Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 73655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
"A partner?" He laughs darkly. "That will be a position earned. And if you want me to treat you like a woman, you'll be in pain for weeks after." His words hold a sexual vow that has my core clenching. "Do you want that, little dancer?" he taunts while tipping his head to the side as he regards me through black lashes. "You like the danger." It's not a question, so I don't answer.
His mouth is a sinister curve, reminding me of all the ways that Enzo de Rossi is bad for me. He may not love me, or I him, but there's an innate connection between us. A chemistry I've never felt with anyone before.
"Tell me, Luna," he says, his voice wrapping around my name like a lover, like a man who wants to own it. "Do you like it when I make you cry? Does your pretty pussy get wet when my blade trails its way down your neck, to your tits?"
"Enzo—"
"Do you touch yourself at night thinking about a man in the darkness taking you and making you come over and over on his cock?" His teasing tone has my clit throbbing, my pussy pulsing wildly with need.
"Enzo, please—"
My heart kicks against my ribs when his lips brush along mine. Heat courses through my veins, reminding me that I'm toying with a killer. His tongue darts out, tasting me ever so lightly. He doesn't make a move to kiss me, he doesn't pull me closer, even though I'm practically leaning into his broad frame.
"Do you want that man to be me, Luna? My little dancer," he coos, his voice silky soft, yet violently dangerous. The contrast causing the desire my belly to knot and tighten at the thought of him taking me. The idea of him stealing the one thing I still have that's mine to give. Only, Enzo doesn't know that, and I'm not telling him, not until that last minute.
His fingertips dig deeper, forcing another gasp from my lips, and suddenly, he swallows it with his mouth. He crashes into me, as if the clouds have come together and the rain can no longer hold off. His tongue dances along mine. He tastes of coffee, rich and chocolaty. The bitterness is how I imagined him to taste.
My body molds to his in a way that makes it feel as if I was made to fit with him. Two shattered fragments of the same whole. Enzo's hands trail from my hips to my ass, and he grips me harshly. Every sound I make, he inhales, as if he needs it to survive.
And as we fit together perfectly, I allow myself to wonder what it would be like if he did love me. His hands squeeze me harder, causing me to moan into his mouth. His lips are soft, but firm. Passion is this man’s cologne, and he wears it like a fucking expert.
But then he pulls away. It's sudden, and I stumble backward. My body still buzzing with heat and desire still coursing through me when he stands before me, looking shocked. As if he didn't just willingly kiss me.
Seconds pass before he speaks again. "I'm meeting with my men. I'll be back in a couple of hours to pick you up." He spins on his heel and leaves me alone in the living room, my panties soaked, and my nipples hard like little pebbles against the tight fabric of my bra.
My mind is still dancing with the memory of his warmth. For a man so cold, so harsh, he's like a furnace, and I'm afraid he's going to burn me down.
For a long while, I stand there, looking at the door he walked through, wondering if he's finally breaking down the barriers he's built up. When I finally move, I head down the hall toward the bedrooms. Pausing at the door to mine, I glance over at Enzo's bedroom and make a beeline for it. The last time I was in here was my first day at the apartment, but now, as I step inside, it feels different. As if I'm meant to be here, rather than the guest room he's given me.
Everything has been tidied away. It's like he's not been here. I move into the bathroom where his scent is heaviest. The spice of his cologne has me inhaling deeply, and the memory of his kiss assaults me. When I open my eyes, I glance down to the corner of the room and notice the collar of one of his crisp white shirts. The splatter on the material is unmistakable—it's blood.
I pad over to it, picking it up to find the cuffs and forearms are stained in deep red. This is the life I'll live, where my husband comes home in someone's blood. Someone he's tortured, maimed, and killed.