The entire ACOTAR series is on our sister website: novelsforall.com

We will not fulfill any book request that does not come through the book request page or does not follow the rules of requesting books. NO EXCEPTIONS.

Comments are manually approved by us. Thus, if you don't see your comment immediately after leaving a comment, understand that it is held for moderation. There is no need to submit another comment. Even that will be put in the moderation queue.

Please avoid leaving disrespectful comments towards other users/readers. Those who use such cheap and derogatory language will have their comments deleted. Repeat offenders will be blocked from accessing this website (and its sister site). This instruction specifically applies to those who think they are too smart. Behave or be set aside!

The Predator: Chapter 10

Silencing

Breaths.

She could hear his breaths, right against her neck, blowing softly over her ear, heating the skin it washed over. Her neck tingled. Blood rushed over the spot, igniting it with a flame she was unfamiliar with, his exhale kindling it, higher and higher, just across that expanse of skin. Her heart stuttered, her fingers pressing harder into the wood, her trapped arm wanting to squirm. She barely contained the urge, standing still except for her heaving breasts, her fingers tingling with the need for touch, for sensation, hungry for contact with warm male flesh she could feel behind her, not pressing into her but so, so present.

She turned her face towards his.

Breaths.

A scent of scotch and chocolate, mixed in a heady concoction she wanted to taste on her mouth. Her eyes flickered down to his lips, tracing them with her gaze, seeing the ripe fullness of it, making her teeth want to sink in them, test their plushness, their softness. Her eyes went to the scar at the corner of his lip, peeking out from under his scruff, making her tongue heavy, wanting to lick it, to taste it, feel it. Her gaze lingered on the scruff around his mouth, wondering if it would scratch against her skin, itch, or maybe burn, leave the marks of his devouring for the world to see, red and pink skin burning with the memory of his hunger.

The world definitely couldn’t see.

And neither could she later.

No. She wanted him, but she wanted him out of her system more. This was a one-time thing, and she wanted absolutely no memories of it, ever. Not once that door opened and she walked out on her heels. She wanted to get to her codes and get the hell out of this life. She wanted this just to be a thrilling memory in her past. Nothing more.

Turning her eyes up, she locked her gaze with those magnificent eyes, the blue darkened to just a rim on the outside, telling her he was serious about this, not faking anything. He was aroused, very aroused. His breaths were heavy, deep, controlled but his eyes were blazing with such intense lust and hatred, that familiar hatred that she didn’t even blink at anymore.

‘Keep your mouth away from me,’ she told him in a low voice.

His face remained completely passive, only an annoying eyebrow hiking up. ‘I had no intention of bringing my mouth anywhere near you.’

Morana grit her teeth, the residual anger burning deep in her belly. She didn’t know why it offended her, given she had suggested it, given she wanted it, but she was offended and it made her angrier. This was just a quick fuck. There was no point in complicating it.

‘Just your cock then,’ she told him crudely, unabashedly, her body flaring with fury and desire, mingling in a way she couldn’t tell which was which anymore.

He let her hand go, his eyes narrowing slightly, but he didn’t move. ‘How much experience do you have?’

The question fuelled the fire even more. If he thought she was telling him anything about her sexual history, he was more deluded than she thought. Her hands fisted beside her before she knew it, her spine straightening. 

‘How badly do you want to get punched?’ she growled out, her voice barely low enough to not be heard outside the door.

He didn’t say a word, that amalgamation of lust and hate pure blaze in his eyes, his head tilting to a side as he kept his eyes on hers, his face completely bland of any expression.

Morana waited, for a word, for a move, for a wrong breath to tip her over and murder him. She was that close.

He didn’t do a thing. Not a thing.

Just watched her with narrowed eyes.

And that tipped her over.

‘Go fuck yourself,’ she spit out and turned to the door, to open it and leave, humiliation churning through her stomach on the tail of everything else. She was trembling. Trembling. Trembling like her body couldn’t contain anything anymore, as though she was a bomb ticking to its doom, ready to take down everything and everyone around her. Oh, if she was a bomb, she wanted to explode and take down this asshole first. Or maybe her father. And the creep at the table. It was a freaking line. And wasn’t that her jolly life.

