Primal Instinct (7 page)

It still hadn't been enough, and now he needed that $120,000 so that the Brotherhood wouldn't know he'd stolen their powder. And the only person he knew who had that kind of money had changed her number. He rubbed a hand over his chest, acid burning a path up its center, and he forced several deep breaths down his throat. He raised a hand to wipe away the sweat dotting his forehead, his hand trembling. The tremble turned into a full-blown shake as his panic poured out of him like lava from a volcano. He spun, grabbed the desk chair, and tossed it against the wall, watching numbly as one of the little wheels popped off and rolled across the floor. Slumping against the wall, he pressed a hand to his face, cursing Taylor, cursing the Brotherhood, cursing himself.

He was running out of options, and running out of time.

Taylor sat on her couch, her acoustic guitar in her lap and her notebook open beside her, the page filled with her third new song in as many days. She strummed through the up-tempo, slightly grungy E-minor-A-D chord progression again, feeling more like herself than she had in weeks, despite the sex god camped out in one of the guest rooms upstairs. God, it felt good to write, to create something that was entirely hers. Writing music always made her feel like Rumpelstiltskin, taking something coarse and unrefined and turning it into gold. There was an alchemy to it she tried not to question. She ran through the chords again, her mouth quirking up in a smile as lyrics began to take shape.

You only get one night

So give it your all

Give me all you've got

Until the cops are called

Make me scream, make me beg

Try to make me fall

Make me wanna miss you

Let's shake the walls

Realization crashed into her and she threw the pen down as though it had burned her. “Holy shit,” she whispered, her hand clasping the guitar a bit tighter.

She was writing about Colt.

Well, fuck.

And not only was she writing about him, but she'd written three new songs since he'd burst into her life.

Double fuck.

She pried her white-knuckled hand from the guitar and set it aside, swallowing thickly, her mouth suddenly dry. Pushing up off the couch, she walked into the kitchen, switching on lights in the dark house as she went, grabbing her phone from where it sat charging on the counter.

Colt. She couldn't get his name out of her brain. His name, his face, his scent, the way he'd felt inside her…all of it was always there, simmering in her mind. And when she wasn't thinking about him, she was
with
him. It was a fucking nightmare. All she wanted was to stop thinking about him, and even when she pushed him down, away, he was still there, making his presence in her subconscious known through her songs.

Which was why she had to push him away. She opened the browser on her phone and navigated to the online dating site where she'd created a profile for Colt.

It was an online dating site that catered exclusively to furries. She smiled, biting her lip as she reveled in her own joke. She'd used his real cell number for the profile, and based on the number of views the profile had received—she
had
paid for the premium membership, after all—he was probably getting inundated with texts.

She studied the profile she'd created for him. Yes, it was childish and bratty, but she was so goddamn angry about the situation that she needed an outlet, and if she could channel that anger into an outlet that pissed Colt off, all the better.

At the top of the profile was his title: Prince Sparklepants, heir to the unicorn kingdom. She'd used some random pictures of a man dressed up in a full-body unicorn costume, complete with purple mane and tail, and a large glittery horn. She hadn't used his real picture, but the texts alone were probably driving him crazy. She'd nearly cracked and asked him about it when he'd come home earlier, trading off babysitting duty with Roman, but she'd restrained herself. Instead, she'd shut herself away, working on her new songs, and trying not to think about the man under her roof she was doing her best to ignore. She'd avoided him as much as possible since he'd come back around seven o'clock, and she'd stayed in her room until he'd knocked on her door at eleven and told her he was going to bed and that he'd already set the alarm. She'd thought he and Roman—the pile of muscle and hair of whom she'd already grown quite fond—would trade off, but it seemed as though Colt intended to be around as much as possible, with Roman providing relief when necessary.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

She navigated away from the dating site and to Colt's LinkedIn profile, and her stomach dipped in appreciation. God, the man was gorgeous. And fucking fantastic in bed. And he made her feel…She glanced in the direction of the stairs. God. He was under the same roof. Probably half naked. In a bed.

“No,” she whispered, dropping her phone onto the counter and scrubbing her hands over her face, her eyes dry and tired. Yawning, she glanced at the clock on her stove, which told her it was after midnight and time to call it a night. She rolled her stiff neck, trying to work out the kinks left behind after spending hours hunched over her guitar. She grabbed her phone and shoved it into her back pocket. As she extended a hand to turn off the kitchen lights, she saw it.

