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“I needed to know who I was dealing with. Simple survival.”
“The best way to survive is to kill those standing in your way, sweetheart.”
She rolls her eyes. “Shortsighted beyond belief.”
“Call it what you want, it’s what’s kept me and mine alive.”
“For now.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s catching up to you now, living your life that way for too long. Don’t you see?”
I force myself up, grasping the arm of the couch for a moment, before I manage to push past the way I feel. Getting in her face, I growl, “What I’m seeing is you put me down, now I gotta do the same to you. Gotta warn you, though, mine’s way more permanent.”
Instead of showing any kind of fearful reaction and backing up, she moves closer, until her breasts are pressed against my chest, our breath intermingling. “You won’t be able to handle me, Prez.” She fists her hands in my leather jacket, and leans in, whispering all sultry at my ear, “By all means, try. I like a man who can get good and rough.”
Her heat all over me, her sexy challenge, and her eyes glazed with need, all have my dick hard as goddamn steel.
With a smirk, I tell her, “Really something, ain’t you, woman?”
“I am. You’re not used to that. Not at all. You like to be the top dog, the dominating force.”
“Makes for a much easier life that way.”
“There’s no challenge, though.” She breathes me in. “No passion either.”
Woman’s messing with my head, because I’m close to shoving her onto the couch, tearing down her pants, and fucking her raw right the hell now.
Survival comes first.
Above all.
I grasp her hands and ease them off me, taking a step back. “Why’d you bring me here?”
She smirks at me, looking pleased with herself that she managed to get to me. Don’t look like it was one-sided, though, judging by the look in her eyes, and the way she’s shifting her weight uncomfortably. She’s turned on for me, probably warm and wet between her thighs.
“Well?” I push, forcing everything else down. Gotta get a grip.
“I need you to walk away from Kenny Stevens.”
I choke out a laugh of disbelief. “You’re dreaming, sweetheart.”
“He will die, so the outcome will be the same for you. Another threat down. It just won’t be by your hand.”
“And whose hand will it be by?”
“Cristian Cavalno’s.”
I frown. “The Don’s son?”
“He prefers not to be referred to in that way.”
“Oh, my bad,” I say, sarcasm dripping. “Should I call him a crazy-ass assassin instead? Serial killer material?”
“He makes strategic kills. He’s not crazy. He’s controlled and efficient.”
“You fucking him?”
