I intercept it just before she connects with my cheek. The prissy princess with fake lashes, too much lip gloss, Barbie smooth hair, and miles of attitude drives me to the brink of murder. But … this hot mess with windblown hair—albeit curiously flawed—and a face devoid of anything God didn’t give her … she’s fucking beautiful.

Wild.

Lawless.

Lively.

So. Damn. Sexy.

“Get. My. Shirt. NOW!”

I nod to her taped fingers. “I think it would have hurt you more than me.”

“Get my shirt!”

The grin on my face feels incredible. “Let it be.”

Avery dives for the door. I stand on my knees and block her with my body, holding her to my chest with one arm around her waist.

She shoves my shoulders.

“Ave …”

Breathless, with anger staining her cheeks crimson, she huffs out a long exhale just inches from my mouth.

“Let it be,” I repeat.

“It’s—”

My other hand fists the back of her hair, giving it a firm jerk until her neck begs for my mouth. “Let. It. Be.”

Chapter Eleven

Avery

I like older men in suits who don’t feel the need to express themselves by marring their skin. I like hotel suites. Sit-down dining. Air-conditioning. Daily showers with hot water. Luxury beds. Silk pillowcases. Expensive cars with leather seats.

My heart has been broken too many times to count. I’m not sure it’s really a heart anymore—just a fleshy doormat.

Things make me feel good. Not everyone gets the same happily ever after. Maybe mine is an empty bed but a closet full of shoes and handbags. So what?

I grew up without my mother—she died. My father is a preacher. That fueled my rebellion from an early age. I hated boundaries, laws, and scriptures that made me feel guilty for the thoughts I couldn’t control.

I’m a girly girl who likes all things feminine, sexy, flowery, and pink—NOT muscle-bound vegan chefs with pickup trucks and a shit ton of tattoos. Yet, in spite of his vulgarity and complete disrespect for my shirt, I can’t keep my heart from hammering into my chest as he fists my hair.

“My hair,” I whisper. He’s going to damage my hair, and that should matter more than anything right now … but it doesn’t. His added tug on it confirms that he feels the same.

“A raccoon could steal my shirt.”

He brushes his lips along my neck, not kissing, not tasting … just feeling. I shiver.

“Do we really care?” he whispers in my ear.

Normally, yes. I would care very much. But at the moment, I can’t stay focused on the shirt because there’s a large hand sliding over my ass.

“Ouch!” I jump when he squeezes it—hard.

He chuckles, fisting my hair tighter.

Fuck! He’s going to pull it out!

Double fuck! I don’t even care.