Dirty Chase: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Brooklyn Brotherhood Book 2) Read Online Free Page A

maybe you'd prefer I don't wear anything at all?"
    I can't control the shiver that runs through me at his words, at his touch. And he notices, damn him.
    His smile gets even bigger. "I know I've been imagining you wearing nothing but that tiara—and your smile—ever since I met you."
    "Oh, for a whole twenty minutes, then?"
    I'm about to tease him some more when a blinding white light flashes like a beacon on our right. It takes me a second to put together the flash, the sounds of a shutter clicking, and the footsteps of the paparazzo moving backwards to keep us in his lens. Holy crap, we're being photographed?
    When my eyes recover from the lights, I see a middle-aged white guy with a baseball cap, a hoodie, and a huge, expensive camera pointed directly at us.
    "Oh my God." I start laughing, but I also try to cover my exposed chest with my hands. "We're not famous! Save your time—"
    And then Chase turns into an animal, a blur of black and blue, and attacks the man.

Chapter Five

Chase
    I see the camera's flash and react instinctively, rushing the photographer and pushing him backwards with my right hand—though I grab his jacket and hold him up so he doesn't fall on his ass. He's off-balance, tilting backwards like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. I give his jacket a hard shake, distracting him so my left hand can jerk the camera out of his feeble grip. I hold it above my shoulders so the shorter man can't reach for it.
    Not that he's even trying.
    His eyes are wide and he looks like he's about to piss himself.
    "What the fuck, man!" the paparazzo squeals.
    "I'm going to let go of you," I growl. "Don't fall on your ass."
    "What?"
    I release his jacket and he stumbles backwards and—yep—falls on his ass.
    "Fuck! I'm gonna sue you for all you're worth!" The paparazzo groans, rolling over onto his hands and knees, then reaching back to rub his tailbone.
    I shrug and turn away. Now that I'm not holding onto him, he's suddenly got a big mouth. Typical for a coward. That's when I look up and see Elle's stricken face.
    "What are you doing ?" she cries.
    "Fuck," I mutter. Normally, I aim for drama-free: in work, in life, and with women. I don’t explain myself. I don't put myself in situations where I have to explain myself.
    But right now, staring at Elle's horrified face, some part of me feels…guilty. Not for roughing the guy up; but for making her watch.
    Another part of me finds it hard to ignore her amazing curves. She's spilling out of that ridiculous, overpriced bustier, or whatever the hell she called it. And those skintight, ridiculous tights are making me hard all over again, despite the fact that her ass and thick thighs and long, gorgeous legs are covered with fucking cats.
    Have I mentioned I’m a dog person?
    And while I can't help but admire her heaving chest, her wild hair blowing in the gentle night breeze, my big head—the one I probably don't use that often when it comes to women—can't help but notice her pretty blue eyes are distressed. And that little frown, the way her light-brown eyebrows are pushed together, the way she's balling her fists down at her sides—it's driving me fucking crazy.
    I want her chest heaving and her hands clenching for entirely different reasons. Not because she thinks I'm a violent asshole.
    I'm not—unless I have to be. And never with women.
    I just can't have my picture taken. Not in this line of work.
    She'll never understand that. And I wouldn't want to corrupt her life to make her understand. It would be best for everyone if I ended things, right now, before even one night.
    Despite her fucking amazing body, I should just drop her.
    But somehow, I find myself explaining my actions. I can't remember the last time I had to do this, and it's making me fucking angry—at the entire situation, the fucking photographer, and the fact that I know, deep down inside, that Elle shouldn't be with me. I'm angry at fate, I guess.
    But not at her. It's not her fault she's behaving