A shadow moved quickly across the large window over the sink. She froze, her heart picking up its tempo in her chest, and she flicked the lights off, plunging the kitchen into darkness. At least if there
was
someone outside, they could no longer see in. Moving out of sight of the window, she listened, straining her ears as the quiet of the house hummed like static in her ears. It would be so easy to simply go upstairs and get Colt. But she didn't want to need him. Didn't want to seek him out in any way at all. After several moments of staring, waiting, listening, she relaxed slightly, her shoulders dropping from down around her ears.

Shaking her head at herself and glad she hadn't gone upstairs and got Colt for nothing, she checked to make sure all the doors were locked and the alarm set. She trailed her fingers over the smooth, cool metal of her front door handle and began to turn away when another shadow moved, this time on her front porch. The shadow ghosted from left to right, visible through the frosted glass panes on either side of the large, heavy front door. Ice trickled down Taylor's spine, and she pressed a hand to her mouth, backing slowly away from the door as her skin prickled, her pulse throbbing in her throat.

She backed into the entryway, her eyes still glued to the doorknob, waiting for it to twitch, for the scrape of metal in the lock. Getting ready to scream for Colt.

A dull, soft thump near the kitchen window made her jump, and she froze in the entryway. Yanking her phone from her pocket, she used the screen to light a path, sweeping the phone back and forth with a trembling hand. Another thump sounded, this time from the other side of the house.

She ran for the stairs, taking them two at a time.

C
olt rolled over in bed and reached for his phone on the bedside table. The display read 12:52
A.M.
He groaned softly and rubbed a hand over his eyes, pissed that he'd barely fallen asleep before waking up again. He knew he hadn't had another nightmare—he wasn't drenched in sweat and shaking. Even when he woke up without remembering the dream, he knew he'd had a combat nightmare by the way his entire body practically vibrated with it. He pulled the covers up around himself and closed his eyes, settling back into the pillow, when a firm knocking at his bedroom door had his eyes snapping back open. He threw the covers off and crossed the space to the door, pulling it open to find Taylor on the other side.

He opened his mouth to ask her if she was all right, but couldn't seem to find any words once his eyes landed on her, and he took in what she was wearing.

Nothing but his Led Zeppelin T-shirt. No makeup. Hair in a thick ponytail, flung over one shoulder. Before he could stop himself, his eyes wandered from her face to her breasts, then down her torso and over her long, slender legs and bare feet. Everything from the other night came rushing back, sending blood flowing to his dick. The feel of her mouth on his. His arms around her. The sounds she'd made as he'd fucked her. The glory that was his name on her lips as he'd made her come, over and over.

“Everything okay?” he asked, his voice low and hoarse with sleep.

“Um.” She stared at him, seemingly surprised to see him standing there, even though she'd been the one to come and knock on his door. Her eyes skimmed down his chest and straight to the bulge in his boxers, which he knew hid nothing, and she bit her lip. He could've sworn she made a soft whimpering noise, and butterflies crashed into each other in his stomach.

Jesus. What the fuck was wrong with him? Just standing here with her gave him butterflies? But not butterflies, because he'd probably lose his man card if he ever admitted that to anyone. So, not butterflies. No. She gave him…scorpions. Yeah, that was better.

Man card intact, he cleared his throat. “Something wrong?”

She paused, and when she spoke again, there was the slightest tremble to her voice. “I…don't know. This sounds so stupid.”

He rubbed a hand over his face, fighting the urge to wrap his arms around her. Fighting the urge to kiss her and pull her onto the bed less than ten feet away. “What's wrong?”

She frowned, hugging herself, and his muscles stiffened, tension rolling through him as he waited for her to answer.

“I thought maybe someone was here. I saw shadows, outside my kitchen window and on the front porch. Or, at least, I thought I did. And for a second, it sounded like someone was trying to open the kitchen window.”

By the time she'd finished speaking, he'd already stepped back into the bedroom and yanked on his jeans.

“You have your phone with you?” A surge of anger that someone had tried to mess with her merged with the adrenaline coursing through him. He jammed his feet into his boots and pulled a T-shirt over his head before grabbing his SIG Sauer P226 from the nightstand.

She nodded, holding out one hand and showing it to him.

“Good. Stay in here with the door closed. I'll do a sweep.”

“No, but…”

He paused in the doorway, his breath sticking to his ribs at the sight of her in nothing but her underwear and his T-shirt.
God damn.
“But what?”

