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“What are you doing?” She asks. “I told you; I won’t tell anyone—”
My silence finally drives her mad.
“What do you want? You saved me just so you can take your turn?” she asks. “I’ve had enough trauma for one evening, thanks.”
I don’t answer. The truth grows weighty and loud around us, her expression changing.
She finally realizes—I know exactly who she is.
Contessa Lovera, the only child of Gio Lovera, head of the Lovera family and their long-standing criminal empire. She is my biggest rival’s greatest weakness, and she has hand-delivered herself to her family’s enemies. Her once bewildered stare changes to a cold, resolved understanding.
Maybe if she wasn’t so beautiful, maybe if she didn’t carry her pedigree like a war banner in the features of her soft, gorgeous face, I wouldn’t have recognized her on a security screen.
But there’s no mistaking who this woman is. We are two wolves sensing each other among a pack of domesticated dogs. One glance and I knew her immediately.
She is the solution to all my problems, wrapped up in one perfect, gorgeous package.
Lance has good taste and shitty luck.
She cranes her neck up to look at me and meet my gaze. She doesn’t cower, but she doesn’t dare breathe either. Her eyes glitter darkly—and it isn’t just fear I see there.
I want to know what that emotion is, want to see if I can taste the heat of it on her slightly parted lips.
Just the sight of this girl turns my thoughts dark and hot, pouring heat through my veins. I always take what I want. By necessity, that is my nature—and now, I want one thing. I want her. I want her spread open, pinned down, ruined. I want to see how those pretty eyes roll back when she comes, feel how her thighs shudder when she’s pushed to the brink. I want her broken in my arms and riding on my cock.
“I’m not like Lance.” I take her by the chin, scrub my thumb over her soft jaw. She surprises me when she doesn’t flinch away, studying me beneath those long eyelashes. I lean close to her ear, drinking in her scent, the closeness of her body. “I’m worse.”
“Salvatore Mori,” she says coldly.
I don’t smile often, but when I do, I can feel the stretch of the scar her father left me. A faded reminder of the past that stretches from the cheekbone to the corner of my lip. I feel it now as the recognition dawns on her face, reflected in those big, expressive eyes. Eyes that show too much; too soft and earnest.
“How is dear old dad, by the way?”
“Peachy. Probably getting ready to kill you,” she answers lowly.
“Well, everyone needs a hobby. . .” Her fear is quickly evaporating in the heat between us. “You’re starting to sound like a Lovera. You like this, don’t you?”
A telling blush crawls up her neck and flushes her cheeks.
“No,” she lies.
My hand curls between her thighs, fingers skirting against the wetness of her pussy. A woman’s cunt always tells the truth. She isn’t wearing panties, and my fingers drag across her warm, slick folds. She gasps and rocks against my fingers. The muscle in her throat works, lips opening in shock. She stares into my face, caught somewhere between shame and interest.
“Yes,” I correct her.
Her cheeks turn pink, her eyes darker.
“You don’t want this fight,” she gasps, the edge in her voice growing sharper as I stroke my fingers against her. “Please. It could be like none of this happened, please. Oh!” She lurches against me, trembling as I barely touch her.
Disagreement rumbles in my chest.
She searches my face, looking for a way to play me. She probably wants an avenue for sympathy, or some get-out-of-hell free card that she won’t find. Not with me. “I don’t know what your father told you about me, but if he told you anything at all, then you should know—I always get what I want.”
“And what do you want?” She asks, as if she can negotiate.
Her breath hitches as I withdraw my hand.
The moment trembles.
