Page 44 of Killaney Blood
He walks up to me and takes my bags from me and drops them on the counter and turns to face me.
I cross my arms over my chest, not wanting to read too much into that gesture.
He doesn't move, just stands there, watching me with that penetrating gaze.
I hate that look. Hate how calm he is while I'm spiraling. Like he’s about to just casually ask me, ‘so honey what’s for dinner?’
"What do you really want?" I demand.
He hesitates, his eyes shifting, looking me up and down.
"I wanted to make sure something didn't happen to you," he says with those lustful eyes.
Oh, so this is what it's about.
Is this his game? Well, two can play that. I know exactly how to get men like him to shut up and get out of my face
"Bullshit. You don't care about me," I say, and walk right up to him, so close I can smell his cologne. I yank my hoodie off in one fluid motion and toss it aside.
"Is this what you're here for? Huh?" I continue. I grab his hand and press it to my chest. "I know how this works. Big bad mafia guy just expects every woman to spread their legs while you toss a few bills on the nightstand." I taunt, my voice sharp with anger."Is that it? What, you think I'll let you stick it anywhere you want for what you paid me to work?" I lean in closer and in a low tone finish with, "Want me to moan your name while you fuck the girl who used to be property?"
He narrows his eyes.
I reach for his crotch, but he catches my wrist before I make contact.
"Or are you just here to remind yourself what power looks like?" I say.
His grip tightens on my wrist, and he pulls my hand away from him.
"Is this how you got away?" he asks, his voice dangerously soft. "Fucked your way up the Albanian ladder until they let you go?"
Silence falls between us, heavy and suffocating. For a moment, all I can hear is the sound of our breathing, harsh in the quiet apartment.
Then, without thinking, my free hand connects with his cheek in a slap that stings my hand.
His head barely moves with the impact, as his eyes slowly turn back to face mine. His hand shoots up, wrapping around my throat, rough and dominant.
His hand is warm. His grip is firm but not aggressive. Not like the others. Not like the Albanians.
He pulls me in and crashes his mouth against mine.
And fuck me, I let him.
His lips are soft but demanding, but the kiss is anything but. He's not gentle. It's not sweet. It's raw. His tongue moving against mine with a certainty that makes my knees weak.
And it's full of fury, passion, and everything we haven't said.
I should shove him away. Scream. Bite him. But I will myself back, drowning in it all.
His hand slides from my throat to cup my jaw, tilting my head to deepen the kiss. I taste him now. My hands fist in his jacket, pulling him closer even as my mind screams to push him away.
Then, abruptly, he pulls back. We're both panting, his forehead presses against mine, his eyes searching my face.
"I don't want a puppet," he says, his breath warm against my lips. "I've fucked things. Fucked distractions. Fucked to forget. I'm not here for that."
He releases me completely, stepping back.
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold from my embarrassment. My lips tingle, and I hate myself for wanting his mouth back on mine.
