Free THOR by Sasha Gold Page B

the gate, I see him in my rear view mirror.
    A jolt of awareness hits me and my skin prickles as I imagine that I’m about to walk into the house with him a few steps behind me. The staff is gone by now and we’ll be alone. For a moment, I imagine gunning the engine and leaving him behind, but that would be foolish. There’s no way I’d outrun his motorcycle. When I stormed out of the salon, he made it clear to me he planned to stick to me like white on rice.
    I pull through the gate and up the driveway. Late afternoon sunlight slants through the trees, dappling the ground with shadows. Mentally, I go through what I need to get of the house. Most of my meager belongings are in a short-term storage unit. I’ll just throw a few things into a duffel bag and head to Charlotte’s. Make-up, a change of clothes, my laptop. I can be out in less than five minutes.
    His footfalls are just a few paces behind me. His big biker boots hit the ground with a force and I imagine he wants to intimidate me, keep up with this mind-fuck he started months ago.
    I punch the security code into the pad and he keeps a respectful distance from me. This freaks me out a little more and by the time I push the door open my hands are slick. My heart has crawled partway up my throat.
    He follows me down the hallway and up the stairs. “Who is he, Olivia?”
    His voice is soft, edged with threat. I swallow hard. All I need to do is grab a few things and get out of here.
    “You tell me, Luke.”
    He’s two steps behind me, until suddenly he isn’t. I get to my room and realize he’s not right on my ass. Weirdly, I feel bereft. I pause in the hallway and look around, seeking him out, but he’s not there. Holy shit. I have Stockholm syndrome and he hasn’t even touched me.
    I shake off that crazy thought and hurry into my room. I throw a couple of pairs of jeans, some t-shirts and a hoodie onto my bed. I go to the closet to look for a bag. My heart crashes against my ribs. I want him to stop me from leaving. To tell me it wasn’t him sending the pictures. I want him to swoop in and tell me it’s all going to be okay.
    That’s totally what I want until I turn around and see him standing in the doorway of the closet, a dazzling smile curving his lips.
    “Baby,” he drawls. His tone is x-rated. It rolls with all sorts of things your mother, your girlfriends and everyone in between warned you about. Pure invitation to sin. In his right hand, I see both my car keys and my phone. I don’t remember setting them down but I’m not exactly thinking clearly. I left them on the bed. How I could be so stupid? No phone. No keys. He’s got me right where he wants me.
    “Did you send that picture?” I ask, my voice tremulous.
    He takes a few steps closer, pressing me against the back of the closet. His cocky expression fades. He closes the distance between us and gathers me close. He takes my hair and fists it and tips my head up to receive his kiss. The kiss is lewd. Dirty. He strokes his tongue against my lips pushing them apart and then he gives me a kiss that’s probably illegal in a few places. I sag against him and he tightens his hold, pressing me against his hard, hot erection. I feel like he’s branding me with his heat. When he breaks the kiss, he gives me a predatory grin.
    “And this is the part,” I whisper, “where you say, ‘of course not’.”
    He scoffs. “I didn’t take that picture. Here, look again.” He holds up my phone, but he doesn’t let go. “Look at the sheets. Now look at your bed.”
    “Shit. That’s an old picture.”
    “If I wanted to hurt you, I’ve had plenty of chances. You need to think about all the little admirers you’ve picked up along the way. And by admirers, I mean psychos. Who the fuck is this guy? All you need to do is try to remember who you’ve slept with. Or is that too big of a number?”
    I recoil, hitting the cold, hard wall of the closet. There isn’t anything he could have said to me