She almost turned to the door when in a split second, it happened.

His hands gripped her waist before she’d taken one step, picking her up with a kind of strength she’d never experienced, making her heart fall to her knees. She barely contained a yelp at the sudden movement, but the moment her feet were off the floor, he moved her like she weighed nothing more than a cushion, and put her on the granite counter in front of the mirror.

The cold granite hit the overheated skin of ass suddenly, making her hiss, the counter hard against his not-so-gentle deposition.

Her dress bunched up against her upper thighs in the motion, the cold granite against her exposed flesh making her shiver. His hands left her waist and the moment they did, she put her hands flat on the counter, a little behind her to maintain her sitting position and keep her balance. The action made her breasts push outwards, her legs slightly spread from the way he’d deposited her, with her dress almost above her thighs. She felt a flush crawl over her face at the wanton picture she made, never having displayed herself so carnally to anyone.

Her gaze locked with his as he stood two steps away from her, his eyes sharp on hers, before slowly going down her neck, her cleavage, her heaving breasts to the top of her thighs, all the way down to her toes in a slow, languid perusal. Her breasts got heavier, nipples hardening unabashedly as heat pooled even heavier in her belly, her breaths hastening.

She did her own perusal, her eyes roving over that hard, male chest she’d felt pressed against her so many times in the muted yellow lights in the room, the chest she’d seen bare just a day ago, the suit covering the hard muscles as the open collar exposed a strip of delicious male flesh that made her want to lick it, from the line of his pecs to the vein running at the side of his corded neck, right up to that chin, then that scar, and the mouth. God, why couldn’t he have been some old, ugly, pot-bellied bastard with bad breath and worse smell and creepy eyes and a squeaky voice? But he wasn’t. He was who he was, and she let herself see him, her eyes drifting lower and lower to below his waist.

And her breath hitched.

The front of his trousers bulged out, unashamed and unapologetic, tenting the fabric in a big way. Big. Bigger than Jackson. Much bigger.

And she felt a frisson of fear cool the lust. Fuck what had she gotten herself into? She’d never had sex like this, she was inexperienced and he was big, and he hated her.

Her eyes flew up to clash with his, doubts filling her.

Before she could blink, he closed the gap between them, his hands going straight to her thighs, parting them wide as he stepped between her legs, his face inches from hers, his eyes still holding that mix of sheer lust and utter hate, more than hate for just her. Was it for himself? For wanting her? Because lord knew she hated herself for wanting this. Wanting him.

His hips snapped to hers, her dress bunching up even higher, and her breath locked in her throat. She felt him, pressed into her, right against her core, his hard, hard erection rubbing deliciously against her bundle of nerves. And she was wet. Getting wetter with every rub of his length against her. At this rate, she’d leave a wet spot at the front of his pants, and that just wouldn’t do.

And then another thought struck her.

‘You have a condom, right?’ she blurted out before she knew it. Even though she had measures, she could ride him bareback but she didn’t trust him an inch, and she so did not want him spilling inside her.

He stilled, anger flaring in his eyes.

She grit her teeth, her fingers pressing into the cold granite. ‘Don’t think for one second you’re getting anywhere inside me without one.’

One of his hands came up, circling the front of her neck like she had circled his moments ago. His grip was firm, just on the edge of threatening but not quite into the territory yet. He tilted her head up by pressing on her neck – his big, rough hand warm against her already hot neck – and a shiver traveled down her spine, suddenly making her realize how easy it would be for him to snap her neck. She’d seen him snap necks as normal people blinked. He could kill her, right there, in the ladies’ room of one of the poshest restaurants in town, and given his strength, she knew she wouldn’t be able to stop him.

Her anger crackled.

‘Do you?’ she demanded, keeping her fear locked deep inside her, never blinking away from his hypnotic gaze.

‘Are you a virgin?’ he asked, his voice soft, lethal, whiskey over her senses, making her heady. And it was a sensible question. For once.

