Page 50 of Lethal Obsession

Oh, yeah.

I fucking knew, all right.

Or was it more that you hoped, you piece of shit?

I’ve tried not to think about it. To distract myself from the inevitable, maddening train of thought started by that one lone comment. Tried not to wonder if she’d found someone else to kiss, or worse, to touch the places my knife once marked as my own. I’ve fucked a thousand women trying to forget how her mouth felt under mine, to convince myself that her words were nothing more than a teenage dream, one she surely must have given up on by now.

But even if I’ve spent most of the last six years telling myself that I want Ofelia to find someone, I’m honest enough to know that the thought of any man putting his hands on her long, lithe limbs, on the parts of her I was forced to mark with my blade, makes me want to take out that same knife and carve the bastard up.

And if I’ve been haunted by the memory of her body under my hands for years, now those dreams will be edged with the recollection of her taste and scent.

Torture, she called the years without being kissed.

She has no idea what kind of torture it is to know she’s lying barely meters from where I’m standing, her body still wet and swollen from my mouth, my cock pulsing at the thought of slowly waking her with it again, so she’s gasping before she’s even conscious . . .

Torture is entirely inadequate to describe that temptation.

I’d call it fucking obsession.

Let’s face it. If I was any kind of honorable man, I’d already be on a flight out of here. I could have told security to watch over Ofelia. Could have already been gone.

Instead, I leaped at the very first opportunity to do the one thing I’ve been promising myself for years I would never do.

But you haven’t completely ruined everything. Not yet.

She can still find someone else. Go to him untouched, or at least as far as he would know.

Oh, really, Alexei? And you’d just stand aside and let another man take her, would you?

Cursing my own weakness, I crack the adjoining door open a fraction.

I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed to find Ofelia’s eyes closed, her breathing deep and even. For a moment my eyes linger on the long leg stretched down, the other hitched up, the chiffon of her dress only just covering the delicious swell of her ass and the even more tempting shadow beneath it.

Don’t even fucking think about it, asshole.

I’ve done more than enough damage for one night. For a lifetime, if it comes to that.

I close the door before my cock gets the better of my brain for the second time in one night and pour another straight shot from the bottle on the dresser. Crossing back to the window, I gulp the shot, bitterly aware I’ve got fuck-all chance of getting any sleep unless I take a freezing cold shower then drink myself into a stupor.

I grip the window frame and stare down at the street sweeper, then suddenly tense.

Europe might do things differently than Miami.

But even in France, and especially in Paris, it’s pretty rare to see someone using an actual broom to sweep a wide, easily accessible street.

Especially when they’ve been sweeping the same part of it for the last fifteen minutes.

“Mickey.”

To the kid’s credit, when I come through the divider it only takes one look at my face and he’s on his feet, if a little unsteadily, and at my side.

“There’s something off in the street,” I say, out of earshot of the others. Lars is shooting us a sideways look, but he knows better than to get involved in this part of our business. Instead, he keeps Benny and Lourdes distracted, telling them some outlandish story involving a famous actor that has them both fascinated enough not to pay attention as Mickey and I discreetly retreat to my room. “Have a look.” I stand aside, and Mickey peers down.

“The street sweeper?”

I nod. “Fucker has been in the same place for twenty minutes. And that road was already spotless.”

He frowns. “Who do you think he’s here for? You, Lars, or me?”