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Good question. I only shrug in response, then return to my painting. I pick up the brush but my hands are too shaky to do much, so I put it back down.
“I told you I’d give you a week.”
“I don’t have an answer yet.”
He comes to stand beside me in front of the easel. “Cool. You can take another week. But I really, really need to fuck you tonight.”
My core clenches almost painfully, but I keep my voice even. “Because you haven’t had sex?”
“Because I want you,” he snaps. “Christ, I can’t get you out of my fucking head!”
“Well, that hardly seems like it’s my fault,” I say, still staring at the canvas, but inside, his confession shoots through me like liquid crack. In my defense, what sensible woman wouldn’t want to be the fixation of a dangerous mafia don?
“Of course, it’s your fault. Everything from your impudent mouth to your goddamned understanding to your fucking perfect ass.” He lifts a hand to my jaw, turning me to face him. “The worst part is you were right.”
“Yeah, I hate it when that happens,” I snark. “What exactly was I right about this time?”
“Talking to you was… helpful for me,” he spits out like a curse.
Damn. There is that. Except when Nico talks to me, all my training goes out of the window. I don’t do it as a therapist to a client. I do it because I get perverse joy, an emotional high, and intense sexual arousal from talking to him. I never want to stop when I start.
“Put the knife down, baby,” Nico whispers.
I didn’t realize I was still gripping the knife in my other hand. Instantly, I open my fist and let the dagger clatter to the floor at the same time his mouth swoops down to capture mine.
And then he isn’t just close; he’s all around me, seeping into my pores as he delves for my lips, kissing me with almost bruising fervor.
A sigh escapes me as his tongue sweeps into my mouth, silkily gliding against mine. How can a man so bad taste this good? I want to get lost in his kiss until I can’t breathe.
He drags his fingers through my hair, grabs it, and twists it around his fist twice, holding me securely as he devours me and overwhelms my senses. The minty flavor of his mouth, the woodsy vetiver scent of him, the faint scrape of his five o'clock shadow—they wend their way inside me, making my pulse race and my breathing come faster.
For some reason, the black Mustang flashes behind my eyes. Its sleek paint job and smooth leather seats, the purr of its engine, and the wind in my hair as Rafe flew down the backroads at eighty miles an hour.
It was wrong and illegal. And not something I’d ever do again. But it had felt so damned good. Nico feels better than good. I grip his muscular shoulders, and when that isn't enough, I trail my hands up his neck and into his hair.
“Forget the black and white box, Sophie,” as though reading my mind, he whispers harshly against my lips as he wedges his thigh between my legs, pressing up against my clit. The friction shoots right through me.
“God, that feels good.” The words slip out on a sigh.
He moves again, grinding my clit against his thigh. “Not as good as you feel, Sophie.” His praise is like purring engines and rushing wind.
Fuck rules. Fuck morals. And everything else I’ve been struggling to live my life by.
Tonight, the Reaper roots win.
I curl my fingers deeper into his hair, no longer able to fight the pull of darkness.
He delves for my lips again, taking them with such bold hunger it makes my mouth open wider for him to do what he wants because, damn, the man can kiss. He plunges and glides; it’s like sex in my mouth, making my breasts ache and my core tighten with need.
He suddenly tears his lips away, reaches between us instead, and yanks my shirt off over my head so fast, he may have left rugburn.
He freezes, his fingertips coasting over the tattoo on my torso. Then he makes a feral sound deep in his throat as he hooks his fingers between my breasts and jerks his hands, ripping my lacy bra right off.
Well, two can play that game.
I grab hold of his shirt and pull. Hard.
Buttons fly, pinging off the floor in every direction, and I yank his shirt and jacket off him, revealing his lick-able torso. My lips actually tingle at the prospect of sampling all that hard, etched flesh.