‘No,’ she told him, raising her eyebrows, daring him to utter a word.

He didn’t speak.

But he put his other hand right between her legs without preamble, his fingers pushing aside the fabric of her panties and diving straight into the core of her.

Her back arched.

A current zinged through her body, making her toes curl in her heels, the scent of her own arousal wafting up to her, making her even wetter. One of his hands circling the front of her neck, the other plowing into her folds expertly, his eyes holding hers captive.

Morana realized in that moment how much control he was exerting over her, how much control she was giving him. And with the realization came a wave of hatred and rage. Her body might betray her, her mind wouldn’t.

Removing one hand from the counter, resting her weight on the other palm, she placed it right over his bulge, gripping it like he was gripping her neck, squeezing once. His hips thrust towards her sharply, barely missing the edge of the counter as his eyes flared with temper. He knew what she was doing. He’d made her vulnerable. She’d made him. Bingo.

His fingers never penetrated her, just kept circling round and round, completely avoiding her nub, just straying around her opening, sending currents of pleasure and such deep, utter need through her she would have begged had it been anyone else. She barely controlled anyways, biting her lip to keep the whimper of need from escaping, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

Her fingers tightened over his length in response, and a low sound rumbled in his chest, barely heard because of their proximity. Had he been anyone else, she would have taken a moment to admire the control he had over himself. He felt big in her palm, bigger than her hand, bigger than she could hold all at once, and her walls clenched with desire as hunger for flesh gnawed at her. Her breaths came out in soft pants as her heart thundered, completely beyond her control now.

And he stopped.

Removed his hands.

From both her neck and her folds.

She’d kill him, truly kill him, if he stopped now.

He removed his wallet from his pocket, his fingers glistening with her essence, the sight of her own desire on his rough digits, the realization that his fingers had been there, sending another wave of unchecked heat through her body. At this rate, she would combust before he even got inside her.

He pulled out a condom, tearing the wrapper with his teeth. Morana didn’t look down as he unzipped his trousers. Neither did he.

And suddenly, before she could take another breath, his hand came back to her neck, this time the back of her neck like it had at the penthouse, his other on the granite beside hers.

She felt the tip of his erection brush against her clit, and her breaths quickened, the realization that she was doing this, with him of all people, thrilling some deep-rooted part of her. She wanted this. She hated it, and she was mad at herself for it. But she needed this.

She needed him to rut against her and make her explode, not like a bomb but like a woman, so, so badly. God, she needed to scream her lungs out as he fucked her like his eyes promised every single time he’d looked at her, like they had promised since they’d met. She needed to feel wanton, sexed-up. And she hated it. Hated that need. Hated him for making her need like a desperate maniac.

A rapid heartbeat passed.

And suddenly, he thrust inside, burying himself to the hilt in one stroke.

A cry left her mouth before she could stop it, the burning sensation, her own wetness lubricating him, his big size spearing into her depths in that one stroke, making her breath catch, her heart hammering as the pressure of his presence filled her. He pulled out before she’d even felt him completely, hitting back in, hard, without waiting for another breath. This time she bit her lip, hard, containing her cry of pleasure as sensations assaulted every inch of her skin, the fire rising to a crescendo inside her body as her breasts bounced once from his hard thrust.

He pulled out again before she’d even acclimated to his size, bending his chin down to his chest, hiding his face from her.

She deliberately closed her eyes, not wanting to remember his face when he felt every inch of her walls squeezing him like they were, her body unable to hide any reaction from his. She didn’t want to see the gloating triumph or the smirk or worse, genuine pleasure. She didn’t want to see anything but stars behind her eyelids as he pulled her apart.

He pulled out, snapped back again.

Currents traveled up and down her body, her breaths coming faster and faster, her heart beating wilder and wilder, the smell of sex and his woodsy scent filling the restroom quickly. She got wetter and wetter with every thrust, wetter than she’d ever been before, wetter than she should have been, barely containing her moans of pure bliss, her body going in a state of nirvana.

