Chapter Seven

DRAVEN

I wake up not really knowing where I am. The bed beneath me is so soft I honestly wonder if I might be asleep at all. Maybe I’m not asleep, maybe I am dead and in heaven.

But then the doorbell rings.

Did I have plans this morning? I think I did. I’m almost sure I did…but what?

I open my eyes. “Shit! What time is it?!”

The doorbell sounds again, and I fall out of bed reaching for the things I wore yesterday. “Fuck! I’m coming! Hold the hell on!”

Stumbling down the stairs in my dirty clothes, I flip the switch allowing the shades to reveal the heavy fog of morning crowding the yard. The sight brings a contented smile to my face.

Wow…it really is beautiful here.

Ding dong!!!!

“Jesus!” I screech, opening the door. “The fuck is your deal?”

He stands there looking sexy as hell, the hint of a smile on his face. “I told you nine a.m. sharp.”

Domonic.

Of course. I forgot all about the breakfast appointment.

tell him smoothly, rubbing the sleep

chuckles, his bright silver gaze sparkling with amusement. “You are late. It’s

over my chest and trying not to notice how crisp and fuckable he looks

want to put my

his perfume wafts toward me

smell

I’m angry. I can’t explain why, nor do I have the right to be,

up. I wanted to roll around for a few more minutes

eyes narrow and his smile disappears. “You got what

door in his face is thwarted by a bright white Nike sneaker. I

minute! I told you we were

him with a sweet saccharine grin.”No. We’re not. Have

smile quirking up as he

Did she mark

throw him a sarcastic frown. His face looks

cocking my head at him warily. Then with a roll of my eyes, I say, “When did she leave?

get

his eyes downward as if ashamed. “This

last night,” I quip at him

someone might jump in and save him from my wrath. “I was going to but I-,” he stops, crossing his arms over his chest and

throw my hands up in frustration. “Really?” I snap, stomping my foot in annoyance. “You’re just going to push yourself inside? You see? This is why I want to pay rent! So that I don’t have

shing with perverse pleasure. “You’re jealous,” he accuses, rotating

down on the couch with a laugh. “No. I’m not jealous. I just don’t like you or your bitch. I never intended to come to breakfast,”

with himself about something, his eyes ticking back and forth as if he doesn’t know what else to say. They finally fall on me

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