40
Emma
I don’t understand what’s happening, why I’m in Marcus’s car—with him in the backseat next to me—heading over to my apartment.
“Don’t you have work?” I try again. “I thought you Wall Street types worked on the weekends.”
He lifts his broad shoulders in a shrug. “It can wait. I’m my own boss.”
I give up. Because there’s apparently no polite way to ask a man why he’s so determined to watch you do laundry and cuddle with your cats. Especially if that man is Marcus. Once he sets his mind on something, there’s no stopping him—I’ve learned that the hard way. And I do mean hard.
I’m very sore from all the f*****g.
A tendril of heat licks at me at the recollection of how I got that way, and I sneak a glance at the cause of that soreness—who’s watching me with a darkly intent stare.