The sounds of their rapid breaths and barely contained sounds filled the room. Her blood pounded loudly in her ears. Her palms ached from being pressed so hard into the granite. Her back arched as her spine curved, legs hitching higher on his hips to get a better angle as he got into the rhythm of the movements, quick, fast, hard, his hand hard on the back of her neck the only other place he touched her.

And then another sound penetrated her lust induced daze.

A knock.

Fuck.

Her eyes opened, flying towards the door as he stilled, turning his neck towards the door as well, his erection completely still inside her for the first time, throbbing like an electric wire with a pulse. Her walls clenched tightly around him as she felt him completely filling her more than she’d ever been filled, so, so tight a fit she felt like a custom made sheath around his blade.

The knock came again, making her blink, making her realize where she was – in a restaurant full of people with weapons, men of the mob, and her father, his enemies, just a door outside.

Someone actually stood a few feet away, just separated from them by a thin wooden door. And she sat there on a counter, fucked up, with Tristan Caine throbbing inside her.

Holy expletives.

‘Ms. Vitalio?’ a man’s voice penetrated her consciousness, making her eyes widen slightly on the door. ‘Your father has asked you to come out.’

Oh lord.

She was close.

So close.

The door was close too.

Ah…

She saw Tristan Caine turn his face back towards her, his face blank, his eyebrows raised. Nobody seeing him would believe he was standing in a restroom, buried balls deep inside her, getting harder by the moment. What did the man seriously eat?

Her eyes locked with his, and he tilted his head to the door, telling her to answer silently.

She took a deep breath, an action that caused her inner walls to spasm around him, shooting heat up her spine.

And Tristan Caine pulled out suddenly, thrusting in just as hard.

Holy…!

Her mouth opened instinctively to cry out loud at the suddenness of the movement, and his other hand clapped over her mouth, muffling the sound. Her eyes widened on his, stunned.

Had he just covered her mouth? Actually covered her mouth?

Her father’s man was right outside the door, waiting. Right outside the door. Was this man insane?

As though in answer, he snapped his hips into her sharply, the angle hitting a spot inside her that made her eyes roll back into her head even as sounds tried to escape her, muffled against his large hand. His pace increased suddenly, becoming more rapid than it had been, becoming faster than she’d thought a man could possibly ever move, becoming so quick he was in and out of her before she could even breathe.

If she’d been incoherent before, she was barely lucid now. The friction, the pressure of his hips pistoning into hers, the sheer thrill of being fucked while her father’s man stood outside the door, her mouth covered and neck held made heat singe through her.

Her hands were moving away from the granite counter and holding on to his shoulders before she could stop herself, her nails digging into his hard, hard muscles as his hand on her neck held her weight, like it had in the penthouse, the sheer strength in his body making her try to flex her hips and match his pace. But she couldn’t. He moved so fast, so quick, she was just pinned to the spot, letting him move in and out and in and out of her without doing anything except breathe, her walls clenching and unclenching at a pace that couldn’t match his ardent hips.

It was basic, primitive, carnal.

It was heated, wild, insane.

But it was making her scream against his hand and see stars behind her closed eyelids.

Her nipples hurt, scraping against her the fabric of the dress, needing touch so badly. She wanted to grab his hands and push them on her breasts. She wanted to pull her dress down, pull his head down and make him suck her aching nipples. She wanted to feel the lash on his tongue against her hungry breasts, feel the rasp of his tongue, feel the wetness of his mouth as his hips moved into hers like a machine.

But she couldn’t. She dug her fingers into his flesh.

God, she hated him. But he was good at this. Very good.

The knock came again.

Awareness slithered down her spine even as she curved it, her breasts rising and falling rapidly as a bead of sweat rolled down her cleavage, her hands tightening on his shoulders, his flexing on her neck.

And then, he suddenly bent his knees, thrusting upwards, and her mind blanked. Blanked, feeling the force of that thrust down to her bones. Her teeth clenched, the coiled heat in her belly winding tighter and tighter and tighter. He speared her again and again, and her toes singed with the sudden roar of heat, traveling up and up her legs and spine to where he held her neck, starting from where he drilled and drilled and ending where his hand rested, the coil curling and curling and curling even as the heat spread through her limbs.

