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“You,” I gasp.
“Who?” He echoes, pulling his fingers out and playing with my clit again. “Say my name, Maddalena. Who do you belong to? Who owns this pussy?”
Molten heat burns me from the inside, and I don’t even care how fucking wrong it is to groan, “Garrix!”
He takes his hand away, making a show of licking both digits. Rage crashes inside me, like a bull ready to gore a fucker.
“Garrix!” My voice doesn’t even sound like me. It’s feral.
“I heard you the first time. Don’t worry, I would never leave my little killer hanging.”
He moves down the bed until he’s kneeling at the end. Grabbing my ankle, he pulls me down until my ass hangs off, then throws my legs over his shoulders.
I don’t even get a chance to protest before he dives in, devouring me. Licking, sucking, and biting at my clit until I can’t see straight. Two of his fingers push inside me again, stroking that spot that makes me feel like I’m short-circuiting. My entire body shakes, my thighs tense, and I fall apart. I fucking shatter into a million pieces.
For a blissful moment, I’m at peace. No thoughts of work. My stalker. The pressure that crushes me every day—whispers of how I’m one wrong decision away from becoming a failure—is gone. It’s silent. Garrix covers me with his body and kisses me, delving his tongue into my mouth and taking me in a conquering, slow kiss. I can taste my sharp, tangy flavor on his tongue.
He breaks it before whispering, “You belong to me, Maddalena Vettore. Remember that and behave accordingly.” He cups my pussy possessively, as if they’re spoils of war.
The noise returns and crescendos in my mind, revolting against his claim. A claim he has no right to make because I’ll never belong to any man.
“Leave,” I grit out. “Don’t fucking touch me.”
He sighs, grabbing me tighter. Shame rolls through me, because the possessive touch turns me on. “You said you belonged to me, twice, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Get the fuck out before I scream and wake the whole fucking building up. There’ll be armed guards in here quicker than you can blink. Fucking try me,” I warn him.
“I did, and you taste like a treat.” He gets up, his face an intense mask of seriousness again. “Don’t take my exit as a surrender. You’ll realize soon you belong to me. You’re mine, little killer, whether you accept it or not.”
He kisses me on the lips once before he walks out to the balcony. When he closes the door behind him, I exhale a deep breath.
I lie there, tossing and turning, just as awake as I was before and still thinking of Garrix Cameron. About how his body felt, how he made me lose control. Then the worst thought hits me like a brick: saying I belonged to him didn’t feel wrong. Not one bit.
Garrix
Last night was the beginning of the end for Maddalena Vettore… She belongs to me now.
If she thought screaming and raging at me to leave her room would make me go away, she was sorely mistaken. The sweet taste of her cunt, the way it felt clenching around my fingers, and the deep, hypnotic sound of her moans when she was on the edge only deepened my obsession with her. Now I’m hooked on my little killer, and I’ll do anything to get my next fix, to consume her, body and soul.
What happened between us last night only solidifies that she’s mine.
I’m covertly hiding in an alleyway outside her house. She leaves at 7:45 sharp, dressed for work in sheer nude tights that cling to her legs and black stilettos. Her black pencil skirt hugs her every curve, squeezing tightly over her round ass and sloping hips. A white silk button-up blouse and black longline blazer give her a sophisticated, confident edge, like she can conquer the world without even trying. She’s a vision.
Her proximity rattles the beast inside me, raking over the bars of his cage until he’s chomping at the bit for freedom. Part of me wants to worship every inch and curve of her body. I want to give her so much pleasure that she falls apart and I can put her back together, piece by piece.
Another more sinister part of me wants to break her. I want to use her body to manipulate her until she screams and cries, until she can’t tell the difference between pleasure and pain anymore. I’ll edge her so hard that last night will look like a fucking warm-up. She’ll beg me to stop and put her out of her misery, to push her off the fucking cliff. And she’ll scream my name the whole way down.
Her touchy bodyguard guides her to the back seat of their town car with his hand on the small of her back again, and I vow to stab him right in the eyes so he’ll never be able to ogle her again. Maximo gets in behind her, his head on a swivel, taking in his immediate surroundings. But he’s not quite perceptive enough to see me.
I want to follow her and see where she goes, what she does, and who she does it with, but I have a very specific reason for being here.
After they drive away, I use the same balcony to get back into her brother’s guest room. The weak spot in their security is so obvious, a rookie mistake that can cost someone their life. I text Whit to break into the camera system on this side of her building and link it to my phone, so I can have a live view of her window.
There’s a door connecting their two condos, which I easily unlock with my kit. Another weak spot in their security. The difference between the two dwellings is stark. Maximo’s place is minimalistic, with sleek furniture and a grayscale color scheme. Her living room has oversized leather couches, rich oak furniture, and a cozy, warm color palette. I make my way through a top of the line kitchen, with high-end appliances and island seating. There are a few dirty dishes in the sink, and her refrigerator is filled with raw ingredients and prepared meals.
Why is her fridge fully stocked if she’s staying at her brother’s place?
The kitchen, living room, and dining room are open-concept, and I turn down a long hallway. The walls are filled with pictures of her family, mostly her brothers. All the Vettore siblings share similarities, especially their piercing blue eyes and various shades of brown hair. There are a few pictures with her parents. One photo is of her, French, Maximo, and another man on some kind of yacht. She’s wearing a string bikini that does nothing to hide her luscious curves and French has his tattooed arm around her waist while they smile at the camera. I push my rage down deep, reminding myself to punch him in the face later for touching what’s mine.
