Dirty Chase: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Brooklyn Brotherhood Book 2) (12 page)

"
I
'm not going anywhere
with you."

I obviously don't know what the hell I'm saying, because Chase just told me exactly what I've wanted to hear for the past week—and I'm turning him down without even thinking about it.

I am, in fact, having trouble thinking clearly at all. I'm cold, even though it's a balmy June evening. I lean over, putting my head between my legs. I'm sweating and yet I'm freezing. What the fuck is going on with me?

"You're in shock." Chase's gentle drawl eases me, as does his hand on my back. He squats next to me, and I see his scuffed cowboy boots below me. Since I'm upside-down, my hair drags over the edges of the worn leather. "It's totally normal. You're not used to shit like this."

I hear him swallow. "Don't worry, Princess. I'm gonna take care of you."

That's it.

I'm feeling better now. A lot more clear-headed.

Because—no. No he's fucking not.

I stand up straight and push him away.

"Chase, I didn't call you here to guilt you into anything. You made your position abundantly clear. I'm not some desperate little girl who wants to chase
you.
I get it. Loud and clear: you don't want me."

"Elle—" Chase says.

I hold up my hand. "Nope. Nope. You can't come rushing back in here and expect me to go to your place, not when you don't want to have anything to do with me."

"Darlin', get over it," Chase growls.

"I—what?" He can't seriously be upset. But he looks it. He looks
livid
.

"I said,
'Darlin', get over it
.'" Chase walks up to me and, damn, I forgot how tall he is. How blue his eyes are. How, when he crosses his arms, he takes up the entire space and all the air I breathe.

"Get over it?" I repeat. "You don't get to have it both ways. And if you think I'm going home and sleeping with you after all the stuff I own was just pawed through or ruined—" My voice is getting higher and higher, and I'm having trouble breathing again.

Suddenly I've left the ground and I'm in Chase's arms. He's carrying me to the sofa, and instead of dropping me on my ass, he sits down and puts me on his lap!

I try to wriggle off of him, but Chase grabs my hips and says, in a strained voice, "Don't keep moving like that, babes, unless you want me to rip off those tight jeans and your little pink T-shirt and fuck you right here and right now."

"The nerve," I say, my voice betraying me by coming out all husky and turned on, and my nipples betraying me by getting hard and tingly as they yearn for his touch—a fact his does
not
miss. Damn thin T-shirt.

"I'm not sleeping with you. Ever. And I'm not going to your home—wait a minute. You don't take women to your house. Ever."

Chase nuzzles into my neck. Oh my God, I think he's smelling me.

Correction: he's
definitely
inhaling.

And holy crap. He's getting hard. I try to move but he grabs me again.

"Princess, I warned you what would happen if you moved that sweet ass like that. Do it one more time." He pulls back and looks me in the eyes. "I dare you."

We just stare at each other, not breathing for a moment. He's even rougher and more beautiful than I remembered. All I want to do is touch this man.

Dammit
.

"Chase, you said you never wanted to see me again," I whisper.

He grimaces. "I never said that, Elle. I said it would be smarter—better for
you
—if I let you go." He wraps my long hair around his fist, watches what he's doing for a moment, then releases me. "I never said I
wanted
to let you go."

He pauses, looking around the room, suddenly anguished.

"And I was right: you're being followed. They broke into your home. They trashed all your shit. Because of me."

"Chase, we aren't even dating. This is just…random. It's not because of you."

Chase stares at me, his eyes dark. Shuttered. I can tell he doesn't believe a word I've said—I'm not sure I really believe it, either—but he doesn’t argue with me.

"And I don't know if I was really being followed. It was probably just my overactive imagination," I say.

"Babes, trust your gut. I always trust mine. Sometimes it's the only thing that keeps me alive."

Chase cups my cheek, then runs his thumb over my lips, staring at me like he's forgotten everything in the world except how much he wants to kiss me.

Or…maybe I'm projecting.

I'm hot and cold now, and for an entirely different reason. I press my thighs together, but try not to shift too much. The way he's looking at me now—I believe him when he says he might throw me down and fuck me.

And I might let him.

There's a hard rap on the door and a tall, dark-haired man immediately walks in like he owns the place.

"Come in," I say, deadpan.

The man stops, like he's shocked to see me sitting on Chase's lap. I feel the same way. He's studying me, so I study him back.

"Elle, this is Declan. He's a…freelancer. Like me."

Declan raises his eyebrows, and it's only then that I realize he's got a large scar, in a perfect C-shape, running from the edge of his eye to the end of his upturned lips. Jesus, someone tried to carve his face up.

He's also hot, if you're into bad-ass, hulking, dark-haired men…which I guess I am. But he's no Chase Masters.

"Nice to meet you," I say.

Declan puts a polite mask over his features, but there's a wicked twinkle in his eyes. I bet he's going to leave my place and tell everyone what we're doing; the big, tattooed mobster is also
totally
a gossip. I can just feel it.

"Pleased to meet you, lass," Declan says stiffly. "Now get yer things. I spoke with Gray, and he says you'll stay with him and Kat until we can find you a safe apartment."

