I lead the way across the room, the stranger an inch behind me. When I press my palm against the cold glass of the door, apprehension sinks its teeth deep into my flesh.

I pause, suck in a breath, and attempt to tune out my lust in an effort to listen to my instincts. This is the second time I’ve led a stranger from a seedy bar with the promise of sex, all in the space of a few hours.

The first didn’t work well for Danny boy, and although I crept from that hotel room with a crazy-bitch smile on my face, I need to make sure I don’t end up being the victim in this scenario.

“Problem?” The question is murmured with slight humor near my ear. “Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind already.”

I glance over my shoulder and his face is a breath away. He’s a mountain of a man up close. Thick and strong in the shoulders, with a heavy hand that lands beside mine on the door.

“Do I look like the type of woman who makes mistakes?” It’s not a flirty tease. He needs to know I own my shit. All day. Every day.

He ponders the question, or maybe just me in general, and rakes his teeth over his lower lip. He gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head. “No. But there’s always a first, and I have a feeling I’m going to be a special kind of mistake.”

He’s a cocky son-of-a-bitch, and damn, his confidence has latched onto my ovaries, and I don’t want it to let go until we are both double-digits deep in orgasms.

“Promises, promises.” I push the door and walk ahead, not stopping until we reach the edge of the sidewalk. “I live over there.” I jerk my chin toward the looming apartment building across the street with the solitary streetlight that illuminates years of neglect. The old, block construction isn’t inviting in the slightest. It’s cheap and nasty. Just the way I like it.

All the obvious downfalls are the reasons I consider myself lucky to live there. Nobody inside the dark and dirty walls has enough time or money to bother snooping on their neighbors. Most are too busy keeping their own heads above water with day-to-day life. I come and go without notice, not having made any friends in the years I’ve rented the studio apartment.

“Lead the way.”

A firm hand lands on the low of my back, beneath my pack, the touch warm against the thin cotton of my top. I straighten, stiffen, and suck in a deep breath at the tumbles taking over my stomach.

I wait for a passing car, then step onto the asphalt, bringing us closer and closer to approaching bliss. He’s glancing around, scoping the area as I enter the pin code into the building’s outdated security panel. The one-two-three-four access code is a poor excuse for protection, but in this crime-riddled area it’s the thought that counts, right?

I’m only glad the lobby doesn’t smell like urine and stale beer today. It means I can pretend this cheap-ass building has a modicum of decency, when clearly, everyone who lives here knows better.

Another few feet of tense silence and we’re at the rickety death trap of an elevator. I shove my finger against the call button, and the doors jolt open. He follows, moving to the opposite side of the small space as I lean against the wall, my arms spread against the thin waist-high railing.

He mimics me, arms spread, ankles crossed, and watches while I press the button to floor three. Neither one of us moves, or talks. He barely bats an eye until those doors close. Then he pushes from the wall and eats the space between us in two predatory steps.

I hold my breath, my tingles turning into wildfire as he walks into me. Not up to me. Into me.

His hips bump mine. He parts my legs with an aggressive shove of his knee. The silence and staring continue, no words, only actions as he wraps a menacing hand around the back of my neck and grips tight.

Fear jolts through my chest, making me immobile. He’s animalistic, not an ounce of warmth in his expression.

I don’t know this man. Not his name, not his age, not his hobbies or life goals. He’s a complete stranger who has me pinned inside an enclosed space, his strong, calloused hands holding me hostage.

“You look nervous,” he growls close to my lips.

I should back out, cut and run from this careless idea. But my heart loses the panicked beat and produces something more adrenaline-based.

I want him. I need him. To make the sterile parts of tonight that hover on the edge of my awareness a little less harsh. To make life exciting for all the right reasons instead of those that are wrong.

I lean closer, taunting him with a look I hope is equally as devilish as his own. “You’re the one who should be nervous.”

His chuckle is barely audible. “It’s not my style.”

“Mine either.”

His fingers clench tighter, as if he’s daring me to back out. I won’t. Other women might be inclined to run. I still want to ride him and tame the wild beast barely contained in those eyes.

The elevator bounces to a stop and the doors open. He backs away, and I ignore the chill seeping into me as I lead the way onto the threadbare hall carpet.

My door is at the end, the very last room on the left. I sling the pack off my shoulder and pull my keys from the internal Velcro compartment, ignoring any curiosity he might have as I start working on my door.

I have three locks, the last a pin-code-operated deadbolt that is more high-tech than the entire building’s security. There’s also the small motion-activated camera beaming down at us from above the doorframe.

“Have a problem with break-ins?” he asks.

I cover the keypad, tap in the code—six, five, three, nine—and shove the door wide. “Nope. Not a one.”

I’m smart and pre-emptive when it comes to protection. This stranger at my back is a risk, but my blade is hidden in a strap below my breasts, mace is in my pack, and there’s a myriad of hidden weapons at my disposal inside this apartment.

I flick on the light, illuminating my studio space that is practically in a different dimension from the rest of the building. The paintings on the walls are huge masterpieces. The kitchen is filled with shiny new appliances. The floor is the finest polished wood.

I’ve got family money. A whole heap of it. So, I live in comfort. I just choose to do it in a shitty building. I’ve learned it is easier to blend into the rat race than the wealthy elite.

