Page 21 of Desperate Crimes
My whole body is thrumming with electricity, anticipation riding my spine like a live wire. I feel alive in a way I never do in courtrooms or meetings or boardrooms filled with weak men pretending they matter.
This is what matters.
Her.
I step out of the truck. My shoes echo against the concrete as I walk to the passenger side, each step measured and reverent.
Like I’m approaching an altar.
Because she is an altar.
Leanna fucking Volkov. Mine.
I open the door.
And there she is.
Laid out like temptation incarnate.
The red dress clings to her. Like it was painted on—low at the neckline, high on the thigh, slit just enough to show a glimpse of heaven and the path to hell.
It’s obscene.
It’s perfect.
I’m so hard it hurts.
Leanna is what the world might call voluptuous. But that word’s too small for her.
She’s lush. Full.
A wet dream with a pulse.
Tits that defy gravity.
Hips made for grabbing.
A mouth that could ruin lives if she ever learned how to wield it properly.
Her sandy blonde hair spills over her shoulders in loose waves, kissed with just the right amount of highlights—golden strands that glint under the LED lights like fire and honey.
I know the salon she goes to. I know what scent they use when they wash her hair.
Her lashes flicker, and my heart stutters.
Not yet, Princess. Sleep a little longer.
I take a moment to just look at her. Let my eyes drink her in.
Her skin glows, even in unconsciousness. Her lips are slightly parted. Her chest rises and falls in slow, even breaths.
And her eyes—when they open—will cut straight through me.
Dark as night, like most of the Volkovs, but hers? Hers are different.
They’re volcanic.
Molten gold flecks swim in all that darkness.
