Page 116 of Executing Malice
“If I lose you again,” I pant into his mouth. “If she fucking takes you from me because you’re a stubborn...”
I bite his lip hard enough to taste the warm copper of his blood. I feel his flinch, hear the low groan, but his hold only tightens.
“Not going anywhere,” he promises.
Tries to, when I force my tongue between his teeth.
The low rumble echoes into my mouth and down my throat to hit every bone in my body. One hand lifts to fist in my ponytail and grips me closer.
“I’m going to fuck you if you don’t stop,” he warns, already shoving me into the shelving lined with cans.
His free hand is bunched in my skirt, waiting for my okay.
I cup his cock.
I fist him hard through the fabric of his pants and jerk him. My lashes lift and I tilt my head back enough to peer up into his face, into the swirling voids staring back into my soul.
“Leila,” he gasps, desperation washing over my lips.
I work him faster, never breaking eye contact.
“If you ever put yourself in danger like that again. I’ll put your dick in a cage and throw the key away.”
His nostrils flare, darkening his eyes to a predatory black. The hand curled into the shelf just above my head cracks at the knuckles.
“Do it,” he dares me. “My job is to fight for you when you can’t. I’ll set every building in this town on fire and watch it burn to ashes to protect you.”
Fucking guy.
I kiss him.
“Take me home, Dante.”
I have zero memory of paying for our groceries or getting on his bike. I only become aware when he comes to a violent stop outside my house and cuts the engine.
I barely get off the seat when he has me over his shoulder and practically sprints up the steps. I’m marched through the hall and dumped down on my bed.
“Take off your clothes,” he barks, his own hands already twisted into the hem of his top. The article is ripped off and chucked into the corner, leaving him bare chested and delicious standing before me. “Now, Leila, or you’re not getting your next surprise.”
Spurred by the dangling carrot, I tear off my top. Kick out of my shoes. All the while, I watch him leave the room. The thump of his hurried feet echoes through my veins.
By the time he returns with a monitor and a fistful of cables, I’m in my bra and panties and sitting on the bed waiting for him.
It takes him a bit to position the TV on my dresser and hook it up to a tiny box. It must have been good to go, because next, he has his phone mounted on a tripod and has dragged my mirror to face the bed.
“What are you doing?” I chuckle.
His answer is to close his fingers into my jaw and tilt my head back.
“Giving you your gift, baby.”
He pulls away and moves to the monitor. I watch him flip the box and TV on. Watch, curious, as a video comes into crisp, clear focus across the screen.
It takes a moment to identify my room.
My bed.
Me.