Her eyes flicked between him, the gun in his hand, and the bed with its disheveled sheets. “Be careful,” she said softly, and crossed the room to sit on the bed. The bed he'd been in just a few minutes ago. She crossed her long, bare legs and something charged through him. Lust, but something more. Something hot and protective. Something maybe even a little possessive.

She was his to protect. She might be pissed that he was here, and he understood why, but he couldn't deny that right here, right now, he was fucking glad he was here to keep her safe.

“I will. I'll be right back.”

Quickly, Colt moved through the house, clearing each room as he went, but nothing was out of place. The house was silent and mostly dark, and as he went, he checked all of the windows and doors on the lower level for any signs of forced entry, but everything looked secure. With his SIG clasped in his right hand, a small flashlight in his left, he stepped outside and did a perimeter check, looking for anything suspicious—footprints, damaged shrubs, litter, damage around the windows. He circled around to the other side of the house, still on high alert for anything suspicious, but not finding anything. He slipped the flashlight back into his pocket and walked back into the house, locking the door and resetting the alarm behind him. He flipped on a few lights as he went back through the house this time, his eyes still scanning each room as he passed, darting into the corners, watching for movement, for anything out of place. He grabbed the iPad from the kitchen and quickly pulled up the security camera app.

When he and Roman had scoped out her place, he'd been mainly happy with the security she already had in place for the house. But he had updated a few things, including syncing her cameras with an app that fed the footage directly to her iPad. She'd pretended to ignore him the entire time he'd been explaining it, but he'd known she was listening from the way her eyes had tracked his hands as he'd showed her how to access the information in the app.

He pulled up the camera feeds from the front door, backyard, and garage for the past hour and quickly scrolled through them, dragging his finger across the screen, but he didn't see anything. No mysterious intruder, no one near the house.

He'd been about to close the app when something caught his eye, a flicker almost off camera. Frowning, he rewound the footage from the front door and played it back at regular speed. A shadow flickered, headlights flared from the street, and then the shadow was gone. The cameras were good, but not high-res, and if he zoomed in, he knew the image would only get pixelated and fuzzy. It was almost impossible to tell if there'd actually been someone at her front door, or if it was a trick of the light. Even if there had been someone—a thrill-seeking fan, maybe—they were long gone now.

Colt made a mental note to adjust the camera angles in the morning, and headed back upstairs. He strode down the hallway and opened his bedroom door, practically crashing into Taylor, who'd been crouched on the other side of the door. Instinctively, he held out his hands out to steady her, and she swayed into him, just for a second, before taking a step back.

“Did you find anyone?” she asked, leaning her shoulder against the wall just inside the doorway. There was a hollowness around her eyes, and it made him want to push her up against the wall and kiss her until neither of them could breathe.

“No. No sign of anyone.” For a brief second, he debated whether or not he should tell her about the shadow on the security camera, but decided it was a worry (and probably a worry over nothing) that she didn't need right now. She had enough to deal with, with her record label breathing down her neck, and he and Roman encroaching on her personal space.

“I let my imagination get the better of me. I shouldn't have woken you.” She yawned and stretched her arms above her head, and the shirt—
his
shirt—rode up her thighs, a scrap of black lace barely visible between her legs before the cotton dropped back down. Her eyes met his, and she hugged her arms around her waist, closing herself off from him, and he couldn't take it anymore.

She frowned when he leaned against the wall a few feet away from her, facing her and mirroring her posture. “What the hell are you running from?”

She cocked her head to the side and narrowed her pretty blue eyes. “I'm not running from anything. I thought I saw something, and I panicked, which I shouldn't have done. What does that have to do with running?”

He pursed his lips and nodded. “You know what I think?”

She shook her head, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.

“I think I scare you.” Maybe it was because he was looking for an excuse to get close to her, but he suddenly took a step toward her, backing her against the wall. “I think you want me just as much as I want you, and that freaks you out. It's why you bailed before I woke up. It's why you're trying to keep your distance from me now.” He dipped his head so that his mouth was nearly touching her ear. “But you don't have to be scared, gorgeous. Not with me.” And despite his reservations, he knew he was telling the truth.

Paying attention to her cues, he didn't miss the way she arched toward him, the way her breathing hitched slightly. Bracing one hand on the wall by her head, he leaned in farther. He moved her ponytail off her shoulder with his free hand and caressed down the length of her arm. “I think someone hurt you, and you're trying to protect yourself.” Unable to stop himself, he pressed a kiss to her neck and she moaned softly, her fingers curling into the fabric of his T-shirt.