And suddenly, with one more thrust, her body locked, everything exploding, behind her eyelids in pure, sheer black, inside her body with a consuming fire she’d never felt, outside her skin in a clenching of muscles as her neck tilted back, her hips lifting off the counter from the sheer power of her orgasm, her mouth opening in a silent scream for a split second under his palm. His hips kept moving, in and out and in and out, hitting that spot again and again and again.

It was too much. She tried to shake her head, her body screaming in ecstasy, but his hands didn’t let her move.

He kept moving.

She kept exploding.

And she bit down on his hand before she realized it, trying to find some purchase of the intense currents of pleasure zapping all her senses, making her wail and whine and whimper in her throat as she bit and bit and bit on his hand, drawing blood.

The knock came again.

The taste of copper and rust filled her mouth. He didn’t remove his hand. She didn’t remove her teeth.

And he thrust in, one last time, before stilling, expanding inside her before flexing his hips in reflex, exploding into his own orgasm, her walls quivering around him in stunned aftershocks. His own small, shallow thrusts spurred more from them, milking her as she milked him for all he was worth, his hand tight on her neck, a low rumbling sound the only sound from him. His breaths were rapid, quick, and shallow like his thrusts, her own matching his.

She was done. So done.

She couldn’t feel her limbs. Couldn’t feel her face. Couldn’t even feel her teeth.

She’d never felt this.

Her eyes remained closed, her breaths rapidly moving through her, feeling him soften inside her slowly.

‘Morana?’ her father’s voice invaded her fried brain.

As did the ice.

‘Stop sulking like a child and come outside,’ her father ordered from the other side of the door. ‘You’ve been in there very long.’

Morana grit her teeth as Tristan Caine pulled out of her, the motion almost making her want to moan. He removed his hands from her, his face towards the door as he disposed the condom and tucked himself in his trousers again, his back to her. Morana sat on the counter for a second, gathering her wits, before sliding down. Her legs trembled in her heels. Her knees were weak, her inner thighs burning and the center sore, bruised, used. Truly fucked.

She straightened herself, turning towards the mirror, and barely contained a gasp. Not a single hair was out of place on her. No handprints around her neck. Except for her bunched dress and flushed skin, there was no sign at all that she’d been involved in anything physical, not even a sprint let alone sex.

Blinking her shining, blown up eyes, she straightened her dress, pressing on the creases till it fell over her body like it was supposed to, like it had been the entire night. She took a deep breath, letting her skin settle slightly until just a slight shiver down her exposed spine was any indication of disquiet.

She became aware of him a second after she was put together, her eyes flying up to his in the mirror, taking him in. Like her, there was nothing on him indicative of what he’d been doing. She swallowed. And tasted the residual copper and rust.

Her eyes drifted to the hand where she had bitten him, shock filling her system as she realized it was the same hand he had cut with her knife at her house. The hand had been healing. Her teeth had done some damage.

She bit back the automatic apology that came to her lips, and pressed them together, steeling her spine.

‘Ms. Vitalio,’ the goon’s voice came loudly. ‘Your father demands you to return to the table.’

Yeah, well. He could stick it up his ass.

She didn’t reply but turned around to face Tristan Caine, deliberately keeping her face blank.

‘Not as experienced as you wanted me to believe, Ms. Vitalio,’ he said quietly, so quietly she barely heard him.

But she did. And the rage that had disappeared after the explosion returned, not just at him, but herself. She’d let him toss her on a restroom counter, for goodness’ sake. A restroom counter. She’d let him take her hard and fast and quick. She’d let him cover her mouth and muffle her sounds while her father’s man had been right outside the door, in a place where her father had been dining along with so many enemies. She’d let him make her come so hard her teeth had clenched.

And she’d enjoyed it. She’d wanted it. Every. Single. Second. Every. Single. Thrust. She’d wanted it, and she’d not wanted him to stop. Had her mouth not been covered, she would have been screaming. Had he not covered her mouth, she would have been crying out for him. And he hadn’t even touched her. Their clothes had stayed completely in place. She hadn’t wanted to touch him.

