Oh, my God. I couldn’t believe I found this monstrous man attractive. I tried to keep from breathing at all, which would allow him to know he’d managed to intimidate me, but it was almost impossible.
He reminded me of one of those famous actors in the summer blockbusters, only he wasn’t one of the good guys. He was the villain, one beautiful villain.
Huffing, he cocked his head, lifting a single eyebrow as he concentrated on the bag in my hand then shifted his heated gaze to my chest.
I was used to men gawking at my chest given the ridiculously tight bright green tee shirt that every employee wore. It just happened that the name of the bar and grill, Killian’s, was plastered straight across my breasts. I watched as a single bead of sweat trickled down to his lips and the way he dragged his tongue across the seam of his mouth was the most provocative thing I’d seen in a long time.
If not ever.
“Does this mean you’re my treat for the evening? I admit, I am famished.”
Not only were his words dripping with a heavy overtone of sexuality, but the deep bass of his voice and the thick Russian accent were a dangerous combination. I wasn’t the kind of girl who got flustered over a boy, but this was no boy.
This was a man, a real man, the kind who didn’t take no for an answer.
I tried to form words in my brain so I didn’t sound like an idiot when I responded, but everything I thought of sounded like gibberish inside my mind. I’d never been this flustered around any man, no matter how good-looking they’d been.
My lungs could no longer accept any additional air, my throat starting to shut down when he grabbed me by the arm, yanking me inside his apartment.
Inside his lair.
Holy crap.
“It’s a…” Oh, Jesus. Get a damn grip. “It’s a peace offering.” My words sounded like they’d come from the twelve-year-old me, timid and asking for forgiveness. And what was with offering the brutal man anything?
“For what?” he growled.
Why the hell was he still staring at my breasts?
“For you shutting the hell up. I need some sleep. I work long hours.”
Every ounce of oxygen seemed to drain from the room as he took several deep breaths.
When he slammed the door closed, tugging the bag out of my hand, I stumbled backwards, which was the wrong way. I should have fled toward the door, only I doubted Mr. Barbarian was ready to let me leave.
“Killian’s,” he grunted then opened the bag, pulling out the sandwich, tossing the satchel onto one of the chairs then peeling the layer of foil from around the roast beast. Beef. I tried to look away, but with his intense stare, his eyes piercing mine, I couldn’t force myself to take my eyes off him. I was frozen like a stupid kid just before her first kiss.
When he bit into the sandwich, tearing half of it away and chomping down, I realized my mouth was watering. As he chewed, I was lost in the moment, my breath skipping as subtle growls rolled up from the base of the beast. His nostrils remained flared as he swallowed, the animalistic sounds getting louder. When he popped the remainder in his mouth, I was forced to chew my bottom lip to keep from making a strangled sound.
Like a moan.
I’d never known any man to consume food with such passion.
I folded my arms across my chest, trying three times before I was able to swallow. I noticed a dribble of the sauce on the corner of his mouth and damn if the wicked side of me didn’t want to offer to lick it off.
That was crazy. This man could be a serial killer for all I knew. I threw a quick glance around his apartment, realizing where the sound was coming from. He had a huge hanging punching bag positioned in the middle of his sparsely decorated living room. The long, thick chain dangled from a massive steel girder suspended from the tall ceiling. All I could think about was the alternative uses for the chain.
That certainly didn’t make me feel any better.
I studied him, watching as he chewed like some barbarian then glanced toward the swinging punching bag a second time. The thumping noise. “You’re a boxer.”
He grunted his reply.
His hands weren’t wrapped and there was no sign of any gloves. He was using his naked fists. While I knew sound echoed, the power he’d used on punching what looked like a professional grade bag should have given him scrapes or bruises. His hands, while just as masculine as the rest of him, showed no signs of wear and tear.
That wasn’t the case for his entire body. He had a nasty-looking scar on his chest. If I had to guess, I’d say there were others crisscrossing his body, but they were weaved into the various designs. What in the hell did this man do for a living?
You know what he does. He kills people.