Page 23 of Dragonfly

He’s playful—and I hate that he’s backed me into a corner as easily as he moved me so that the bad is right behind me now.

Glaring at the bandage covering his skin, I snap. “A victim would’ve bled out and saved me from all this trouble.”

“I’m so sorry. The next time you attempt to assassinate me, I’ll be more considerate.”

He’s fucking with me. I know that, but something in my face gives away my intentions before I can keep them back.

Damien tsks. “So there will be a next time.”

He can’t honestly be surprised.

“I didn’t stab you on accident,” I remind him.

“No. But you did a piss-poor job of it, wife.”

EIGHT

INTERRUPTION

SAVANNAH

Wife…

“Are you calling me that because you know how much it bothers me?”

“Consider it a reminder.”

“What about the other thing you called me?” With my fake Southern accent, I try to mimic the Italian lilt that finds its way to Damien’s voice when he switches to that language. All that happens is that it comes out like, “Run-yah me-a?”

“Ragna,” he corrects. “Think ‘lasagna’. Ragna. It means ‘spider’ in my birth language. Ragna mia is ‘my spider’.”

I don’t know what’s worse: the mafia leader referring to me as his wife or a fucking arachnid.

“Why?”

I thought I had been doing a good job of distracting him. If we had to keep this conversation going back and forth all night to keep him remembering from what he brought me into this room to do, I would. Anything to keep him from finding a way to get me in that bed with him.

I’ll sleep on the fucking floor first.

Go on, Damien. Tell me about this ridiculous pet name you’d given your attempted murderer. Black widow… spider. I’m all ears as long as I’m not all naked.

I’m not, but when his hand goes to the waist of his black suit pants—while also drawing attention to the bulge pushing against them—I know that I didn’t do as good a job of distracting him as I thought.

My chest heaving angrily, my low-cut t-shirt beneath my sweatshirt hoodie showing off my tits probably didn’t help…

Damien does something to the button on his pants. They flick open, and by the time the zipper being tugged downward echoes almost deafeningly around the room, I’ve run out of time.

“Come here, wife.”

No.

“You’ve stalled long enough, and yes… I know that’s what you’ve been doing. That was fun for a while, but if there’s one thing you need to know about your new husband? It’s that I consider a good back-and-forth as foreplay.”

Then, as if to prove he means it, Damien dips his tanned hand inside of his pants, pulling out his cock.

The first thing I look at is the dragonfly tattoo inked on his forearm after he rests his arm at his side. It’s large, intricate detailed in shades of purples, greens, and blues, and wraps around his arm. It’s like the mother of all other dragonfly symbols you see in Springfield, and I’ve been avoiding looking at his.

But when the choice comes between reminding myself who he is and eyeing his erection? The dragonfly wins.

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