sweat around my phone while he reaches inside his jacket, scoops out a cigarette, and lights it.

I watch him take a drag and blow the smoke up, a smile creasing his lips.

"It was nice meeting you," he says, gripping the door handle.

"Same here," I mumble, watching him push through the door.

Eventually, I open my mouth and speak.

"She doesn't like the smell of cigarettes in her office," I toss in his wake.

He glances at me over his shoulder, his hand still on the door.

"She'll need to get used to it," he says, winking at me before the door closes over his handsome face.

And I begin to wonder.

Is Aretha safe?

Am I?

Should I change my phone number?

Forget about Thomas?

A few seconds pass before I dismiss everything with a flickof my hand. How can I be so silly?

Silently chuckling at that ridiculous thought, I move past the elevator and down the stairs.

Reaching the front of the building, I look up at Aretha's windows, hoping to see that man again.

No chance, though.

Sunk in thought, I head home on foot, not even considering that man's unreasonable demands.