Page 697 of One More Kiss

He releases a hungry groan into my mouth, firing up all sorts of unwanted impulses. When I shunt my hips into him, he presses his weight into me and deepens the kiss. On one side, a large palm skates to my cheek. On the other, ruthless fingers weave into my hair, adjusting the position of my head to fully control me.

His lips hijack my mind.

His influence becomes my drug.

His sinful flavor monopolizes my senses.

As if it’s a dream, the heat of our kiss evaporates. His fingers still hold straggly strands of my hair, but the slight space allows me a second to suck in a gulp of oxygen. Pitch black pupils become a firestorm as if havoc reigns within his twisted mind.

Beyond the intensity of my stunned silence, a phone is ringing. The intrusive melody bursts through the fog of harrowing lust, rotating around us like a tornado.

“Hold that thought.” Tomás drags the pad of his middle finger over my thin scar. “Get into bed,” he orders, his husky timbre so potent that my belly flips.

When he steps away, I’m still pinned to the wall with failing stamina. Shock debilitates my entire body. He owns too many of my firsts—my first kiss, my first unbalanced attraction, and my first ever eruption of intense flutters. And those are just for starters.

Tomás strolls across the room, with his silky covered ass to me and his broad shoulders rolled back with confidence.

“André, perfect timing, as usual.” He glances over his shoulder, soldering me in place with a fiery scowl that quickly cuts to the bed in a non-verbal instruction. “You're supposed to be in Miami, Dré.” He continues to talk while opening a vast see-through door. “What the fuck are you doing in Vegas?” There’s a playfulness to his voice, almost jovial. Is it possible the devil understands how to forge relationships? “I can’t fly out,” he continues. “Not after Papá took out one of Morales' guys in the fucking dining room. He’s started a war with the Mexicans.” He’s quiet for a beat. “I won’t let Blanco move in on the Mexicans. It’s crucial we keep the smuggling tunnel from Tijuana into the US.”

That’s the last thing I hear before he puts double glazed glass, space, and time between us. I follow the straight lines of the wall with my spine pressed to the plaster. When I reach the only exit, my hand hesitates at the brass handle. Freedom isn’t behind the door—it’s a shot in the dark—a maze of corridors and acres of land.

It would only take one call from Tomás to order my assassination. One bullet in my brain to finish this. Or one deranged drug lord to catch me creeping through his home like the spy he thinks I am.

Not that I have the choice to debate an escape—Tomás has already removed the key from the keyhole.

I really am his prisoner.

My forehead nudges ridges of wood when I tip into the door for support. Lack of food has diminished my energy levels and my overworked brain is cloudy.

His baritone carries from the terrace like far off thunder, the words indecipherable. In my exhausted state, the master bed, with its trickery of sumptuous pillows for a peaceful rest, calls to me.

Accepting the unusual circumstances, I cover the soft rug underfoot, roll back the Egyptian cotton bed linen and climb onto the royal mattress. Warmth caresses my bare skin like a much needed hug. A hug I wish came from my mother’s arms––or my brother’s. On that woeful thought, my ribs tighten and a wave of nausea reminds me of this hazardous reality. There’s no love to be found within these walls.

I angle my pelvis in the direction of the terrace, locking my eyes on the silhouette prowling back and forth outside. Something tells me it’s going to be a long night.

There’s no doubt Tomás is sexually experienced. It’s a cruel twist for such natural beauty to bestow a man with zero principles and temptation as a wicked skill. The awareness of his indecent past rattles through me.

Comforted by the fact I’m occupying a bed and not a chilly stable, I sigh in a gust and wonder why he’s gone against his father’s wishes by escorting me indoors to his private sanctuary. Perhaps he gets off on rebellion. Charlatan butterflies assemble in my chest, inciting a flit of fascination.

Maybe fucking him is a risk I’m prepared to enjoy. I groan inwardly and punch the downy pillow to appease my temper. This man is a brutal gang member. He’s a murderer, for goodness’ sake.

Those conflicting thoughts fight for leadership, each of them chasing the other. Short minutes burn into ashes. Time flurries in a muddle of mixed emotions. The false cocoon of snugness tugs my eyelashes so they drift closed.

Once again, I fall asleep.

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