I can’t believe how fast he scurries out of my apartment when all Ashford has done is threaten him verbally. Okay, sure. Ashford is a chiseled six foot four inches. And yes, aside from his aristocratic polish, he does look like he could snap a neck as easily as he adjusts his tie. Still, Allen practically runs out of the room as of the devil is on his tail. How weak! “See, Miss Parker? That is hardly the type of man for you, now is it?” The asshole that is Ashford angles close to breathe into my ear. I hate it when he does that. My body always betrays me—like now my nipples are puckering, drawing the skin painfully tight. Breasts are well-known traitors. Now the hardened pebbles are rubbing painfully against the lace of my bra. Geez, I’m going to have to spend the night with my battery-operated boyfriend yet again. Most of all I hate the way his brawn makes me feel all safe and protected. With him hovering over me I should feel threatened, but I don’t. I feel downright at home, and I hate him for that too.
