The Dirty Series 1(80)

I turn toward him, shaking my head, taking him in, totally ignoring Christian’s eyes on us. I want to say something witty, something sarcastic, something to show him that he doesn’t have any effect on me, that this is just a hilarious coincidence.

But we both know it’s not.

Alec looks back into my eyes, his green irises glinting in the candlelight. Then he grins at me, a half-smile that sends a jolt of lust screaming down my spine and straight between my legs. He reaches out, takes my hand in his, and kisses the back of it like some kind of royal courtier from the movies, and breathes into my ear in that to-die-for accent I could listen to forever and dominates my dreams, “I think this is a sign, Jessica0607.”



The next morning I wake up slowly, becoming aware in increments of the bed, the covers, the room.

It’s still early. The light streaming through Alec’s bedroom windows is soft and yellow, indicating it’s another perfect midsummer morning.

It’s coming on the heels of a night so hot I’m surprised the sheets aren’t scorched.

I stretch, the sheets sliding over my bare skin. They feel soft—a high thread count, no doubt—and I relish the silky sensation against me.

Alec’s hand joins the sheets on the flat expanse of my stomach, and I turn my head to look into his face, flushed with sleep, eyes already glittering.

“I don’t think I can ignore this any longer,” I murmur, and he nods against his pillow.

“What do you think?” he asks, the cocky swagger filtering through his voice even now. “Should we trade last names? No…too dangerous.”

“Why?” I say, giggling. He’s just playing with me. I know, deep down, that we’re going to tell each other everything. “Do you have a dark and mysterious past?”

An expression I can’t place flashes across his face, and I wonder if I’ve hit a nerve.

But almost as fast as it disappeared, the smile is back. His hands are around my waist, pulling me, lifting me up so I’m straddling him, the perfection of his chest the perfect resting place for my hands.

“You start,” he says.

“Jessica Reeves.”

“Jessica Reeves.” He turns my name over in his mouth, tasting it. “I suppose it’s my turn. My full, unabridged name is—”

He’s interrupted by a furious pounding on the front door of the apartment.

Alec sits upright, startled, and I throw my arms around his neck. It can’t be later than 6:45. Who the hell is trying to break his door down at this hour?

Another barrage of knocks shatters the silence of the apartment. “Prince—” A voice shouts, but I must be mistaking the word. Then there’s another shout. “Alec! Alec! Open up. Now!”





Chapter Twelve





Alec



Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I roll Jessica off me as gently as I can and launch myself out of bed as Nate resumes pounding on the door like some kind of madman. She stumbles out after me and starts searching for her clothes, our bodies colliding as I fumble for something, anything, I can wear to answer the door and tell Nate to get the hell out of here. I grasp her by the shoulders and press her down so she’s sitting on the edge of the bed.

“You stay here,” I say, leaning over to kiss her jawline. “I’ll tell whoever it is to go the hell away.”

She gives me a smile, but there’s a rustle of fabric as I move toward the door, pulling on a pair of boxers as I go.

What in God’s name could Nate possibly need at this hour?

I sprint through the apartment, a strange combination of fury and relief competing in my chest. I’m pissed at him for interrupting my idyllic moment, but when I opened my mouth to tell Jessica my name, I didn’t have anything prepared. Where was the conversation going to go? I hadn’t decided whether or not to lie to her and try to drag out this trip as long as possible—because after last night, it’s all I want in the world—or tell her the truth and break her heart?

Saved by the bodyguard. Screwed by the bodyguard. Can’t it ever be one or the other?

The moment I pull open the front door of the apartment, Nate barrels in, his face red. His phone is out of his pocket in an instant. He swipes the screen once, taps once, and then holds it to his cheek.

“I have him,” he says in a terse tone, then shoves it back into his pocket, turns back to turn the deadbolt on the door, and only then meets my eyes.

“What. The. Fuck?” I say to him, my voice deadly. “I’m fairly sure that I was clear about—”

“All that’s done, your highness.” He cuts me off, his voice clipped and tense. “We need to go. Right now. Do you need help with your things?”