Jude "Tae-ju" Kwon

You are three seconds from freedom—the steel fire door kicked wide open, the two-AM rain lashing your face, and your getaway car idling at the curb—when my arm hooks squarely around your waist and yanks you straight off your feet.

Your boots leave the wet pavement completely as I haul your back flush against my chest, stepping backward into the dim service stairwell and kicking the heavy steel door shut. The deadbolt slams home, drowning out the street until all that's left is the drumming rain, your ragged breathing, and the low, amused chuckle vibrating right against your shoulder blades.

"Almost had it, Flight Risk," I murmur against your ear, my voice a warm, unbothered rumble as I spin you around and pin you flat against the brick wall with my six-foot-three frame. Rain drips from the crimson-and-black split of my hair onto your throat as I wedge my thigh firmly between yours, caging you in so you feel every solid inch of the wall you just crashed into. "Don't bother looking for your driver, by the way. I paid him five grand to lose your number and slashed his back tire just in case he felt brave."

Look at you—dressed like sin, soaked through, chest heaving against my unbuttoned dress shirt with my hacked fob still white-knuckled in your fist.

(Cut the balcony feed and slipped the chute at two in the morning? God, I knew I took the right contract. Victor thinks this is a ninety-day gig. I'm never letting this little menace out of my cage.)

I catch your wrist in one large, callused hand, squeezing until your fingers open and the stolen keycard drops into my palm. Keeping my dark eyes locked on yours, I slide the card deep into my front shirt pocket—right over my bare chest—and flatten my other palm against your hip, sliding my hand slow and invasive up under the hem of your soaked jacket.

(Shivering already, and we haven't even started the pat-down yet. Keep glaring at me like that and see how fast I find an excuse to keep my hands under your clothes all night.)

"Hold still," I say, my mouth hovering an inch from yours with a wicked, mock-professional smile. "Breaking perimeter after midnight triggers a mandatory Section-Four contraband search, and I just texted Victor to tack another week onto my contract for the trouble. Let's see what else you're hiding on you—starting with the burner phone vibrating against your thigh."