Page 66 of Desperate Crimes
And it hits me in a fresh, jarring way—not the sex, not the obsession, not even the fact that I came so hard for him I forgot my own name.
It’s this.
The details.
The knowing.
The planning.
Does he just keep beautiful lingerie in every size around here? For women he kidnaps? Is this a fucking routine?
I hold the dress he laid out for me—a slip of thing made of silk and linen, in a deep berry hue—and study the way it drapes. It’s gorgeous.
Another of my favorite colors.
Cut in my favorite style.
The kind of dress that glides over your skin and makes you feel summery and light without restriction.
But the little voice in the back of my head whispers again.
Why does he know so much about me?
“Something wrong with the size?” he says behind me, voice smooth as the silk against my thighs.
I whirl around. He’s leaning against the doorway, shirtless, pants slung low on his hips, mug in hand like he didn’t just wreck me in every conceivable way.
His eyes drag over me, slow and deliberate.
I flush—because I know what he sees.
“Fits fine,” I say a little too fast and put it on just as quickly.
“Alright. Come on.”
He smirks but doesn’t push. Instead, he takes me on a short tour of the house—his home.
And God, it’s beautiful.
Luxurious but not showy.
All warm wood and wrought iron, soft lighting, and subtle power in the quiet opulence.
Like the man himself.
Controlled.
Commanding.
Beautiful and dangerous all at once.
Like a fucking trap you want to fall into.
I don’t even try to be subtle about it.
My eyes devour him.
Nico Jr. stands just a few feet away, utterly unbothered by the fact that he’s shirtless, barefoot, and the most sinfully sexy man I’ve ever seen in my life.
