Page 85 of Hostile Devil
It’s late evening and I’ve returned to my room, having spent a few hours with Letterman on the outside veranda. We reminisced about the good old days with Reno, and then I filled him in on all the macho drama between Giovanni and André. He wasn’t overly thrilled about the fact I’d hooked up with the Souza hitman either, but he saw us together at dinner and quickly realized Giovanni was in it for the long haul. We both are.
After giving me his blessing, I kissed him on the cheek and asked him to make me waffles in the morning for old times’ sake. Even though I’d become bored of them, they’re still our thing, and that makes waffles my all-time favorite.
I untie the cord around my waist, unbutton the front of the dress, and let the floaty material puddle to my feet. Behind me, a shadow stretches across the tiled floor.
“Gio?” I call to him and spin on the spot, my long loose hair whipping my shoulders.
Silence.
If we weren’t living in one of the most protected properties on the whole island, I would think twice about strolling into the bedroom naked. However, I know my man and exactly what gets him off.
Watching me.
Worshiping me.
Outside of his family, the world considers him a killing machine—inhumane and stone cold. Someone to hide from and pray he never darkens their doorstep. He’s brutal. Bloodthirsty. The devil.
Except I’d learned his secret in the days following Reno’s murder. I laid under the sheets and listened to him breathing at the foot of my bed. I’d pretended to be asleep when he pulled the sheet higher and paused for a second, noting the pulse in my neck thrum. I’d felt his eyes burn into my skin and tried to ignore how it somehow excited me.
Giovanni had stepped into my orbit that day and opened my eyes to the dark world he was hiding in. For those couple of days,Ihad his full attention. No one else. Just me. It wasn’t obvious to me back then, not when I was grieving. But looking back, he gave me something he’d only ever given Leo.
Himself.
And for that, I felt undying gratitude.
Awe.
A shiver of attraction, even then.
A need for him to cure the desire in my belly.
And then I suppressed my intrigue until I couldn’t anymore––the day he came for me again.
We collided in more ways than one. Our bodies. Our minds and our hearts.
Prancing out of the dressing room, I dart to the massive bed, excitement buzzing through my veins. I climb over the mattress on all fours and taunt him with my bare ass. “You’d better watch yourself. I belong to a very bad man, and he doesn’t like other men watching his woman when she’s in bed… especially when she’s touching herself.”
I slide a hand between my thighs, already wet for him, and rub my swollen clit, moaning softly.
“Stop touching what’s mine,” his voice rumbles over me and then he steps out of the shadows.
My heart flutters when I see him, a burning heat coursing through my muscles, making me giddy.
“Make me.” I challenge him, playing it cool.
Raw authority vibrates through his muscular form when he prowls across the room. A surge of raw energy more dangerous than an erupting volcano sweeps me up in a blur. Strong hands seize my waist, and he effortlessly flings me onto my back.
His power knocks the breath from my lungs. I’m flat on my back, staring up at the thrilling expression he wears. He’s not only on a quest to fuck. He’s also trying to settle the powerful emotions within himself—the feelings he has for me that he’s still not used to.
My blood runs red hot. Being a retired hitman for all of two weeks, he gets his kicks from preying on me instead, biding his time in the shadows. And when he does emerge, I play the game too.
Despite the rough way he manhandles me, his eyes give away his excitement. The otherworldly color of them glows in the darkness, not exactly human and every bit a calculating hunter ready to claim his victim.
I wriggle and squirm, my wrists possessively clasped together above my head, pressed deep into the mattress, locking them in place. He arches over me where the bright moon casts a silvery sheen on his inked chest and healing war wound. The patterns come alive as he one-handedly frees his dick from under his joggers, his nostrils flaring from need.
His love language is power and taking control, whereas mine is knowing I’ve claimed parts of him that no woman––no person ever has or will.
“Who was the first woman to blow your mind?” I pant, gazing up at him.
