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"Sleep hasn’t improved your disposition, huh?" A lean arm appears in front of me, holding a glass of water. "Drink."
I purse my lips, gulp, glare from the glass of water to his handsome, gorgeous, ugly-mean features.
"Do it or I’ll pour it down your throat myself." His tone is soft but he doesn’t fool me. Bastard would do it, too. I reach for the glass. The water slides between my parched lips. I drain it. My swollen tongue thanks me, and the drumming behind my temples seems to recede. I lower the glass, take stock of my surroundings. I’m in a leather chair, and a seatbelt is strapped across my lap. I also have my running clothes on. I glance down and find my feet are still clad in my sneakers. The low hum of engines, hushed voices soaked up by thick carpeting, and the kind of luxury only the filthy rich or the filthy—period—can buy, reaches me.
"We’re on a plane?"
I glance up at the face of my kidnapper. He sits in the chair opposite me. Elbows on the armrests, fingers steepled together in front of him, his legs are spread apart, powerful thighs stretching the soft fabric of his tailor-made pants, and between them, the unmistakable bulge of— I jerk my chin up, meet his gaze. "Private jet, huh? I guess crime really does pay well. How did you acquire it? Did you kill the owner?"
"Tortured him, actually. By the time I was done with him, there was no blood left in his sorry-ass body."
I blanche.
He laughs and I can’t tell if it’s because it’s true or he just likes the look on my face and wants to torment me.
"Do you want more water?"
Maybe both.Jerk.
"What I want…" I tighten my grip on the glass, "is to smash your face in." I pull my arm back and hurl the glass at him. It catches him at the side of the temple, then falls to the carpet with a soft thud. Blood blooms from the gash, a trickle of scarlet that rolls down his temple, over the razor-sharp, high cheekbone.
There’s a sudden movement, then the barrel of gun is pushed against my temple. "Want me to kill her, Michael?" A hard male voice sounds from somewhere to the side and above me. I swallow; my pulse begins to race.
Michael rubs his chin as he considers me.
The barrel of the gun digs deeper into my temple. I wince, but don’t take my gaze off the asshole opposite.
Finally, Michael tilts his head. "Not yet," he rumbles, and I stiffen.
The cold metal disappears from my skin, and I am not ashamed to say that the tension drains from my body.
"Oh, and Antonio?"
Antonio tilts his head.
"No one gets to pull a gun on her, except me. No one hurts her, but me." His lips curl.
I set my jaw and his grin widens. "Now leave us," he growls and Antonio retreats to the far end of the cabin. Shit, now we are alone. Maybe it would be better if Antonio were still here. So what, if he held a gun to my temple? I'd rather face a weapon head-on, than the shark-faced, Mafia asshole who eyes me like I am the tastiest morsel ever. I tip up my chin, grip the handles of my seat, "If that was meant to frighten me—"
"Shut up."
My breath hitches.
"Don’t talk to me like—"
He swoops forward so fast that the blood from his temple splashes onto my dress. "I mean it, Beauty. Keep those pretty lips zipped or I’ll stuff your mouth, and it won’t be with your favorite cupcake."
My shoulder muscles lock, my core puckers. I squeeze my thighs together to stop the insidious moisture that drip-drip-drips from my treacherous core.
"Unless." He taps his fingertips together, peruses my features. "Unless that’s what you want?"
No.
"Maybe that’s why you’ve been barking at me, scratching at me, demanding my attention, making it difficult for me to concentrate on anything but your face, your legs, the hard nipples of your breasts that tremble in anticipation of my touch, hmm?"
Of course, not. What the hell is he talking about?
"Is this what gets you off?" I drop my gaze to his crotch, where his bulge has grown noticeably bigger in the last few seconds. "Lording it over those helpless in front of you, those weaker than you? Does that make you feel more macho? Does it feed your manliness, you obnoxious bastard?"
