Page 63 of Vicious Behaviors
I sit forward, my eyebrows narrowing.
What the hell is she up to?
She slowly reclines on the sofa, then runs the pad of her finger along the line of my jaw, tracing the curve of my face as if memorizing it. My own breath gets caught in my throat when I watch her hand slide up her shirt until it’s covering her breast. She licks her lips as she begins to tease her nipple, her cheeks turning pink and her breathing becoming shallow. She keeps staring at my picture as her fingers drift lower to her stomach. Her thighs part just slightly as she sinks deeper into the cushions.
“Fuck.” I hear myself groan out, unable to look away.
When her mouth slacks and she slides her hand into her panties, a growl builds in my throat as blood rushes south, fast and unforgiving. My cock thickens in my sweats while she touches herself with my face still at eye level with hers.
Her back arches… her eyes flutter… but my photo never leaves her grip. She’s not thinking about her job now. She’s not thinking about putting me in chains. She’s thinking about how good it would be if the hand she was using to pleasure herself were mine.
She pulls her fingers away from her pussy, lathering them with her tongue and spit, quickly sliding them back where she needs them most, making me nearly come on the spot. And I haven’t even touched myself yet.
I always knew Izzie Graham was a threat to my life. I just never expected her to be this lethal to my sanity.
This woman has me hard and sweating in my own goddamn living room, and she doesn’t even know it.
“Open your legs for me,bella,” I growl, as if she could hear me across the street.
She doesn’t obey. Not immediately. But then, she sets my photo on the cushion beside her and lifts her T-shirt, just enough to reveal the soft swell of her breasts. She pinches her nipples with one hand while her other remains between her thighs.
She parts her legs wide as if she heard my prayer, enough for me to almost feel her scent from all the way here.
My hand tightens on the binoculars, while the other is already buried inside my sweats, wrapped around my thick, aching cock. I give it a slow, firm stroke, then spit onto it, mimicking her, imagining how the slick glide of her pussy must feel around my length.
She draws circles on her sensitive clit, her pussy glistening with the gesture. Round and round her deft fingers go, until she becomes frantic, chasing the high, hips rocking in desperate rhythm. Her mouth falls open in a silent moan I can’t hear, but God, how I want to.
Is she calling out for me? Moaning my name while begging for more? The not knowing should kill me, but my cock doesn’tcare. I rarely seek out this type of release, so to him, this feels like a birthday, the Fourth of July, Christmas, and New Year’s all rolled into one.
I close my eyes for a moment, picturing my mouth between her thighs, tasting her, while holding her down, licking her pussy until she begs for mercy and comes so hard she forgets who she is. I imagine how beautiful she must look when she finally lets go of all control and gives in to her desire.
However, I don’t have to imagine for long. I see Izzie’s body tense up and her legs starting to quiver. As her back arches off the couch like a bow pulled tight, something primal in her snaps. She comes with her head thrown back, lips parted, and thighs trembling. Still, her gaze never leaves my picture. That’s what pushes me over the edge.
I grip myself tighter, thrusting into my hand with ragged breaths, and spill all over the fancy new rug with a low, guttural sound I barely recognize as human. It’s not just pleasure I feel—it’s possession, rage, lust, obsession, and then… peace. A twisted, exhausted kind of peace.
Across the street, Izzie’s breathing slows. Her fingers retreat, slick and satisfied. She picks up my photo again, tracing my jawline with the same hand that just brought her to the brink. Then she curls under a blanket, tucks herself into the corner of the couch, and drifts off, with a smile stitched to her lips. Blissfully content and oblivious to the torment she just put me through.
I, on the other hand, won’t be able to sleep a fucking second tonight, not after that.
I make a mental note to replace my binoculars. I need a better view if this is going to be a recurring event. Cameras. Mics. The works. I want to hear every sound she makes when she touches herself to the thought of me.
I make another note to start looking for a better apartment. Because eventually… Izzie Graham is inevitably going to sleep in my bed. And when she does, there’s no way I’m bringing her here. Can’t risk her finding out how closely I’ve been watching her. Spying on her, just as she’s been spying on me.
Hmm. It seems we’re mirror images of each other. Predator versus prey. Federal agent versus Mafia prince. Two players circling the same board, each thinking they know each other’s next move.
Let her think she’s in control. That she has the upper hand. Let her keep playing detective.
If she ever uncovers the truth about my involvement in Father McDonagh’s death… then it won’t be a game between rivals anymore—it’ll be war. And I can’t promise she’ll survive it.
Chapter 14
Isobel
The second the sun hits my face and pulls me from sleep, I’m flooded with guilt and shame. Last night, I let myself imagine a world where Marcello wasn’t a killer. Where he wasn’t a person of interest in a missing person’s case. Where he was just a man who made my body feel things it had never felt before.
Guilt is such an ugly morning companion. But it trails after me to the bathroom, clinging to my skin as I strip and step into the shower.
I need to get my head back in the game. Do my job and stop daydreaming about a man as damaged—no, asdangerous—as Marcello. And yet, there’s just something about him.