Oh, my, he's got an Irish accent. I bet he's lucky with the ladies. And although I prefer a slowly, sticky-sweet Southern drawl, I begin to stand. I knew Kat would have my back.

Chase's hand lands on my thigh, like a heated brand, and he holds me down, on his lap.

"I've got her," Chase says.

Declan looks amused. "I thought you said she's not with you?"

I turn to face Chase—he looks angry—then I look back up at Declan. His face is serious, but I'm pretty sure on the inside, we are cracking his shit up.

"She's with me now." Chase's voice is deep, immoveable.

I shouldn't like how that sounds, that possessive growl. But I do.

Declan just shrugs. "We're sending out a crew to fix both doorways. And a cleaner, for the apartment."

I shake my head. "Oh, no, I don't need a cleaning service. I'll just—I'll just get some of the teachers to help me clean up tomorrow…"

My voice trails off as Declan looks at Chase, completely ignoring me. "Get her and anything she wants out of here tonight. After the cleaner comes, she won't be able to salvage anything."

"Um, guys," I say.

Chase squeezes me tighter, his hand on my thigh like he's laying claim to me. "Got it. I'll get her back to my place, then come in and we can…discuss next steps."

"Uh, gentleman—" I say, louder this time.

Gray dips his chin at Chase and turns to leave. Hello, am I even in the room? Did we suddenly time-travel back to the 1600s when women are to be seen and not heard?

"Hi," I say loudly. "I'm Elle. I live here. I'm also an autonomous adult and I make the decisions—"

Declan grins.
He's trying not to laugh.

That adorable Irish bastard.

"Right. Well, I'll leave you two to the
decision-making
," Declan says. "See you soon, mate. Or later. Depending on how long it takes you to…reach a decision."

And then he walks out. Declan's out in the hallway when I hear him add, "And Elle, lass: call Kat after you've made yer decision. She's worried about you."

As soon as I hear the men pounding down the stairway, I whirl on Chase.

"I'm not a little girl, and you guys don't get to make all these decisions without consulting me."

Chase grabs my hips, pulls me closer. He looks tired but beautiful in the fading evening light.

"I'm well aware you're no child, Elle. But when we're in bed together, I still might spank you." He leans in even closer, so close I can feel his beard tickling my lips. "Because you'll like it."

I huff out a burst of hot air and jump off his lap. He's sprawled on my IKEA sofa, making it look like a folding chair, he's so damn big.

"I'm not sleeping with you," I say, as much to remind myself as him. I survey the wrecked room—they even cut open my throw pillows. "Even if I crash at your house. And I don't need professionals to clean up this mess. I think I'm going to have to throw most of it out, anyway."

"Princess, Declan's not sending housekeepers here. We don't know who the fuck broke in, or what the fuck they did. They could've left bugs here; they could be listening to everything we're saying right now. They could've stolen all your personal paperwork—do you have a passport? Bank statements here? Is your laptop wherever the hell you left it?" He picks up some lacey, pink scraps of underwear and tosses it up in the air. "It could've been some perv who just wanted to steal your underwear, babes. But I doubt it."

He stands up and stalks toward me. "Whoever did this, did it to scare you. But I think the message is meant for me."

He looks
furious
. His hands are balled into fists, his jaw tense, the anger radiating off of him.

"I tried to stay away from you—to protect you. Now I'm keeping you with me, because it's the only way to protect you."

He grips my arm and pulls me close to his heaving chest, his angry heat. "And Elle, this is your only warning: when I take you home, I'm making you mine. If you don’t want that, I'll take you to your best friend's house. Gray will keep you safe. But if you're with me—in
my
fucking house—I won't be able to keep from touching you. Claiming you.
Owning you
. So make your decision now, Princess: are you coming with me?"

"I'm not yours," I say slowly, trying to keep my wits about me. "But since someone took a buzzsaw to my mattress and I have no door…I'll go with you. I'm not
yours
, though."

Chase grins, relaxing back into his Southern good ol' boy with a side of Yankee bad boy. Then he winks. "Not
yet
, Princess."

C
hase is full of surprises
.

At least, his apartment is.

He drove us just two—
two
—neighborhoods away from mine, to Cobble Hill, an old-school Italian area where hunched-over grannies dressed all in black can still be found side by side on the street with gentrifying hipsters and Manhattan professionals. Chase had pulled his luxury SUV to a stop in front of a large, red-brick apartment building with a private parking lot.

Nothing says "money" in New York like not having to park on the street.

He'd held my hand and led me past a security door that looked like it could easily work in a bank vault. There were cameras on every corner of the building. And after we'd walked up to the fourth floor, there were even cameras in the hallway.

Chase had just shrugged, like this was totally normal. I guess in his world, it is.

"I can't believe you live so close to me," I say, looking out one of the many oversized windows. Below, the residential street just off the main drag is quiet and leafy, full of tiny, neat yards and immaculate brownstones. I could—I
have
—walked to this neighborhood when out exercising. It's just a fifteen-minute walk, a five-minute car ride.

