Hold Me - Anne Marsh Page 0,4

while I’m here at a sex party by choice, I assumed my choices also extended to who I got up close and personal with.

Mr. Martin chokes something out—the bastard sounds excited—and then one hand fists my hair while the other goes to his belt buckle. Yuck, yuck, YUCK. I shoot upright, palms smacking his chest. He doesn’t let go, as the pain in my scalp attests.

“What part of no don’t you understand?”

Not that he’s listening.

Nope, he goes in for the kiss again.

The next handful of seconds are unpleasant. We grapple, my hands slapping his. The good news is that I can sleep in on Monday because there’s no way I’m working for this guy. The bad news is that I just want to go home because all the magic’s been sucked out of what was supposed to be a fantasy night where I attended a glamorous, sexy party and pretended to be someone fun. I’m grossed out and angry, and all the alcoholic flavors of ice cream in the world aren’t going to erase this memory—

Martin the Asshole flies backward. I make an embarrassingly high-pitched squeaking sound as big, sure hands lift me and set me down to one side. I wish I could say I take advantage of Martin’s removal to punch him, but I just stumble to the side and stare because I’m tired and this night is turning into an unending parade of sucky moments and, while I’m really big on handling my own shit now—

I have a rescuer.

Or possibly my own pet caveman-slash-berserker.

“Excuse me,” he growls, ridiculously polite for a caveman.

Really, I just expect him to start smashing because the man standing there with Martin in a headlock is a very, very large man. He massively exceeds six feet tall and is built like a hockey player or linebacker, a mountain of pissed-off, cold-eyed, muscles-on-muscles man. He’s dressed for the party in expensive-looking black dress pants, the dress shirt open at his throat. No jacket or circus-themed costume for him. Rolled up sleeves reveal powerful, inked forearms.

He’s not pretty, not the way Martin is. Martin’s smooth and polished, like a cheap souvenir rock that’s been run through a tumbler and come out with a slick sheen. This guy is something else, someone you can’t help but look at—partly because he’s a big, beautiful animal of a man, but also because he’s an apex predator who’s just marched into a dog park full of poodles and mini schnauzers and the only foreseeable outcome is carnage. Dark hair tumbles around his face, past his stubble-roughened jaw, the mouth pulled into a frown. I should stop staring at him and get the hell out of here, but tonight’s alcohol is catching up with me and I’m tired.

Tired of starting over, tired of having to do everything for myself, tired of learning—yet again—that there’s no fairy-tale ending to my evening and that Prince Charming has not invited me to his ball, so I’m stuck with Prince Dick, his evil cousin. Whatever magic I’d hoped for tonight, I’m going to have to make do with my vibrator, a bag of Cheetos, and a really good book.

Caveman Guy slams Martin into the Grecian column I’ve just vacated. It’s more real than I’ve given the billionaire party owner credit for because the stone doesn’t give at all. Martin groans, but Caveman has discovered the power of speech and he has a lot to say.

“What the actual fuck? Even I heard her say no. You have to listen to that. You have to ask for her yes.” His voice is a rough, low rasp. One arm twists Martin’s shoulders and hands into a painful-looking pretzel, while the other makes itself at home on his throat. When he leans in, Martin turns a puce color. Go, caveman. I can be independent tomorrow—tonight I’m outsourcing.

Sensing danger, Martin starts babbling the usual predictable crap about how I’m totally okay with his going “a little alpha” and that rough sex and some dominance will get me going. He concludes this bullshit explanation by pointing out that I’d come to this party, after all, so clearly I was “into it.”

“You’re here.” Caveman steps into Martin, herding him up against the column. He removes his big hand from Martin’s throat and braces his arm beside my boss’s head. They’re thigh to thigh, bodies touching, and Caveman completely, one-hundred-percent outmuscles Martin. It’s the same position Martin put me in a few minutes ago, and Martin’s expression makes it clear he’s not