The Carrero Heart - Beginning (Friends to Lovers)

My chest heaves with the ferocity of it and then the sudden pang of absolute fear that I just made a stupid impulsive mistake and notch this up to a code red. My body caught in a wave of icy coldness, sweeping over every limb and calming my jets. I know I pretty much just triggered a violent reaction in a guy who clearly has no issue with victimizing women.

“You little …” He jumps to his feet, a hand rising aggressively as a storm rages in his eyes, scowling furiously, and I can tell I’m about to be slapped back with pissed male aggression that will render me useless. His face is twisted in seething hatred, moving fast, and I’m suddenly powerless to do anything, paralyzed in what feels like a time pause. It’s like my body is too stunned to react and even though I see it coming, I freeze. Bracing for impact and knowing I have no chance to get out of this. I have no idea what the hell is wrong with me and it’s like I see it all happening in slow motion.

His hand is blocked with lightning speed by a muscular black-sleeved arm, appearing in front of my face in such an instant that I’m still recoiling in slow reaction. The tall, muscular body of a leather-jacketed male slides between us fully, shielding me behind him, and my whole inner self sweeps coolly with utmost relief.

Arrick’s aftershave surrounds me like a sudden familiar haven, a solid shield of pure muscle and a beacon in the dark. That wave of cold turns to tingles and internal shakes of sheer relief, my body instantly slumping and falling forwards to lean into him as the adrenaline turns me into a mess of jellified uselessness.

“I swear if you don’t turn around and walk off right now, then you’ll be taking all meals from a tube, Dickhead.” Arrick snarls in that husky Carrero tone of the most perfect male voice I’ve ever known. My boy! Like familiar soothing music that just makes you whole. Bristling with aggression and dwarfing the other man with his sheer build of alpha intimidation in all his glory.

Arrick is hitting the six-foot-one mark, maybe more nowadays, and his build has gotten a lot wider and stronger since he matured and started professional fighting. He’s a vision of physical perfection that goes so well with the face of male gorgeousness I could never find a fault in. Arrick has always been the poster boy for my idea of the perfect man. I don’t see flaws or fault in any single tiny inch of him.

into the back of his leather jacket, sighing with relief and letting every ounce of emotion seep away into silence with the calming presence he always is. Curling the hem in my palms and leaning myself softly against his back to breathe deeply. Resting my cheek against him, the warm soft leather and body heat, that is as welcome as his smell, seeps into me and calms me down, relaxing me fully. Secure in the

too. Arry tenses at the insult, willing himself not to react, to keep his cool. I know without seeing his face he’ll be a picture of complete

Arrick leans away from me and I know it’s to glare into the guy’s face and threaten him, all icy cool composure sweeping off him in droves. One thing he mastered young in life was how to assert authority and dominate

Arrick watches him disappear into the smoky atmosphere, deathly still for a moment as that tremor of nerves surges through me. I know that I’m probably about to get

on mine intensely. Even though it’s dark, I know those hazel eyes will have more than a few flecks of green, sparkling in the depths. They become obvious and intense when he’s pissed. My stomach flickers again, nerves making me uneasy.

well hidden beneath that cool and calm exterior in which he excels, but I catch that tight tone under the silky deep depths of that smooth voice. Arrick never really lets much out publicly, he’s a guy who hates drama and making a scene, hates being overly emotional, and has only

it off and not hint at how terrified or angry I was seconds before. I still have this inability to

waiting for more of a response and that sinking ache hits me again. His manner is all hostile, even if to the untrained eye he seems fine. He’s mad at me. Entangling fingers snugly with mine to secure me to him. Despite the nerves inside of me, I still get that warm tug of euphoria I always get with his touch; that familiar coming home as he leads the way towards the dance

it, making my heart thump in time to the beat and worsens the nausea that’s still lingering. I force myself to take long, deep, and even breaths to control it. My head starting to ache now the alcohol level in my blood has dwindled, even more with that tense little scene. Nothing helps sober you up like a nice little bit