Ella James - Unmaking Marchant

I don’t think I did anything wrong, but clearly, security disagrees. The guard with the fuzzy eyebrows was hunting me. Unless he’s not really a guard. What if he’s not a guard? What if he’s a kidnapper?

I take a deep breath.

Unlikely.

Just as I tell myself I’m going to make the rational decision and leave, my antihero straightens to his full, impressive height, strips his coat off, and tugs the pearly cuff links off his sleeves. He pushes them up, revealing thick forearms, and pumps some soap into one of his bloodstained palms.

I know his wrists and hands are red because he just kicked ass like a thug, but that doesn’t prevent me being mesmerized by them. They’re big and thick and slightly square, and they seem like competent hands. He’s got them washed and dried on one of the casino’s monogrammed towels within seconds, but after that his eyes flick up to the mirror, and I guess he notices at the same time I do that his crisp dress shirt is bloodstained, too.

He unbuttons it, and as I get the first peek at his deliciously ripped chest, I feel my cheeks color. I turn around to wash my hands as well. They don’t need washing, but now that he’s half undressed, I feel shy about walking past him to the door. Why have I stayed so long, anyway? Just to ogle him? How embarrassing.

I glance back over at him as I grab a towel, and I realize he really is beautiful: a living, breathing statue come to life. My eyes are drawn to his throat. It’s thick and smooth and neatly shaven, in contrast to his lightly bearded face.

His face, I notice, looks kind of tight; his eyes troubled.

“Why’d you do that to that guy? I mean…how did it get started?

His mouth presses into a solemn line, then twists into a bitter scowl. “That guy’s an ass. And he was the one who started it.”

I almost laugh, because what he said sounds so eighth grade. Then he leans over the sink and splashes water up his arms and on his chest, and suddenly he seems much more adult.

I realize that I’m being obvious, but it’s too late. He turns the sink off, wipes his arms and chest with a towel, and looks right at me.

Since I’ve already embarrassed myself, and I’m still kind of drunk, I steal one final glance at him, looking for tattoos or piercings: anything that gives even a little bit more info about who he is. At first I see nothing but his beautiful skin and well-honed body. Then I notice something dark along his side—a vertical scroll of text just over his hip.

I crane my neck a little, and the text jumps out at me: MARCH 15, 2007.

March 15 is the day I broke things off with Adam. I wonder what it means for him. Probably something sad. Why else would someone have a date tattooed on their body? Unless it’s something good.

His eyes, when I look back up at them, seem slightly unfocused, but he doesn’t seem to be on drugs or anything. Maybe he’s a nice guy with a thousand friends. A nice guy just having a bad night. His suit looks bespoke and his shoes look like Berluti Derbys. He dresses like a guy who could even run in Hunter’s circle. The thought rings a soft bell inside my fuzzy head, and suddenly I get the feeling that maybe I should know him…but that’s impossible. Right?

My eyes gravitate to his rock solid pecs, but I jerk my gaze back up and frown at him. “Do you get in fights a lot?”

He rubs his forehead. “Only lately.”

“You need to be more careful.” That would be Mother Suri, who comes out at times of injury/sadness. He doesn’t protest.

“I was careful.” He pulls something small and metallic from his pocket and sets it in the sink. “Didn’t use that, did I?”

My blood runs cold. “Oh my God, you had a gun ?”

His brow tightens. “Lots of people have guns.”

“I guess so.” I look at the door, wondering how fast I can get out the door while at the same time trying to puzzle what it is about this guy.

It’s a familiar feeling. Maybe I don’t know him, but something about him feels very familiar. Or maybe it’s simply how he makes me feel. He’s clearly a mess, and that makes me feel needed. Kind of how I felt with Cross recently, as he’s recuperating.

Who else was a mess? Adam.

I tilt my head a little, wondering if I’ve suddenly developed a fetish for men with issues. First, I was in a decade-long relationship with a guy who became an alcoholic—and a mean one, at that—and now I find myself getting hot for a guy who just got into a casino fight? Do I think I don’t deserve a ‘nice’ guy?

But no.

I can tell right away that that’s not it.

Adam was a nice guy, until he wasn’t. And this guy…I want to lip-lock someone like this dude, a brawny badass, just so I can turn and walk away. So I can be the badass.

I could kiss him, I think. Take him by surprise and kiss him once, deep, and then ZIP out the door, and I’d be on his mind for the rest of the night.

I assess his face. It’s a strong face—a sportsman’s face—with a square jaw, a gladiator’s nose, a short beard, and those deep brown eyes topped by strong brows. His hair is slightly messy, and it’s hard to name a color: brown, blond, red?

He takes two steps closer to me, and I know I should probably hit the door and run from my weird, slutty impulse, but that chest. God, that chest is just amazing. It’s freaking…Spartan. I’m shocked to find that I feel heavy, achy, damp between my legs. I tense my muscles there and the feeling spreads.

“You should go now,” I tell him, but my voice cracks on the word “go.”

This seems to catch his attention. He raises one brow. “You sure?”

I nod, and he turns away, toward the door. My eyes cling to his back—it’s sleek, gym-ripped, and slightly tanned—and immediately, I feel a sinking sense of loss. This is a good thing, I start to tell myself.

And then he turns around. He grabs one arm of the couch and pushes it in front of the door, then turns to me. My mind fast-forwards. I can feel him stepping toward me before he even moves—and then he does. He is . He’s within reaching distance, and his arms are going around me, pulling me to that chest, where I can feel the raw, pure heat of him.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, thumbing my short, highlighted hair out of my face. “I saw you earlier…walking down the hall. God…this ass.” He squeezes it, bringing my hips flush with his strong thighs. I shut my eyes as his mouth covers mine, caressing then pulling away. His forehead touches mine, and he stares down at me.

“Your lips make me feel…well,” he whispers, and as I’m wondering what exactly that means, he kisses me under my ear, along my neck, just where I’ve always liked it best.

His hands skate down my belly, playing with the waist of my jeans. Alarm bells peel in my head, but his mouth knows the code. I’m surprised to find my own hands pulling him closer.

“Oh, God.” I want this, too. This…abandon.

His hands are in my shirt now, crawling up my belly, sneaking underneath my bra, gently skimming my breasts. I look into his face, opening my mouth to say I’m not sure what, but I find nothing but reverence in his features. Reverence and the kind of need that makes no sense, considering we’ve never even met.

His nimble fingers take care of my jeans button while his other hand continues stroking my breast. His hand is in my pants. I’m holding onto his hips. My eyes slip shut as his mouth worships my throat. He smells like shaving cream and…male.

“Not Adam,” I whisper. Or Cross.

“No.” He smiles, then lifts me up onto the nearest sink, where he spreads my legs, pushes my jeans down, and finds me underneath my lilac thong. His finger strokes me up and down. It feels amazing. I’m already wet.