Page 61 of Ruthless Enforcer

The shallow breaths, the pulse jumping in her throat, the restless shift of her hips when she thinks I’m not watching—she’s turned on.

So am I. Painfully hard, and every time those green eyes drop, trying to see down to my crotch before lifting back to mine, the water seems to climb another ten fucking degrees.

She knows exactly what she’s doing to me too.

Maybe she doesn’t know what comes next since she’s never crossed that particular line, but she wants to.

And the thought that she wants to cross it with me nearly obliterates what’s left of my control.

Wanting my wife? Not a problem. Keeping my wife? I’m beginning to realize the list of things I wouldn’t do for the chance is getting dangerously short.

The only thing stopping me from making a move right now, in this Jacuzzi, is the fact that she's never been touched by anyone but me—she’s right, that asshole doesn’t count, but that’s because he’s a dead man walking—which means I'm the only bastard on earth who gets to decide when that changes, and it sure as hell isn't going to be tonight. A fuck in a hot tub is not how I’m going to introduce my wife to passion.

When I finally have her, there won’t be a single fucking doubt in her mind that this is exactly where she wants to stay—forever.

51

CLARA

Gabriel has spent days telling me what he won’t do. Tonight I’ve decided what I will.

His bedroom door is unlocked.

I don't knock. I slip inside, close it behind me with a quiet click, and lean against the wood for a moment while my heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to escape.

The room is darker than mine. Bigger, but simpler. A low platform bed with dark sheets, a single nightstand, blackout curtains drawn against the storm. No art on the walls. No personal effects except a watch on the dresser and a gun in a holster draped over the chair.

It's a room designed for function, not comfort.

A room designed for a man who doesn't let anyone in.

We’ll see about that.

I strip quickly, efficiently, draping my clothes on the chair beside the holster. My hands are steady. My breathing is not.

The sheets are cool when I slide between them. I pull the top sheet up to my waist and leave the rest of me bare. My nipples draw tight, more from anticipation than cold. I don’t think Gabriel will care about the reason. I saw him looking at them in the Jacuzzi.

I hear my own pulse in my ears, feel the heat pooling low in my belly, the ache between my legs that hasn't stopped since the hot tub.

Since long before the hot tub, if I'm being honest.

I slip my hand under the sheet, dipping a finger between my legs. I’m wet and slippery, and even my own touch makes me gasp.

The door swings open all the way.

Gabriel steps inside, still damp from the hot tub, a towel slung low around his hips. His hair is pushed back, his chest bare, the ink on his ribs and shoulder dark against his skin. He's looking down at his phone, his thumb scrolling, his expression distracted.

Holding my breath, I wait.

Then he must feel me. He stops, and the phone lowers. His intense gaze locks on mine, and for a long, breathless moment, neither of us moves.

"Clara." His voice is controlled. "What are you doing?"

Does he mean in general or my finger touching myself? I bite my lip. "Waiting for you."

He glances down at the vee of my legs under the sheet. His jaw tightens and he shakes his head. "Get out."

"No."