Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
“Fuck,” I whisper and pull his hair hard. “Don’t stop. You fucking prick. Keep going.”
He smirks and licks my clit as he fucks my pussy. I buck my hips, faster and faster, this killer, this beast.
“You’re a filthy fucking girl, flower,” he whispers, his fingers fucking gushing in and out of my dripping wet pussy and I’m so goddamn close I could scream. “You’re a dripping wet, messy little girl for me, aren’t you? Dreaming about me pinning you down and fucking you raw. Tell me you want it. Tell me you’re my filthy girl.”
“I want it,” I beg, stupid and crazy and wild and so close. “I’m your filthy fucking girl.”
“That’s right,” he growls. “You dirty fucking girl, look at you, legs spread and mouth wide open. Come for me and lick yourself from my fingers when I’m done. Do it, you dirty, bad fucking girl.”
That shoves me over the edge.
I tumble, tumble, and fall.
The orgasm hits me, rips into me like his tongue, and I come with my fingers digging into his hair. He groans and licks me like he wants to taste it as I finish, and the explosion that rips through my body is so intense I can’t breathe as it rolls up and down my spine.
Aftereffects linger. Lights flash in my peripheral. I collapse back, breasts puddling to either side, completely spent and unable to care about anything but the dizzy-happy-giddy-stupid pleasure ringing down my spine.
But he’s not done.
He comes up and presses his fingers into my mouth.
“Lick,” he commands.
And I obey. Licking him clean.
Like a filthy girl.
“Good girl,” he says when I’m done and he stands. Walks to the table. Shoves the gun into his waistband.
Fuck. The gun.
He smirks like he knows what I’m thinking. I had a chance there—if I could’ve been strong enough to shove him aside and lunge for the weapon, I might’ve been able to get it before he could stop me—but instead, I gave myself to the pleasure.
I let him fuck me with his fingers.
Let him lick me. Call me filthy.
And god, I want him to do it again.
I chose him instead of escape.
What does that mean?
Slowly, carefully, he gets me dressed. We don’t speak, but I don’t think we need to, and anyway, I’m exhausted from the run, the sex, and the orgasm. When I’m decent-ish, he takes me into a room next door with an attached bathroom. He turns on the shower, makes it nice and hot, and hangs a towel on the back of the door.
“I’ll be back with clothes,” he says and leaves.
I stand there, alone in the bathroom.
There’s a window. I could rip it open, climb out, and get away, or at least I could try. I don’t know what’s down below or what’s nearby, but this is the best chance I’ve had since coming here.
Instead, I look at myself in the mirror.
Skin flushed. Hair a sweaty, sex-tangled mess.
I close my eyes and taste myself on my tongue and feel his mouth on my clit still.
I strip and get under the water. I clean myself, scrubbing for the first time in days, and it feels like fucking heaven. He returns at one point, but the curtain’s pulled tight, and he doesn’t peek or say anything. The door shuts again.
When I get out and wrap myself in a fluffy towel, I’m still alone, and really clean for the first time since coming here.
It feels incredible.
There are clothes on the floor. Sweats, a woman’s size, like they might fit me. I don’t want to know where they came from and I don’t care.
When I’m dressed, that’s when I see them.
Sitting beside the sink.
The bullet and the ring.
I reach out and pick them both up. I know what they mean. He meant it when he said we were out of time—that must be why he came into my room like a monster. Whatever his father said forced his hand and now it’s time to go.
Bullet or ring.
No more waiting.
I close my eyes and a tear runs down my cheek.
Bullet or ring.
Perico is dead. Papa and my brothers are gone. Nobody in Greece gives a damn about me anymore, not beyond what my name and my status as the last Florakis can do for them.
I’m a toy to use and toss aside.
Except to him.
He can’t get anything from marrying me. He has to know that. The crime lords will never accept him or acknowledge our union. He was sent to kill me—which means his Famiglia will be livid when he comes back with me on his arm instead.
Why do this at all then? Why not choose the bullet for me?
He can’t really think I’m worth it.
What value do I have anymore?
Bide my time…
I put the bullet down.
The ring is lovely. Beautiful, expensive. The sort of ring I’ve always wanted.