But I don’t get any of those reactions from him. I can’t hear his shock, or sense his surprise. Instead, his heavy footfalls approach, his large body pressing into mine, pushing me into the back of the sofa.

A rough hand shoves into my hair, pulling my head to the side, his mouth moving to my neck. “What’s a woman like you doing in a building like this, princess?” His voice vibrates along my carotid, killing me slowly.

The endearment is a special gift of misguided appraisal.

He thinks I’m a princess. How cute. Or maybe he’s being sarcastic. If so, he gets a gold star.

He sucks on my skin, and I moan. I’m completely unfamiliar with the acute vibrations taking over my insides. So unfamiliar I don’t want to speak for fear my voice might make it vanish.

“Who are you?” he murmurs.

I shake my head and nuzzle my ass against his crotch. He’s hard and thick, his erection an adamant force behind his zipper.

I swing around, needing those lips on mine.

He sates me immediately, taking my mouth with a harshness I don’t anticipate. I’m used to soft kisses. Kind and timid. This is profoundly better. A fierce, punishing collision of lips and teeth and tongues.

His hands find my hips and he grinds into me, teasing me with anticipation. “Who are you, Steph?” He holds my gaze, those eyes as questioning as his words.

“I’m a memory you’re going to treasure forever.” I grip his shirt and pull him forward, demanding more of his mouth.

I can’t get enough. Maybe it’s the way he scares me the slightest bit. The ferocity. The confidence. Or maybe it’s narcissistic, because his harshness kind of reminds me of myself. Either way, I’m scrambling for more.

I want. I want. I want.

I glide my hands under his shirt and place my palms on the warmth of his stomach. Another moan escapes me. The ripples of his muscles are like an ocean under my fingers, moving and changing as his hands slide down my back and squeeze my ass.

He’s so fucking strong, and I want that strength coiled around me, controlling me. I crave his temporary ownership. Instead of always being the one in command, in charge and under pressure, I want to be owned. To be a puppet instead of a puppeteer.

I claw at those muscles, working my way up his stomach and down his ribs. His masterful lips continue to overwhelm me, his tongue increasing its pace and severity.

My panties are wet, soaked, and my pussy clenches, demanding to be filled. I push my hands farther, learning more of him as I glide them around his back.

I’m about to release another moan at all the overwhelming perfection when my fingertips brush a hard object protruding from the waistband of his jeans.

He stiffens. I do the same.

He tries to recover by continuing the kiss, and I pull away, my fingers still touching the object that is undoubtedly a gun.

I wait for a response to all the questions going through my head, but he gives me nothing. No explanation. No apology. Only the lazy bat of his lashes over steely, lust-glazed eyes.

I inch closer and wrap my hand around the grip. He responds with the raise of his chin and the slightest narrowing of his gaze.

“Why does a non-violent man need a gun?”

“It’s a bad neighborhood.”

I incline my head, my heart beating rapidly in a mix of fear and arousal. I want to believe him—really, I do—but a lack of ignorance makes it impossible.

I weave my free hand around to sit on his chest, then shove him back while pulling the weapon from his waistband.

He goes with the flow, gifting me with a few retreating steps when we both know he could’ve tried to hardball his way out of the situation.

“A Walther P22? Nice.” It’s a serious gun. A seriously scary gun for someone who claims to avoid violence.

I eject the clip, shove it in my pocket, then pull back the slider. “Oh.” I release a sardonic chuckle. “And a live one in the chamber. Aren’t you a wealth of surprises?”

I guess it could be worse. The clip could be half empty.

He grins, but there’s no humor in the expression. “And you sure know your way around a gun.”

I shrug and lob the lone bullet his way. “Like you said, it’s a bad neighborhood.”

He catches the round without breaking my gaze, then again when I throw him the clip.

“Leave.”

“You’re kicking me out?” He scowls.

“You bet your perfectly sculpted ass I am.” He’s more like me than I realized—confident around guns, proficient in lies. I can no longer ignore the warning signs that highlight a dangerous man.

His jaw ticks, and those dazzling eyes are back in predator mode.

“Unless you want to play How Many Weapons Does She Have Stashed Within Arm’s Reach.” I grin. “That really is a fun game.”

“Fine.” He holds out a hand. “I’ll leave.”

I stare at his upturned palm and raise a brow. “If you’re waiting for a high-five, you’ve assumed the wrong position.”

“I’m waiting for my gun.”

“Well, then, it looks like you’re gonna luck out twice tonight.” I jerk my chin toward the door. “Go. I’ll throw it down once you’re outside the building.”

His hand falls to his side, fisting into a white-knuckled grip. “You’re going to throw my gun from a third-story window?”

The upward twist of my mouth isn’t friendly. “I hope you’re a good catch.”

He licks his lower lip, and I’m sure it’s supposed to be a threatening gesture with those squinted eyes, but I’m over here still drowning in the gushing wetness of my panties.

I want to hate-fuck him right now. Hate-fuck him so damn hard. Unfortunately, I realize my safety is more important than indulging in my deranged fantasies. And yes, it’s a seriously slow reaction I’m not overly proud of.

“Until next time.” His mouth has the slightest incline, an almost imperceptible grin, as he turns for the door.

“Oh, sweetie, there’s not going to be a next time.”

He glances over his shoulder and smirks. “We’ll see.”