WHAT AN ASSHOLE.

I should’ve known dear old Dad wouldn’t come pick me up himself, let alone my stepmom, but I’d stupidly held out hope that my dad would’ve at least sent his driver. Except that’d mean he’d be without, and God forbid Leo Amherst, owner of the music industry’s biggest record label, ever went without.

No wonder my stepmom divorced him.

I didn’t even know why I was thinking about any of this shit. Yay for being clean and having uncensored thoughts.

Yanking the door open, I got in the Escalade and was immediately hit with the scent of bodyguard—testosterone, musk, and something spicy I refused to admit smelled like heaven after six months of sterile rehab laced with overcooked food.

The asshole bodyguard with his oversized biceps threw the SUV into Drive.

“Hey!” I barked. “You forgot my luggage.”

“I didn’t forget shit.” He put the vehicle back in Park and hit the button to open the back lift gate.

Cold northern Florida chill swept into the SUV as I buckled my seat belt. “Make sure you get both suitcases.”

Slow and calculating, he turned in his seat and gave me the full weight of his dark-eyed stare. For three whole heartbeats, he didn’t say a damn word. He just stared.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention, and a pulse between my legs, which I would’ve sworn was dead two seconds ago, chose that exact moment to come roaring back to life. I didn’t think I could get any more uncomfortable, but then he opened his mouth and bled dominance.

The deep, controlled timbre of his voice was quiet and so damn sexual as it crossed his full lips. “Get your suitcases.”

My heart stopped, my pulse threaded, and I suddenly wanted to climb onto his lap. To hit him or grind against him, I wasn’t sure which. He was just so… visceral, I wanted to taste him. Or smell the inked skin just below the collar of his shirt.

And I’d never wanted to taste a man.

Ever.

Not like this.

Drugs? Sure. I liked drugs. Shit, I loved them. Ever since my first taste. But men? Sex? They paled in comparison. They were just a means to an end to get that high I so desperately craved when nothing else in the world felt real.

But this tree of a crude man with his shitty, dominant attitude and whispered commands?

Damn.

I couldn’t even name a single rock star who radiated the kind of sexual presence this guy was giving off, and I’d met a fuck ton of rockers over the years.

As if sensing he’d thrown me completely off balance, his voice dropped even lower, and the calculating bastard raised one eyebrow. “You hear me or you too busy thinking about a walk on the wild side?”

Wow.

What an arrogant fuck, but wow.

I forced a mocking tone into my unsteady voice. “If you think that’s going to work on me, you seriously need to try harder.” No guy had ever given me an orgasm. He and his wild side could fuck off.

His eyes darkened, and a muscle in his jaw moved. “You don’t want to see me try hard, princess.”

“Princess?” This time, I didn’t have to force the disdain. “You can go fuck right off with your—”

His hand shot out and grabbed my jaw.

Huge, strong and forceful, his fingers, his grip, they tightened in warning, but his tone went lethally, provocatively quiet. “What are the rules?”

Heat shot from his touch and raced through my veins like fire. Before I could stop them, two words flew through my shocked brain and popped out of my mouth like my body was his to control. “Obey Shade.”

The entire right half of his mouth slid into a devastatingly sexy half smile. “That’s it,” he murmured sexually, drawing the words out like he was easing himself into my body inch by inch. “Obey Shade,” he repeated in the same sexually charged tone.

Oh my God.

Winking, he released me.

Sinking back in my seat, I was a damn puddle of want, and I hated him for it.

“Good luck with that.” I tried to snap the words at him in defiance, except I was out of breath, and all I managed to sound like was a desperate, pathetic Shade groupie.

As if knowing the exact reaction his dominance had on me, he chuckled. “Suitcases, princess.”

A shiver I couldn’t hide ran up my spine and feathered across my skin like pinpricks. Attempting to play it off, I glared at him. “What kind of useless bodyguard are you?”

That one, sexy eyebrow of his rose again, and I didn’t wait for whatever stupid excuse he was going to shovel out. I pushed my door open and hefted my own damn luggage into the SUV. Then I got back in and pulled the heavy door shut.

“What the hell is that door made of, lead?” Every inch of my traitorous body thrumming with need, I yanked my seat belt out and shoved it home like abusing a piece of plastic and metal would make anything about this fucked-up day better.

All of his sexual innuendo from a minute ago gone, his deep, rough voice cut through the heated interior as he scanned the street and the rearview and side mirrors. “It’s armored.”

“Let me guess, my father paid extra for that.”

“No.” His arms flexed as he turned the SUV around. “André Luna did.”

Popped out of the Mr. Bodyguard-Sexual bubble and hit with a dose of reality, I sighed.

Of course my father wouldn’t think of putting me in a bulletproof vehicle. He’d never even seen the scars I sported from being shot twice.

Feeling like an idiot, I didn’t say anything more as Shade pulled away from the overpriced rehab facility I’d called home for the past six months. I’d bounced between three other rehab places before this one, with a month’s stay at a five-star resort in between where I’d snorted my weight in coke before finally breaking down and admitting I had a problem. I didn’t count any of those other rehab stints because I didn’t finish any of their programs.

For some reason this place had stuck, or maybe I’d just stuck to it. Whatever. Despite staying twice as long as I technically needed to, and my shrink saying I was ready to reacclimate to society, my stomach was churning at the idea of leaving, let alone going back to my penthouse by myself.

Which, if my dad had his way, I probably wasn’t.

“Where did dear old Dad tell you to take me?” I stupidly asked. “His house or my stepmom’s?”

“Your place.”

“Awesome,” I deadpanned. Even more proof that Leo Amherst had washed his hands of his only daughter.

Without comment, the over-inked, overmuscled bodyguard who should’ve been called Tree because he was the size of one, reached over and turned the stereo on. Heavy bass and guitar filled the SUV, making my head instantly pound.

Left without sexual gratification in the wake of his dominating suggestive bullshit, I lasted all of about half a minute.

Reaching over, I turned it off.

“What’s wrong?” Shade smirked. “Can’t handle Tool?”

“You’re a tool,” I muttered.