Hold Me - Anne Marsh Page 0,5

finding it any sexier than I did.

“Back off, man.” Martin shoves, trying to free himself.

Caveman makes a dismissive sound. Martin’s efforts don’t even seem to register, although that’s likely because Caveman’s built like a mountain and he’s busy making a point. “You’re here,” he repeats.

“I have an invitation.”

“So you want this.” Caveman trails his fingers down Martin’s freaking throat and then lowers his head until his mouth is brushing the man’s cheek.

Holy shit. I’ve never got the whole eye-for-an-eye thing before. I do now. Martin is an asshole and watching him get a taste of his own chauvinistic medicine is delightful.

Martin sputters an obscenity, but Caveman just talks over him and fondles his cheek. “How does it feel? Being held down? Do you like it as much as she did?”

Martin lets loose a torrent of profanity, still trying to figure out how to make Caveman move. It’s a losing battle.

“Did you hear her say yes?” Caveman repeats.

“No,” Martin mutters. His belligerent gaze slides toward me. I’m so looking for a new job.

“Apologize,” my rescuer snaps. Then he looks at me. “How do you want your apology?”

I pause in my Monday prognostications because he sounds so casual, as if he’s asking me if I want fries with that. “What?”

“On his knees? With words? You want him to itemize what he fucked up or just give you the executive summary? I can tattoo it on his dick, if that works.”

I clap vigorously. “Is that even possible? Do you think there’s enough real estate? Because I’m tempted.”

“Tell me what you want and it’s yours.”

My rescuer has a cold air of command about him. It’s less caveman and more medieval king, I decide. I can totally imagine him going all Henry the Eighth on Martin’s ass. Martin just glares. I don’t think he gets the whole apology concept.

Right. I let go of my making-the-rent fantasy. “This is going to make things really awkward on Monday.”

“You know him?” Caveman removes his angry stare from Martin and redirects it at me. His eyes are dark, intense, framed by fine lines that might come from laughter or sun and promise he has a happy side. He’s not an iceberg-dwelling Viking. Or, at least, not entirely.

The anger banks while he examines my face, as if it’s something he can just take on or off like a shirt or a costume.

Focus. He asked a question.

“Not in the biblical sense,” I say judiciously. “He’s my boss. Was my boss.” So much for Peony 2.0 and her grand plans for fiscal prudence and financial independence and a little house of her own. I tear my gaze away from Caveman and redirect it to Martin. “I quit.”

Whatever Martin says is inaudible because Caveman’s reapplied his arm to Martin’s throat.

“Uh.” Because my brain’s clearly checked out for the night, or has possibly suffered irreversible cell loss from the testosterone filling the air, I take a step toward Caveman rather than away, and tug on his arm. “I really don’t think you should kill him. Momentary satisfaction versus long-term consequences, right?” Caveman regards me silently. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, so I babble on. “It’s like cake. One slice is great, two can be excused by a really shitty week, but the whole cake is going to go straight to my belly and then I’ll be regretting it when it’s swimsuit season, and since this is California, it’s always swimsuit season.”

There’s a pause broken only by Martin’s muffled sounds. Caveman nods finally. “So don’t kill him.”

“Sadly, no.” I pat his arm and discover a new, shallower side of myself. Holy shit, he feels amazing. The biceps hiding beneath that dress shirt are rock-hard. The man could probably bench press a small car with me sitting in the driver’s seat.

I whip my hand away as what’s obviously a security team moves toward us. From the looks of the weapons they’re openly carrying, they’re not just for show.

“Where were the armed guards before?” Because I was lucky, but what if someone else at this party isn’t as lucky? Assholes are everywhere and I doubt Martin’s the only one of his kind here.

Caveman slants them a cold, pissed-off glare. He’s apparently got an endless supply of them. “I’ll find out.”

Wow. I think he means it. Maybe he’s the head of security?

Whatever he is, the security guys surround us, taking over Martin-restraint duties. I can’t help but notice that their questions are all directed at Caveman. They call him sir a lot and one guy does a