Page 26 of Hostile Vows
Last night André’s possessive hand had pressed to my lower back, his confident strides pushing me in the direction of the bathroom I’m searching for now. Neither of us had spoken. Though I couldn't shake the feeling, he was equally shocked about the commitment we’d made as I was.
Before I had the chance to slam the door shut on his handsome face, he barked out an order to strip, his hungry, dark eyes trailing my nakedness once all the blood-stained clothes were in his hands. In a gleaming gray-veined marble bathroom where the shower is a glass room itself, the air crackled and hissed, an awareness of his growing lust feeding my senses until I couldn't breathe properly. Without touching, he’d choked me under slow, sweeping appreciation and silently struck a match to ignite trillions of tiny fireworks in an explosive shiver.
I remember it all.
Especially how the right corner of his mouth had hitched as he offered me a sly, sexual grin—a curse to ruin me. It didn't matter that I looked away from him as quickly as the pupils of his eyes expanded, because he saw my nipples pebble and my chest rise. We both knew I was turned on, even when I shoved him with both hands and saved myself by locking the door.
Now I’m back in the same bathroom, trembling and confused all over again. I can’t explain why his larger-than-life presence has such an acute effect on me. It’s infuriating and demoralizing. I’m exposed, out in the open, drowning in the danger of him.Wantinghim inside of me. Craving a deeper connection.
A typical response would be to find the nearest exit and run. I should get as far away from his evil beauty as possible, but he makes my heart beat faster and Frankie has Mammy under surveillance. I’m trapped by two power-hungry fuckers.
Attracted to my captor who only thinks of me as a new plaything.
And forced to withstand him.
I shake off the transient notion of my new husband caring about anything other than sex and power. Despite his callous threats and wifely expectations, here I am, leaning against a modern vanity in his million-dollar penthouse, recalling the heart-pounding moments he’d rammed his dick into my throat—nothing more. Yes, it was brutal and nothing short of erotic; however, he didn’t push for more.
And what's worse is I couldn't get enough of him. That pitiful awareness is the one thing that infuriates me like an incurable, toxic disease.
Ironically, I’d been the life-weary woman sitting at home, night after night, wishing formore. For a one-way ticket to the wild side. And there I was on my knees, hunting for a dirty release with a man who could’ve easily strangled me and thrown the evidence overboard.
A crest of exhaustion pushes its way through me. For an hour or maybe two after he’d left me to shower, I’d stared at the array of dappled bruises on my torso, washed the gore from my hair, and slept on the heated tile floor beneath super soft towels. It wasn't exactly the best night's rest, but I knew I’d need my strength to face him again. And I was right.
Splashing freezing water over my face, I blink in the awakening coldness it offers and study my sorry reflection. Glistening beads of water cling to my lashes and straggly damp hair hangs limply at either side of my pale face. The bone-tired woman cocking her head to scrutinize herself has dark crescents under her eyes and beyond the weariness lies the courage of a hard-hearted fighter.
On first impressions, people would think I’m a pushover. A fragile little woman, lacking guts and ability. Most of the men I’ve encountered have considered me weak and beneath them. Even when I’d taken over ownership of The Rusty Shamrock, they all thought they could do better. The onslaught of unsolicited advice and degrading passes continued until one rainy November night I bought my first gun. Owning a revolver eventually gave me credence among the locals. I guess having the barrel of a gun rammed into your temple would have a profound effect on a man's ego.
I can survive this—survive André.
I take my time to dress and squirt a pea-sized blob of minty paste onto the toothbrush I’d taken from Frankie’s yacht. It felt weird slipping into the laundered leather pants and jersey top I’ve worn for so many weeks.
“Time to go.” André thumps the bathroom door, making me jump. “Are you ready?”
Drawing back my shoulders and reconfiguring my posture, I open the door and hide the deceitful tremor in my hands when I see him. He’s wearing aviator sunglasses indoors, a supple biker jacket, and ass-fitting jeans. In a brief silent standoff, he combs his fingers through his hair and licks his lips.
Fuck, this man knows how to raise the temperature.
“I’m ready.” I project my voice at him, hearing it echo through my tight chest. The numb barrier I’d slipped behind during my internal pep talk starts to tingle. “Stop staring at me.”
A ghost of a smirk dances on his lips. “No can do. I can stare at you all day if I want to…” He terminates the safe distance between us and grabs my hand, weaving his fingers with mine. “… because you’re all mine, Wifey. Get used to it.” I shake my head and expel a gruff growl. “I’m going to show you something that’ll get you off just by looking at it.” His fingers tighten. “You might think you’ve changed since we were friends, but I disagree. You’re going to fucking love this, Sin.”
11
ANDRÉ
I stub out a third blunt. Despite the marijuana, my hot-blooded tendencies are rife, and my swollen dick still throbs. For her. How could it not? She’s fucking exquisite.
When we move through the card-activated entrance and into the blackness of my private underground garage, I drag my sunglasses down the bridge of my nose, pinning her leather-hugged ass with hawkish vigilance as the lights flick into action. Long, loose hair resembles sweeping strokes from the devil’s iniquitous inkwell. Those silky strands would feel good on my balls.
“You can leave us alone.” I nod to the security guard who had followed us down here in the elevator. “Have the men on standby. We’re leaving in a few minutes.”
The guy obeys without question, swipes the electronic pad, and disappears behind the bulletproof door.
Cautiously glancing over at me, those flaring pupils of hers dilate to form a remarkable ring of turquoise that makes me believe she’s capable of necromancy. The second her pouty, soft lip slips between her teeth, an indescribable sensation fizzes through me, confirming my suspicions.
Christ. I want this woman.
She tugs her hand free from mine and crosses her arms over her tits, the drop in temperature playing havoc with her nipples. I haven’t missed the fact she isn’t wearing a bra. Either she didn’t have time to fully dress before Sapori snatched her away, or else she enjoys the freedom. I make a mental note to buy her leather lingerie with straps, lace, zippers, and suspenders.
