Page 63 of Hostile Love
While he suds up his torso, I palm my chest and feel my skin flame. Every hair on my body is electrified and my heart swells, the warm ache enough to make me cry.
I manage not to, though, digging deep into the part of me that shuts out emotions. I don’t want to make a fool of myself.
However, when he turns off the water, prowls out of the shower, and grabs a towel, I forget to breathe.
Rather than cover himself, he roughly dries his hair and wanders his rich, chestnut gaze all over me. The muscles in his jaw work as he processes my appearance, the twinkly recessed lights overhead forming shadows on the grooves of his strong neck.
He pats his face and mops water from a thin smattering of stubble on his jaw.
Through the intensity of his brief assessment, I fall victim to a rush of lust, my body tipping forward, automatically pulled inhis direction like a magnet. I know he feels it too when his lungs fill to capacity and he exhales slowly.
After a few racing heartbeats, a slow smile tugs the corners of his lips and I swear I feel fucking giddy.
“Is this a business call, little firecracker?”
I shake my head. “Who scribbled on your back, smartass?” The tone of my voice was meant to come across as playful, not shaky andnervous.
This typically independent woman standing before him is freaking the fuck out. I have all of these big feelings inside of me and they’re overwhelming.
Maybe if I hadn’t just experienced his brutal murder and rebirth all within minutes of each other, I wouldn’t be such an emotional wreck.
His subtle frown isn’t missed, like he’s attuned to my heightened state.
Drenched hair falls over his brow, teasing his lashes. Beads of water worship his golden skin, rolling down his carved chest and gliding toward his full, thick dick standing at attention.
My mouth waters and my clit throbs, aching for his hands all over me.
“You like it?” he asks in a low rumble. “I paid a tattoo artist to sketch a stencil for me to approve and then had it tattooed during the flight back to Sicily. She did a good job.”
His gaze moves over my shorts and settles on the dagger snug to my bare thigh.
“Why are you here?”
I say nothing, hesitant to speak until I’ve pulled my shit together. I realize it won’t be easy and take a few sips of air.
“What makes you think you can stroll into my bathroom and watch me shower? Dani, we finished things, remember?”
“Your shit security team let me in. Although, I could have easily climbed in through an open window.”
“Interesting.” His frown deepens. “Did Blanco send you here to finish this? Is this how it’s going to end between us?”
Slowly, I unclip the dagger. He crosses his arms over his wet chest and widens his stance.
While watching my every move, his posture strengthens. His broad shoulders draw back as he holds his head high, unfazed by the potential threat.
Either he knows I’d never follow through, or he’s certain he’d beat me to it and stab me in the heart first.
“Are you confident in your ability to make me bleed,little firecracker?” He cocks his head. “We’ve been here before, haven’t we?”
“Matheus.” I grip the handle and keep my arm lowered. “I’m not here to obey anyone’s order.” My voice rasps over the emotion I’m trying to hide. “It’s not the end. I––I think it’s the beginning.”
I drag the sharp-edged blade across my palm, loving how the sting grounds my senses. On the occasions when I had to fight a target, the pain of hard blows and sometimes superficial slashes would have reminded me I was alive.
The pain kept me alert and the sensation of warm blood was a sign that my heart still worked. And now that blood isn’t just warm––it’s on fire––because of him.
Back at the nightclub in north Colombia, I’d agreed to be his woman, but never imagined it would last. I expected the fizz to go flat and his fascination to fade. I certainly didn’t foresee us getting married.
His chest rises and his jaw clenches, uncomfortable at the sight of blood gathering along the thread-thin slice.