He'd been so close all along.

Chase clears his throat, coming up behind me. I can feel his heat as he stands close to me, but not quite touching me. "I don't really
live
here. It's just…temporary."

I look around. The living room is spacious and clean. The hardwood floors gleam under the lamplight, and while there isn't a lot of furniture—just a brown leather sofa, two side chairs, and a rustic-looking coffee table—everything looks expensive and well cared-for.

"Renting?" I walk into the spacious kitchen, with marble countertops and gleaming appliances. His refrigerator and stove are
full-size
—no mean feat for Manhattan or Brooklyn. "You found a great place."

Chase watches me from the sofa where he's taken a seat. He puts his boot-clad feet onto the coffee table with a
thunk
and turns a cold bottle of beer around and around in his hands.

"The syndicate owns the building. Good security. Neighbors who understand my…odd hours."

I just nod. What else can I say? I don't know what the hell I'm doing. My life has gone from a fun but monotonous existence to—rooming with a mobster, all in the space of a week.

I open the fridge and laugh. "You have
nothing
in here. How do you live?" There's a water pitcher, leftover Chinese food containers, and…no beer. "And where'd you get that beer?"

Chase grins at me from across the room. "Snagged the last one, darlin'."

"What happened to being a Southern gentleman? You couldn't offer it to the lady first?"

"I was gonna share it with you, Princess. Come over here and get a taste."

"Of the beer?" I say.

"Only one way to find out."

"One second," I say. "I'm going to tell you I'm going to the bathroom, but really I'm going to snoop through all your drawers."

Chase raises his bottle. "Don’t be gone too long, Elle. You might miss all the beer…though I can think of other things I'd love to have you taste."

I roll my eyes, even though my nipples harden and I'm pretty sure my panties are soaked, just from his low voice and the way he's looking at me.

Like he could eat me up.

"Be right back." I toss him a bright smile. He shakes his head, amused, and takes another slow, sexy sip.

The apartment front door opens up onto the living room and open-space kitchen. It's one big, spartan, gorgeous room. From the kitchen, a long hallway leads to—yep, found it—the bathroom. White subway tile everywhere, clean sink, toilet unexpectedly clean.

"Do you have a cleaning lady?" I shout out from the bathroom.

"Hell no," Chase calls back. "I don't like people going through my stuff."

Hmm. Except me, apparently. I check his medicine cabinet—nothing except shaving necessities and deodorant. I check my look in the mirror—a hot mess. I shake my hair out and hope it gives a "sexy bedhead" look as opposed to a "all my worldly possessions were just ruined and I'm a freaking wreck" vibe.

I examine the shower. Clean. Cleaner than mine. Chase's shampoo smells divine and woodsy.

And he has beard conditioner. Oh my God.

Get a grip, Elle
.
Just because he's sex on a stick and you're in his apartment, it doesn’t mean you're going to sleep with him
.

He probably has two bedrooms. I leave the ridiculously clean bathroom and follow the hallway until it…dead-ends at a bedroom.

One
bedroom.

I turn on the lights. A big bed—huge. Not a lot of apartments I've visited have bedrooms big enough for a queen, much less a king-sized mattress. Chase's bedroom has the same hardwood plank floors as the rest of the house. The bed is simple, white linens with a midnight blue throw on the foot of the bed. An old-fashioned steamer trunk, locked—

"You really
are
snooping."

I jump and whirl around. He's leaning in the doorway, smiling at me and tapping his beer against his thigh.

"I told you I would."

"Find anything interesting?"

"Your bathroom is too clean," I say, watching him as he walks closer. And closer. I can feel my cheeks burning up with heat, my stomach twisted with anticipation. "Like, psycho-killer clean. No straight male in his right mind has a bathroom that clean."

Chase smiles. "Psycho-killer clean?"

Oh God. I swallow. He probably
is—
maybe not psycho—but a killer.

"
And
you only have one bedroom."

"Is that a problem?" he says, coming up in front of me.

"Not as long as your tall ass fits on the sofa," I say, then take the beer bottle from his hand, where it's resting against his hard, hot thigh. I tilt it all the way upside-down and take a sip.

Chase watches my lips wrap around the bottle before he takes it back. I watch his throat as he downs the rest of the beer—then tosses it across the room.

I gasp and watch it fly—straight onto a pile of what I hope are dirty clothes, heaped in a messy pile in the corner of the room. It lands without breaking, then rolls down the hill of clothing and onto the floor.

"Is that your dirty laundry?" I say. Chase just takes a step closer, his belt touching my stomach.

"I mean, it's okay if it's your dirty laundry. It would balance out the freakish neatness of your bathroom."

"You don't want to know about my dirty laundry." Chase places his hands on my shoulders, squeezing gently.

"Probably not." I nod. I'm suddenly nervous, and I can't stop talking. "I shouldn't know about your dirty laundry. Not the actual laundry—or whatever you're talking about."

"Elle."

I look up at his kind blue eyes. "Yeah?"

"Stop talking."

I shake my head. Then I don't know why I say it, but I whisper, "Make me."

And then he does.