Page 91 of Desperate Crimes
His voice is low and dangerous, the kind that makes your stomach drop and your thighs clench.
I swallow. Hard.
But instead of fear?
A dangerous thrill zips through my bloodstream like a lit fuse.
Because God help me—I want him to. I want him to snap. To claim. To take.
How else will I know if he really means it? If he really wants me?
The heat between us is unbearable, thrumming like a third heartbeat in the space where we stand.
Every inch of me is hyperaware of him—his broad chest rising and falling, the cut of his jaw, the tension vibrating off him like a live wire about to snap.
Then, because Fate is a funny motherfucker, someone bumps into his shoulder.
A drunk guy, too loose-limbed and unaware of the fuse he’s just lit.
Nico doesn’t move.
Doesn’t even blink.
The man turns around, swaying a little, and claps a friendly hand to Nico’s shoulder like they’re old college buddies.
“Hey there, pal. Sorry about that. Whoa, look at you two. Say, I don’t think she wants to go with you, pal. Why don’t you?—”
That’s all he gets out.
In a blink, Nico drives his elbow back and up—precision perfect—into the guy’s throat.
The man doubles over, choking, gasping, eyes bulging.
No one notices yet. They don’t get the chance.
Because Sammy, ever efficient, materializes behind him and guides the sputtering guy gently into a chair.
“Just breathe, pal. Nice and slow,” he says, calm as ever.
But Nico?
He never even looks away from me.
Not once.
I’m trembling. And not from fear.
My thighs press together, helpless against the throb building between them.
Holy. Fuck.
I’m just as crazy as he is.
And maybe that’s why—when Nico squeezes where he’s holding onto my wrist and tugs—I don’t run. I don’t argue.
I go.
Docile as a lamb.
