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Which is why I now raise my fist and bang on her front door with more force than necessary.
In less than a minute, the woman opens her front door wearing tiny shorts and a tank top. She’s soaking wet.
Fuck me.
Her skin glistens in the morning sunlight, and water droplets drip from the wisps of dark hair that have escaped her bun.
You want to kill that? My cock rants in objection and is sounding pretty damned convincing right this moment.
Her eyes widen in shock at the sight of me. Apparently, she didn’t check the peephole before pulling the door open. She immediately attempts to slam the door shut.
But I’m quicker, catching the door and pushing it wider, I don’t yet cross the threshold, but she has to know it’s coming.
Instead of running, screaming, or anything else a rational person might do when a dangerous man shows up at their door, she huffs and crosses her arms over her chest, molding the fabric of her wet shirt to her full tits and pushing them up. I see her nipples clearly outlined under the wet white tank top.
Christ! Doesn’t she know what she looks like right now?
“You do know clothes are supposed to come off before you have a shower, Signorina Kellan?” The words leave my mouth unexpectedly, and I realize I’ve been staring for too long when I see her nipples harden.
I tell the blood rushing to my cock that it’s due to the cool draft on her damp flesh, that it’s fear, shock, or revulsion—anything but the notion that my presence might be affecting her this way.
“Leave,” she snaps while her eyes glare daggers at me.
“We need to talk,” I say, dragging my gaze back up to hers, wondering where the fuck that came from. I didn’t come here to talk. My original intent was more straightforward; I should be gagging and bundling her into the back of the van parked out front right about now.
“There’s nothing to discuss. Get your ass off my property, Mr. Vitelli, or I’ll call the—”
“Police? No, you won’t,” I cut her off. I’ve already blocked all outgoing signals.
Her eyes spark with defiance before she whirls around, making a dash across the room.
Where does she think she’s going? The back exit won't budge; I made sure of it.
She’s aiming for something on the coffee table. Closing the distance between us with three long strides, I reach out, grasping her arm to halt her, spinning her to face me. But the instant our bodies align, I feel an unexpected pressure against my crotch. And I have a feeling she isn’t offering up hand-jobs here.
She meets my gaze, her big amber eyes snapping in defiance while a smug smile plays at the corners of her plump lips. Lips that would look fucking incredible wrapped around my cock.
Then, out of nowhere, something quacks. Yes, quacks—like a duck.
“What the hell is that?” I demand, scanning the room for the source of the absurd noise.
“Don’t you think you should be more concerned with what that is?” she retorts, arching an eyebrow and nodding toward her hand, which is firmly wrapped around the hilt of a knife. A knife that is currently pressed against my balls.
Impressive. I didn’t even see her pull out the knife.
“That,” I say without looking down or backing away, “is a very big mistake if you want to keep breathing, fiammetta.”
“What I want is for you to get the fuck out of my house, gangster,” she shoots back, her voice steady. “And just so you know, your threats aren’t going to have me quaking in my shoes, so save them.”
Despite the precarious situation, my attention drifts to her lips, and against all reason, my softening cock goes rock hard again, the fucker oblivious to the danger of being sliced apart. I’m not sure I’ve ever wanted a woman more than Sophie Kellan right this moment. I want all that fire and ferocity trapped under me, eyes shooting daggers just like this, moments before rolling back in orgasm.
Fuck. I’ve lost it.
I let go of her arm and raise my hands up in surrender, waiting for her to retract the blade so I can properly disarm her.
But then, the absurdity escalates. My focus is lost again when a mallard duck—wearing a fucking diaper—waddles into the living room down the hall, its webbed feet slapping the floor and sprinkling water everywhere.
Sophie heaves a sigh and takes the knife away from my crotch, though she keeps a firm hold on the hilt.
