Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 82094 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82094 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
I’m breathing hard, feeling flushed and hot and too confined in the back of the limo, and all I want to do is throw the door open and go stomping off. Carmine’s eyebrows are way up and he’s smiling at me like he won a contest, and god, I wish I could slap that smug grin off his face right now.
He says, “You just cursed.”
“Excuse me? That’s what you want to respond to?”
“You never curse. You’ve got the cleanest mouth I’ve ever seen. A lovely little mouth too. One that feels extremely good wrapped around the tip of my cock.”
I throw up my hands. “You’re infuriating. Who cares if I curse?”
“The only other time I’ve ever heard you say a dirty word was yesterday when you were begging me to fuck you.”
“You’re repulsive. You really are.”
He turns away as the limo stops at a light. “I know you think that, but we’re exactly the same, you and me, except you’re still held hostage by years and years of repression and conditioning, by your family’s expectations and demands. Do you really think your father and your grandfather have your best interests at heart, or is all of this just a way of them to keep their own power? You saw your real self yesterday, filthy girl, and now I’m tempted to make you suck me off here in this limo, come on the seat, and make you lick it clean while I eat your dripping pussy from behind.”
“God, Carmine, you’re horrible,” I whisper as a thrill runs down my spine at the thought of doing something so intensely sexual and wild and dirty, and fear bubbles up from my core, and I can’t help but wonder if maybe he’s right, if maybe I really am as depraved as he thinks I am, but before I can say anything more, an enormous truck pulls up beside us and revs its engine loudly.
The windows roll down and two gun barrels held by men wearing surgical masks point directly at the side of our car, and it’s like my world goes still. I open my mouth to scream or say something but nothing comes out, and it’s like I’m stuck in the mud, frozen in place, and I can’t make my body react. Those are guns, big guns, and they’re pointed right at us—
Carmine reacts as the world explodes into propulsive fury. It feels like the sky is breaking into tiny pieces and showering down around us like concussion bombs, but it’s just the glass shattering and the guns going off. Carmine throws himself at me, his seatbelt clicking off, and covers my body with his, curling around me like a shield. Glass flies around the cabin and shards rip through the air, catching on the fabric seats, slicing through my clothes.
Pain flares on my hands and arms as pieces tear my exposed skin, and bullets punch into the side of the limo with loud thumps and violent rocking as the guards sitting up front return fire.
Carmine unclips my seatbelt and then we’re falling down onto the floor, landing with a crunch on more shattered glass.
I hit hard and he lies on top of me, arms pinning me down, his breathing fast and ragged, and everything is heat and screaming gunfire so loud I feel like my eardrums might explode. It feels like we’re down on the floor forever and the world is only noise and pain and Carmine until all at once it abruptly stops.
Vaguely, like I’m standing at the far side of a tunnel, I hear tires peeling out over blacktop. It smells like fresh ozone or like an old growth forest burning after a thunderstorm, and Carmine’s not moving. I can’t feel him breathing but I can’t feel much of anything pinned down on the floor except for a chunk of glass digging into my back and the little nicks and scratches all down my arms and across my face. “Carmine,” I say but it sounds muffled and distant. “Carmine, can you hear me? Carmine!” I’m squeezing him, yelling, trembling, and my adrenaline spikes harder as he groans and slowly lifts his head.
He blinks down at me, eyes filled with such a fury I can barely understand it, and then he’s moving. He pulls back and lifts me off the floor, kicks the door open, and deposits me back down on the pavement. His hands check every inch of me, making sure there are no serious wounds or at least that’s what I think he’s doing, and he keeps saying over and over how he’ll kill all of them, kill every single one, if they spilled so much as a drop of my blood. I tell him I’m fine, but I can barely hear anything and I’m mostly reading his lips, and he isn’t listening as he brushes glass from my hair and my skin. “Carmine, I’m okay, I’m not hurt, thanks to you,” I say, squeezing his shoulders to get his attention. “The driver. Check on the driver.”