Page 18 of Death By Chocolate

He drapes my jacket over the back of the couch. “I don’t stutter, Miss Alonzo.”

He tosses my words back at me. I don’t correct him. I never correct anyone. Silvio knew my husband. Corso knows I’m a widow. A black widow. I took Oscar’s pathetic life, and before I left, I divested his bedroom safe of all its contents—every dollar, thumb drive, and black book. He owed me a fresh start.

This time when Xeno kisses me, sucking my earlobe between his teeth. I give in to the sensation bombarding me. I know he feels the shivers overtaking my body, the hunger in my ragged breathing. His lips at my throat are greedy. I whimper at the feel of his teeth grazing my skin. Pushing my curves into his mass, I love it when he sucks my skin into his mouth, increasing the pressure. He’s marking me. A phone buzzes - mine.

“Leave it,” he whispers, nuzzling his nose to my cheek.

I pull it free of my hip holster. “I’m the bodyguard, remember.”

It’s one new message from an unknown number:

Did you think I wouldn't hunt you down, you worthless whore bitch? You’ll pay for what you stole in Alaska.

My phone case creaks in protest of my strangling grip.

Xeno stops. “Hey, Chocolate,” he looks at my phone, then back at my face. “You good?”

“Yeah,” I push against his shoulder. “Let’s eat.”

I signed my death warrant years ago. And now Xeno's caught in the crossfire. Fucking around with me isn’t worth his life.

8

DANI

TASTY LOVE

Inever imagined having Xeno in my apartment would feel this comfortable. He fills the space in a way that makes my usually stoic home feel impossibly cozy, like the walls, even the glass ones, have vanished. Every time he moves, I catch his scent—subtle cologne mixed with something uniquely him—and it scrambles my thoughts.

"You don't have to cook for me,” I say for the third time, fidgeting with the chenille throw he brought from his bed for my couch. I’ve showered and changed into an oversized T-shirt and shorts. He’s deliciously shirtless with black joggers hung low, his semi-erect dick kissing his thighs like I want to. His hair is still wet, hanging down his back, those inked forearms flexing as he works.

Sexy motherfucker.

He flashes me a lopsided grin. It’s playful and sexy. “I know.”

“I’m perfectly fine ordering from Al di La’s. Xeno.”

The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. Not that Silvio’s club has subpar cuisine; it just reminds me of the gourmet meals Oscar would delight in while he watched my Size 2 white nightiehanging on too-thin arms. I know Omar will do worse if he manages to capture me alive. The thought sends a chill down my spine that I try to hide.

Xeno moves around my kitchen with silent grace and confidence. Turning from the stove, he leans against my kitchen counter, pushing eggs from a pan onto two plates, watching me with those intense dark eyes that see too much.

"Not happening." His voice is firm but gentle. "After that phone call, no one gets in here, including food.”

I watch as he grabs a pincher. Two glasses of fresh-made green juice I made before he shooed me from my own kitchen rest next to each plate of steaming eggs and hot buttered toast. The recipe is one I learned on assignment in Mazatlán, Mexico—a blend of cucumbers, celery, spinach, pineapple, green apple, Nopal cactus, and Serrano chiles.

I join him, fishing forks and cloth napkins from drawers beside the fridge. “You always investigate while you cook?” I ask.

If he only knew the half of it. I won’t confirm or deny his suspicions. But my number is private. Meaning Omar has eyes on me within The Governor. Whatever he has planned, he’s prepared well in advance of the airport ambush.

“When the woman I’m fucking is not forthcoming, yes.”

I force a laugh that sounds hollow even to my ears. "About that—I just remembered that’s a bad idea. It’s late, so tomorrow you’ll move out while I’m at the gym. I’ll be gone an —“

Before I can finish the sentence, Xeno crosses my tiny kitchen in two long strides. His hands cup my face, and then he's kissing me. Not roughly, but with enough intensity to make my knees weak. When he pulls back, his thumbs trace my cheekbones. "Nice try," he murmurs. "But I’m not going anywhere tomorrow night or the next.”

My heart hammers against my ribs. "Xeno…” I try to step back, but I'm already against the refrigerator door. His proximity is intoxicating and dangerous. "We shouldn't—"

"Shouldn't what?" His lips brush my temple, then trail down to my ear. "Shouldn't acknowledge this will happen between us? Shouldn't admit that you’ve been fighting it for days?” His breath is warm against my skin as he whispers all the ways he wants to worship my body, promises that make me shiver and lean into him despite my better judgment.

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