Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 108405 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 542(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108405 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 542(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
“Are you asking if the rumors about El Polvo are true?”
“I know they are. Diego saw you pour sand down a man’s throat until he choked to death.”
“I did.” He spoke without inflection or emotion, his hand loose around my neck.
“What did he do to deserve that?”
“I’ll tell you what he didn’t do. He didn’t kill me first—and that’s what matters.” He grazed his thumb under my jaw. “Such a pretty, slender throat,” he said, his eyes drifting down. “I’ll bet there are many who’d love to get their hands on it.”
“You’re the only one who has.”
He looked pleased by that, even though I hadn’t meant to flatter him. He dipped his head but kept his gaze on me. “And I’m the only one who ever will. That’s my promise to you.”
A threat . . . or a promise. He’d be the only one to keep my fate on a precarious edge.
“You don’t have to worry about the sand,” he said, moving his mouth closer to my ear. “That would be such a waste. A throat like yours would bruise and tighten and succumb so beautifully under a man’s hands.”
A shiver prickled down my spine as cords of fear and desire tangled in me. I couldn’t stop swallowing. “How many women have you choked?”
“With my hands? None.”
“But you’ve strangled some?” I asked.
“No.” His crow’s feet deepened as he suppressed a grin. “I was being suggestive, but I’m glad to see it was lost on you. I assume that means mine will be the first cock you gag on.”
A gasp sucked the air from my lungs with the delicious, maddening pull I was coming to expect between my legs whenever he spoke about dominating me.
“And before you accuse me of abusing a woman’s mouth,” he added, bracing his hands on both sides of me until our mouths were close, “I’ll let you in on a secret. Some women love it. They shouldn’t call me El Polvo. They should call me El Gallo.”
“The rooster?” I asked at the same moment it clicked. His cock.
“More women have willingly choked on my rooster than men have been forced to eat my dust.”
Of course, Cristiano de la Rosa’s attempt at a joke would be both sinister and provocative. I didn’t laugh, mostly because I was too focused on trying not to picture the look that would cross his face the first time I took him in my mouth. Would he become even more domineering when I kneeled for him? Or would I steal his control?
“How many men have you killed?” I asked.
“Countless.”
“How many women have you been with?”
He searched my eyes. “Tell me why you’re asking, and maybe I’ll answer.”
“I want to know if I’m one in a long line of many, or if you intend to take our vows seriously.”
He went uncharacteristically silent, as if racking his brain for a response. “And how would you feel if I promised the rooster belongs to you and only you?”
“I would feel that the rooster was in for a long nap. And that he perhaps should not bother waking at all, as he’ll be in for great disappointment.”
The corner of Cristiano’s mouth twitched into a lopsided smile. I, too, almost smiled. Almost. At his sudden playfulness, in part, but also because there was something appealing about Cristiano never taking another woman again.
Not even me.
My hardwired female instinct saw the romanticism of keeping a wild man, but even as my fantasies wandered, the angry, bitter part of my brain wanted to torment him with our vows until death did us part.
“We should go,” Cristiano said. “Everyone’s waiting.”
“Everyone?” I asked.
He took his blazer off a hanger and wrapped it around my shoulders. “Wear this until we’re alone again.”
I put a hand on his chest before he could help me down. “Wait.”
With our faces inches apart, dark, nearly black eyes, looked back at me. Nose to nose, I could see their deep brown color and slight amber flecks.
“Hmm?” he asked, staring at my lips.
His skin warmed my palm, even through his shirt. I imagined all the strength under my hand aimed at anyone who tried to come at him. At me. At us.
“Your knot is crooked,” I said. As I adjusted his tie, a tiny black spot in a sea of white fabric caught my eye. I ran my fingertip over it. “There’s blood on this.”
“That’s why I chose this shirt,” he said gravely. “I don’t want to ruin a second one.”
A half mile outside the gates of the Badlands, Cristiano parked in the driveway of a large, freestanding garage.
This, it seemed, was the everyone who’d been waiting for us: two SUVs, a Dodge Ram, an Audi, and a couple of shoddy Hondas—all black with tinted windows.
Cristiano stepped out of the car and joined a circle made up of some of the men who’d been at the Easter party. I knew better than to follow or even open my door until Cristiano came for me. Instead, I watched from where I was as a very young blonde girl in a denim skirt and a tank top exited one of the SUVs.