Page 33 of Ruthless Redemption

Each utterance is a spear through my chest. A savage reminder of what I’ve lost. What I’ve endured. What I’ve fucked up.

“I suggest you stop.” I raise a hand, grabbing her throat, my grip firm but gentle. I push her back into the wall, her gasp a gift and a punishment in equal measure.

She’s rigid. Stiff as a board. But that hunger is still there. Still right fucking there, energetic and erotic in her eyes.

“Don’t keep taunting me,amore mio.” I lean in, a breath from her lips, our noses almost touching. “You won’t like the man I become.”

“I don’t like the man you already are.”

I squeeze gently, her carotid fluttering beneath my fingertips. “Then I shouldn’t have to repeat myself again, should I?”

I’d bet my life she’s wet. That those pretty panties of hers are seconds from being soaked.

Fucking her right now would be a masterpiece. A callously beautiful disaster. I wouldn’t be able to think straight through my need to please her.

“Insults and name calling won’t change the way I feel about you,” I murmur close to her lips. “You’re mine, Layla. So get used to it.”

Her throat works over a heavy swallow beneath my palm. Her tongue sneaks out to quickly lick her lower lip.

I could come like this. Her throat in my hand, her eyes on mine, my dick rubbing against her abdomen. It’s goddamn pathetic, but my desire for her is that rich. That cloying. Her temper stokes my lust. Fucking douses it in gasoline.

“Now, I suggest you take your sassy little mouth to the dining table,” I warn. “Otherwise, you’ll be the one on your knees.”

9

LAYLA

He releasesmy neck and marches from the room.

I wait a beat before I buckle against the wall, my pulse wild in my chest, my limbs trembling.

I thrum.

Everywhere.

I can’t tell if it’s from fear, adrenaline, or a third option I don’t want to face even though my nipples are hard and my abdomen throbs.

I need to hate him. With every fiber of my being, I want to look into those dark eyes and see my enemy, but whenever he’s in front of me my insides turn to mush. My heart flutters. My stomach free-falls.

I can’t wring out the love that still clings to me. It’s burrowed deep. Tattooed in my veins.

I remain in place as I curse my stupidity, my breathing remaining rampant, my self-loathing thickening. He messes around in his adjoining bedroom, the subtle squeak of door hinges and bed springs spurring my imagination into avenues I despise.

Then his footsteps trek down the hall, the clap of shoes giving me the slightest relief that he must now be fully dressed.

I hang my head, the tide of failure suffocating me.

I have to get out of here, but I want what he promised me first. I need Emmanuel gone.Dead.I just can’t keep myself calm enough to demand what I’m owed.

Pans clatter in the kitchen. Cutlery, too.

“Now, Layla,” he yells. “Don’t make me wait.”

I glare and shove from the wall. He’s such a fucking asshole.

I stalk from the room, going over the mental checklist of things he’s done to me in an effort to regain my fortitude. I relive all the lies. The betrayal. I let the memories strengthen me as I enter the living room to find him standing before the cooktop, his immaculately-tailored charcoal suit doing nothing to decrease his physical appeal.

“Take a seat at the table.” He grabs a chopping board from a nearby cupboard. “This won’t take long.”

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