Series: Werewolves of Wall Street Series by Renee Rose
Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73722 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73722 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
It occurs to me that he might be telling the truth. He’s a demanding hardass, but he rewards hard work.
I shift and steal a glance at his handsome face. “I don’t like to leave a job unfinished.”
“I appreciate that.” His gaze dips to my outfit, resting on my bare belly for a few minutes, then down my legs, then back up to my breasts framed in the hot pink bra. He shakes his head. “You couldn’t have changed at the venue?”
“There’s no time.”
We take the elevator to a private garage level where Blackthroat and his execs apparently keep their cars. I whimper when I see the ride–a shiny black Porsche Taycan. The new all-electric one.
At least he didn’t illegally park it on the curb.
“You really don’t have to drive me,” I mutter as he holds the passenger door open for me.
“Shut up, Ms Evans. I’m driving you.” He slams my door.
“What crawled up your ass?” I mutter to myself before he climbs in his own seat. The glare he gives me makes me think he heard.
He puts the car in reverse and backs out so fast the tires squeal. “I’m sorry you don’t seem to understand the effect your bare skin has on the average male, but let me assure you, it’s significant.”
Heat pools between my legs, and my nipples pucker beneath the neon bra. He actually admitted it. He’s attracted to me.
I pluck at the very short hemline of my skirt. “Um… thanks?”
“It wasn’t a compliment, just a fact.” He takes the curves of the parking garage so fast I have to hang onto the door handle. He glances at the guitar propped between my knees. “Are you any good?”
“No. I mean, I’m proficient. But this isn’t a real band or a regular thing. My friend loves this sort of thing, and I promised to do it as a favor.”
He zips out onto the streets. Traffic sucks, but Blackthroat drives like we’re in one of those high speed chases in an action movie, weaving in and out of traffic, making tight turns and gunning it every chance he gets. I hang onto the door handle, turned on. I always had a thing for Jason Bourne.
Once we’re in Brooklyn, I give him directions to the venue, and he pulls up in front.
“Would it be okay if I left my coat in here, so I don’t have to worry about losing it in there?” I ask as I climb out.
He looks grim, like I’m asking for the moon. “Sure,” he deadpans. “I love for my car to smell like vanilla lattes.”
“Great. And thank you for the ride. It wasn’t awkward at all.” I return his sarcasm.
His lips curve in what I swear to God is the first smile I’ve ever seen on him. It’s not actually a smile. Just the hint of one. “Break a leg.”
For a moment, our gazes lock, and I lose my breath. I give him a full grin as I swing the door closed. “Thanks.” Tossing the guitar strap over my shoulder, I jog in, trying to ignore how hot and flushed I feel all over.
Brick
Dammit. I drive away, but the idea of letting Madison roam unprotected in that crazy outfit has me cutting back around the block to find a parking place. I find a valet garage not far and pull off my tie before I leave the Taycan.
It’s not that I’m feeling possessive. I don’t have the need to keep other men from looking at that juicy little body.
Okay, fine, that’s exactly what it is.
This little human has my instincts running haywire. There’s no reason I should feel so protective. She’s no one to me. She’s not pack or even a wolf. But I sure as hell can’t stand the idea of anyone seeing her dressed that way.
I’ll just go back and make sure she doesn’t attract unwanted attention. She’s a smart girl, but something in me compels me to make sure she’s safe.
I pay the twenty dollar cover charge to get in. It’s wall-to-wall packed with patrons. The venue is small, with a bar at one end and a stage on the side. The band onstage is a mediocre version of Duran Duran. They look the part, and the music is decent, but the performers seem a little embarrassed, like they’re not sure if they’re about to get booed off stage. I unbutton the throat and cuffs of my dress shirt and roll up my sleeves before I order a beer and find a barstool in the back to watch the show.
I catch sight of Madison and what must be the rest of her band pounding shots at the side of the stage, presumably for courage. I want to go throw her over my shoulder and carry her out. To hide her away from the world. Keep her for myself.