Page 75 of Dark Wolf Soul
“You like what you see, princess?” he asks.
My heart hammers in my chest, and I have to force the words from my suddenly dry mouth. “Yes.”
“Come here.”
He reaches for me, grabbing my arm and pulling me against his bare chest before I can argue. Not that I will. If I’m being honest, which I’ve spent days tryingnotto be, I’ve wanted this since the moment I found him waiting for me in the VIP room at Shady’s.
From the moment I agreed to that lap dance and lowered my body over his on that couch, I’ve been waiting to finish this. The way our bodies fit together feels like some missing piece has been found. The way he touches me now only makes my wanting him more agonizing than ever.
In this moment, he’s not my enemy. Or, if he is, I no longer care. Not so long as he puts his hands on me and finishes what we started in that back room.
The moment my chest is flush against his, he releases my arm only to snake his hand around my waist and press me even closer. My nipples drag against him, hardened to peaks from the way he studies my reaction to him. Even the friction of my shirt between us turns me on.
“You’re beautiful when you fight me,” he says. “But you’re irresistible after you’ve finally given in.”
His mouth closes over mine with complete possession.
At his words, I want to fight him some more, but he’s right. I’ve given in to him already, and there’s no going back now. I melt against him, opening myself fully when we’ve barely just begun.
His free hand cups the back of my neck, angling my mouth so he can devour me completely. I cling to him, my knees already threatening to buckle with the sensation of him. But he shows absolutely no mercy, shoving his tongue inside my mouth like he has every right to claim me this way.
He kisses me like he kidnaps—taking and taking as if he’s owed everything simply by wanting it in the first place. I should hate it, but I’ve never craved more of something like I crave Grey.
My hand brushes the gauze on his shoulder, and he winces against my mouth.
“Sorry,” I say quickly, pulling it away.
“Don’t be sorry,” he says sharply.
I look up at him, startled to see the fire in his gaze. There’s more than desire behind that heat, and it terrifies me just as much as it thrills me to see it there.
“I just meant that you’re hurting. Because of me,” I tell him.
But he shakes his head, and his eyes glint like the tip of a knife. “None of this is your fault, Lexi. Don’t apologize for it. Ever. My father did this. And your grandfather too. And I’m going to make them all pay.”
“We,” I correct. “We will make them all pay. Together.”
“We,” he agrees, stroking my hair. “I fucking swear it.”
24
LEXI
The night sky offers a beautiful backdrop for the rooftop gathering. My dress, one of the gowns Grey picked out for me, is a navy blue with sequins that reflect the twinkle lights strung around the pergola. So much so that the rich fabric shimmers blindingly with every movement of my body. I frown, trying to hold still so the damn thing will stop feeling so freaking extra.
I’ve never been this dressed up in my life, and it feels strange to do it now for all these people who think they know me but have no idea. In fact, I might have chosen something else entirely if Grey’s eyes hadn’t nearly fallen out of his head when I walked out of my bedroom earlier. Having him look at me like that made me feel powerful, but now that I’m here, it’s not just his reaction that matters. If I’m not perfect, Vincenzo will take it out on his son, and I refuse to be the cause of that kind of violence again.
Grey’s injuries are painful; I can see it in the stiff way he carries himself. He looks achingly handsome in his tux, and the way he stands with his arm around my waist, constantly reminding me I’m not alone, is a distraction from the guilt.
Now, I stand on the rooftop of one of the city’s fanciest restaurants, a place called Chavez—and everyone here eyes me like I’m a specimen in a petri dish. We’ve been here all of thirty minutes, and already I’m buckling under their scrutiny.
Guests stare openly, but it’s the generals and, more specifically, their wives, who don’t bother keeping their voices down when I come to stand beside where they’re all hovering around a waist-high cocktail table. Each of them clutches a martini in their jewel-laden hands, their noses turned stiffly toward the sky while they judge everyone else.
One of them shoots me a glance and remarks, “Her tits are completely unrealistic. She should have gone with a smaller size to make it believable.”
I roll my eyes but don’t bother to give them my attention. They aren’t worth it.
Another responds, “I think she’s actually really pretty for a stripper.”