“I think there's a part of you that wants me to fuck you up against this wall. Right here, right now.” He pressed another kiss to her collarbone. “I bet you're wet just thinking about it. How good I would feel inside you. How hard I could make you come.” He pressed his face into her neck and she moaned again, her body arching into him.

He spoke, his lips and teeth trailing over the skin of her neck as he did. “The other night—” unable to help himself, he brushed his lips over hers “—you were mine. And I take care of what's mine.”

Her eyes locked with his for a brief second, and then she shoved him away. Her shove wasn't hard enough to move him, but he took a step back anyway.

“I'm not yours, Colt. It was a one-night stand, and it's not gonna happen again.”

He took another step back, and she spun and left the room, pulling the door closed hard behind her. He stood completely still for a moment, hands clenched into fists, tension radiating up his jaw.

Son of a bitch, but she was maddening.

Adjusting his aching cock, he yanked open the door and did another sweep through the house, trying to ignore the confusing mixture of possessiveness, arousal, and frustration swirling through him. He wanted her, and regardless of the walls she was throwing up whenever he was around her, she wanted him, too. With just the brush of his fingers and a few small kisses, he'd had her arching into him, trembling for more.

Fine. If she wanted to push him away and practically wrap herself in barbed wire, he'd let her. He could sit back and let her play her games. Because every time he thought about the night they'd shared, every time his eyes landed on her, even though he knew he should let her go, he just couldn't.

Taylor strode into the Sanctuary early the next morning ahead of Colt, who was parking the car and doing a quick perimeter check. She liked working in the morning, with the promise of a fresh day ahead of her, and she was eager to work on the new songs sprouting from her like saplings. She sat down at the piano just as her drummer, Zephira, walked in, a tray of coffees in her hands.

“Morning, sunshine,” she said, setting the tray down on a coffee table near one of the leather sofas and shrugging out of her leather jacket. Taylor had always thought Zephira, with her Afro and gorgeous medium-brown skin, was the epitome of badass cool. And on top of that, the chick could really drum. They'd worked together on Taylor's last album and tour, and had become friends. The road had a way of bonding people, but Taylor had a feeling she and Zephira would've become pals in just about any circumstance. Zephira tossed her jacket over the back of the sofa.

“Who's the hottie in the parking lot?” she asked, stretching her long, elegant neck from side to side.

“The bodyguard the label hired for me.”

“What do you mean, bodyguard? You in some kind of trouble?”

Taylor snorted and played a few chords, the keys cool under her fingers. “I'm not in trouble. I
am
trouble. Which I guess means I'm
in
trouble, but in a different way.” As she played lazy chords, she told Zephira the story—leaving out the part about the one-night stand—of her new warden.

“Oh, girl. That is some stone-cold bullshit right there. You
know
if your name was
Tyler
Ross, they wouldn't be pulling this shit on you.”

Taylor sighed, rising from the piano bench and crossing the space to scoop up one of the green-and-white paper cups. Shaking her head, she raised the lid to her lips. “Oh believe me, I know.”

“Good morning,” Jeremy called as he walked through the door. “You're here early. Glad to see our new arrangement is working out.” As he helped himself to one of the coffees, Taylor and Zephira exchanged a pointed glance, both rolling their eyes behind Jeremy's back.

“So,” he said, clapping his hands together, “I had a call from Walker Stone's agent this morning.”

“Oh yeah?” She ran her fingers over the piano's keys and started to play again. She'd let Walker Stone, an up-and-coming country singer, record his album at the Sanctuary last year, and they'd developed a friendship. Truth be told, she'd had a bit of a crush on him, but she knew he was hung up on his ex, country singer Monroe Bell, who was both gorgeous and a little crazy. Taylor felt like a Girl Scout around Monroe, who was way wilder than Taylor had ever been. Taylor and Walker spending time together hadn't put Taylor in Monroe's good graces, either, and more than once, Taylor had gone out of her way to avoid Monroe at parties and various events.

“Yeah. He wants to know if you'll play with him at the CMT Music Awards in a few days. They're doing this whole genre mash-up thing, so everyone who's performing is playing with a noncountry artist. Stone requested you.”

“Yeah, totally. I'd love to.”

“Great, I'll let them know. He'll come by tomorrow to rehearse with you.”