Page 71 of Desperate Crimes
Like I belong to him.
“I know just about everything there is to know about you, Leanna,” he murmurs, voice low and edged with something primal.
“And the rest?” His thumb drags slowly across my pulse. “I’ll learn.”
“You will?” I whisper, even though the question is pointless.
I already know the answer.
He always gets what he wants.
With his free hand, he takes the coffee mug and places it on the counter next to his.
Then, he nods once, deliberate. I can feel the hum of it through his hand as he cups the back of my neck—his palm broad and hot against my skin, fingers threading into my hair like they’ve always belonged there.
And he drags me to him.
Not gently.
Not cruelly.
Just inevitably.
My heart slams once, violently, against my ribs—then it’s gone, forgotten, because his mouth crashes down on mine with barely restrained violence.
And God help me—I need it.
Nico’s kiss is not sweet.
It’s not patient.
It’s devouring.
All heat and hunger and possession, the kind of kiss that tears something out of you and replaces it with him.
He tastes like coffee and sin.
Like obsession and promises that should terrify me. And yet, my knees go weak.
My fingers slide into the belt loops of his jeans, and I hold on tight, just to keep myself anchored.
Because fuck, he’s so big.
Not just his body—though that alone makes my head spin—but his presence.
The way he invades every inch of space inside me.
My lungs.
My thoughts.
My heart.
And even more frightening?
He’s not lying.
He does know me.
