Dark Lover - Bung.co.nz

pacing in front of the sliding door.
"We're not going to be doing this again, are we?"
Lightning flashed, and she went over and slid back the glass door, moving the screen into place and locking it. She'd leave the thing
open for only a little bit—the night air smelled good for once. Not a whiff of garbage.
But man, it was hot.
She ducked into the bathroom. After taking out her contacts, brushing her teeth, and scrubbing her face, she ran a washcloth under
some cold water and rubbed the back of her neck. Cool rivulets ran down her skin, and she welcomed the shivers as she walked
back out.
She frowned. There was the strangest scent in the air. Something rich and spicy…
She went over to the screen and sniffed a couple of times. As she breathed in, she felt the tension in her shoulders ease.
And then she saw that Boo had sat down on his haunches and was purring as if he were welcoming someone he knew.
What the…
The man from her dream was on the other side of the screen.
Beth leaped back and dropped the washcloth, dimly hearing the fleshy flop when it hit the floor.
The screen slid open. In spite of the fact that she'd locked it.
And that wonderful smell got thicker as he stepped into her home.
She panicked, but found she couldn't move.
Oh, man, he was colossal. If her apartment was small to begin with, he turned it into a shoe box. And all that black leather just
seemed to make him bigger. He had to be six-feet-six, two seventy-five at least.
Wait a minute.
What was she doing, measuring him for a suit? Running, she should be running. She should be making a break for the other door,
running like hell.
But all she could do was stare at him.
He was wearing a biker jacket in spite of the heat, and his long legs were covered in leather as well. He had steel-toed shitkicker
boots on, and he moved like a predator.
Beth craned her neck to look up at his face.
God, he was gorgeous.
His jaw was a straight shot of bone, his lips full, the hollows under his cheeks casting heavy shadows. His hair was straight and
black, falling to his shoulders from a widow's peak, and he had the shadow of a dark beard. The black sunglasses he wore,
wraparounds that fit his carved face perfectly, made him look like a hit man.
As if all that menace wouldn't have given him away as a killer.
He was smoking some kind of thin, reddish cigar, and he took a long drag, the end flaring bright orange. He blew out a cloud of