Before she can even take one step away from me, my hands grip her arm, pulling her into me. I lower my eyes to hers as my jaw tenses. “Have I struck a nerve? You know, for someone who is complaining about games, you seem to have no issue with them when the games involve you coming more times than you can keep track of,” I remind her.
She tries to break free from my grip, rolling her eyes, but her attempts at unclenching my fist are not convincing. “You are sexy, and you wanted to fuck me. I have needs, too, you know. But that ends now,” she lies.
Still in my grasp, we stand another moment with our eyes intensely locked. I only break eye contact when I feel her hardened nipple graze my arm.My little, horny queen.
“Like what you see?” I tease, as my eyes draw attention to her stiffened nipples.
“Unfortunately,” she scoffs.
“In time, you will learn that I hold a priceless fortune with your name on it.”
She ignores me. “Just tell me why you called me here,” she says, trying to be stern, but it feels like she is begging.
“I summoned you because I wanted you—”
She cuts me off. “No, we have been over that, and your answers as to why I am at Marked Inc. did jack shit in helping me figure out your intent. Why am I here? In this creepy-ass warehouse, where you killed your father? Watch what you say next, because your lies aren’t going to cut it,” she says angrily, fighting back tears.
Lost in the beauty that is her dampened eyes, I loosen my grip on her arm. She doesn’t waste a fucking second once free from my hold, as she fumbles for her purse on the ground. The familiar click of a pistol cocked and loaded penetrates my eardrums as she stealthily rises from her crouched position.
Walking toward me, she aims the gun in my direction. Tears swell in her eyes, though her stance remains strong. Even with her sights on me, ready to shoot at any moment, she looks devastatingly beautiful.
“Why, Carmine?!” she asks again, her voice slightly trembling. But her stance is solid; her arm hasn’t flinched once, despite the emotion swarming through her at the moment.
“I know your talent,” I blurt.
“How? How the fuck do you know my talent, huh? You don’t fucking know me! What are you, some kind of sick stalker who seduces women before you bring them here, in the middle of fucking nowhere, to kill them?!” she shouts, gun still pointed in my direction.
“I’m not a stalker, Sienna.” I sigh, reaching for another cigarette, but the pack is empty.
“Then, what are you and why the fuck am I here? I don’t want to be involved in this!” she shouts. “And how is it you know so much about me?”
“I know that your father was a shark in the drug game. I know, despite his tough persona, he was a loyal man, but he was loyal to a fault. That fault landed him in a coffin, along with your mother,” I half answer her questions, trying to figure out how much I want to disclose to her as she has a loaded gun pointed at me.
I continue, “I know that you miss them more than you let on. I know that your head is your safe place, because in your head live the stories you have always wanted to tell, the stories you need to tell. I know that you are the most exquisite woman I have ever laid eyes on. I know that your pain has made you the strong goddess I see standing before me. I know you, Sienna Ricci, better than I think you know yourself.”
I feel this odd mixture of tears starting to pool in my eyes just as blood rushes to my dick so violently that it is practically begging to be unleashed.
I fucking know you, Sienna.
I have fucking always known you.
I expect her to question my unfiltered confession, but she doesn’t.
Waiting for her to speak is intolerable. I need her to say something, fucking anything. She can tell me to go to Hell for all I care, tell me to go fuck off. I don’t care, I just need her to say something.
She drops the gun and steps back from me for a second. “Was he a bad man?” she asks. Her demeanor is calmer than before. Perhaps my erratic, semi-confession eased her. It has the opposite effect on me right now. I feel as though I am on the verge of losing all fucking control.
“Who? My father?” I ask, feeling thrown off my game.
“Yes, I assume it is his blood that is staining your, and well, my hands now,” she says, looking down at the blood that covers her delicate hands.
“Yes, he was.”
“So, he deserved it, then?” she asks, staring back at his bloodied corpse.
“Yes, he did ...”
“Why did he deserve it? I mean, you aren’t exactly a saint. Hell, neither am I, or any of us, really. What gives you the power or the right to make that decision? A decision that costs you your father.”
