Page 54 of Wanting What's Wrong

I growl involuntarily when she says it. It’s perfect for us, fucking perfect. The most natural thing in the world. “It’s you and me, Kitty Kat. As close as a dad caring for his own little girl. My job is to push you, to tell you what you need. Your job is to fucking trust that I’ll always take care of you. Always.”

She pulls away from my embrace far enough to look up into my eyes. “I do. You know I trust you with my life. With everything.”

I pull her back in close, arms around her, flesh to flesh, my fingers feeling her pulse as I plug her opening, still focused on keeping my seed where it belongs. “It’s gonna be a wild ride,baby girl. But we’re on it now.” I reach behind her and give her ass a hard swipe, just to remind her who’s in fucking charge.

Her body tightens and then she laughs that beautiful laugh. “Animal.”

“You’ve got no fucking idea. If I could fuck you as much as I want, you’d be dead.”

She laughs a little again, but only a little. Because she knows I’m not fucking joking. “I know that. I know what you’re capable of. And…”

“Say it.”

“… And I like it,” she purrs, sleepily. “So much.”

In her voice, I hear the heaviness, the tiredness. The warm exhaustion of her submission. “Sleep, baby. Sleep.”

She nods gently and then moves to roll over, but my finger cork stays in place, keeping her from moving too far.

She squirms. “Are you going to keep those in there all night?”

“Maybe.”

I help her get comfortable, keeping her tight and close against me, her delicious curves soft against my hardness. “I’ll be right here, baby,” I whisper against her cheek as my hard-on re-fills to full mast.

“I feel that,” she says, her voice heavy.

I know this hard-on isn’t going anywhere, so I just roll with it, and let it rest against her. If I can sleep like this, it’ll be a fucking miracle. But for her sake, I’ve got to try. “You’re gonna be the death of me, little girl. I swear.”

Twenty

Kat

I’m groggy as I come down the steps, listening to the sound of cracking eggs and the sizzle of a pan.

I expect to hear the familiar sound of three soldiers giving each other hell, over hangovers or exes or whatever else. But as soon as I round the corner into the room, I realize this isn’t just three old buddies having breakfast. There are laptops out and earbuds in and the room is thick with seriousness and intensity.

And then I see it. On Trent’s iPad on the kitchen island. A photograph from the security system outside.

The light in the photo tells me it was just after dawn. And there, sitting in the middle of the frame, is Rominovski’s black Mercedes.In our driveway.

My knees buckle and I feel like I’m going to throw up.

I must make a sound. A whimper, a gasp. Trent spinsaround from where he’s standing in a t-shirt and basketball shorts, every muscle rippling and tight.

His eyes connect with mine and my heart stops beating. “Is… is everything okay?” I stammer.

“You recognize this?” Trent tips his head toward the iPad. “Ever seen this guy?”

I blink up at him, and swallow hard, feeling like I’ve turned to ice. For some reason, my eyes lock on the eggs cooking in the pan.Don’t burn the eggs; don’t burn the eggs.Like this tiny stupid thing matters at all. I reach for the stove, and shift the saucepan to a different burner. But as I do, Trent grabs my wrist. The force of his grip forces me back to reality.

“Answer the question, Kat.”

“I…” I look up at him, frozen and terrified.

His eyes flash; his jaw tightens and in his expression I know the time has come.

A thundering wave of guilt crashes over me. All of this, this moment, this fear, it’s all my fault.

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