Good lord, what had she been thinking?

One time.

Just one time.

This was done. Completely. She wanted to leave. She wanted him gone. She didn’t want a single reminder of her own flesh’s depravity. This was messed up, more messed up than she’d thought it would be.

Regret and anger burned through her, along with hatred for herself.

And she saw it all mirrored in his gaze in one split second of clarity before he masked it again.

He was hating himself too. He was regretting too. He was angry too.

Good.

The worst part was, even as everything burned in her body, so did desire, as unsated as it had been when she’d walked into the room. What had been the point of it all if she felt no satisfaction whatsoever?

Without a word, she turned towards the door and took her first step.

And almost buckled down, the heaviness between her thighs almost knocking her to her knees. She was sore. Goodness, she was sore. One step and she remembered the fullness of him, the feeling of having him inside her, the sheer bliss. One step.

How the fuck was she supposed to walk out into the restaurant?

The same way she walked into her house every day.

Steeling her spine at the sobering thought, she passed him, the memory of pleasure resonating with every single step, the wetness perpetual around her sore walls, somehow hungry for even more.

His hand caught her arm just as she passed him, and she turned her head sideways, looking up at him, raising her eyebrows silently.

‘Break his arm next time,’ he said quietly, his blue eyes magnificent, the sheer power in them making her heart pound.

His words sank in.

She snatched her arm back, a sneer curling her lips. ‘Touch me again, and I will break yours.’

‘Once was more than enough, Ms. Vitalio.’

Her hackles rose. ‘I’ll tell that to the notch on my bedpost, Mr. Caine.’

Without waiting for his response, she strode towards the door, not giving a fuck about how he would escape the ladies’ room. He had come in; he could go out.

Unlocking the door, she pulled it open, to find two men waiting for her towards the end of the corridor.

Not glancing back where she could feel his eyes on her back, she walked towards the men, her head high. Her stride was steady even as the soreness between her legs throbbed with each step, reminding her again and again of exactly what she had done and let be done to her, reminding her of the man who’d done it, reminding her of the pleasure she hadn’t wanted to feel but had, and to what degree. Every single step. Her throbbing core spasmed on air, getting hungrier. She’d just had the most mind-blowing orgasm, and she felt anything but sated. What was wrong with her?

The men started walking behind her, their guns hidden under their jackets, stance alert.

Morana entered the main eating area, her eyes falling to the Outfit table at the other corner, her eyes meeting Dante’s. He knew. His gaze told her he knew exactly what she’d been doing, and where his blood brother was. But she saw no judgment, no trepidation, and no pity in his eyes. Just tiredness.

She looked away before she could linger, heading towards her father’s table, her face clear of all her emotions and turmoil.  

Without looking at anyone, she took her seat rigidly, her lips pursed, her thighs clenching tightly to keep the throb to a minimum. She was aware of her father watching her, and she looked up, challenging his eyes. The creep beside her glared at her.

Her phone vibrated.

She broke the gaze and looked down at it.

 

Tristan Caine: How many notches does that bedpost have?

 

Her jaw almost dropped at the audacity of him. How dare he?

She quickly typed a reply, memories – of friction, of heat, of pleasure – flooding her with more and more rage. 

 

Me: All you need to know about my bedpost is simple.

 

Tristan Caine: And that is?

 

Me: You’ll be on it just once. Been there. Done that.

 

She waited for his reply. It didn’t come.

She felt his gaze on her back, her nape prickling, and deja-vu hit her like a train wreck.

This was exactly where she’d been almost an hour ago. Exactly where she’d been. Same place, same people, same plots.

Except she had changed.

She didn’t want to admit it, but she had. Something, very, very tiny, had shifted infinitesimally within the hour, with her acceptance of her desire, her locking of the door, her opening her legs for him. She didn’t want to admit it, but it had. And she’d die before she let anyone else know it. Least of all him.

The table broke up finally, people getting up and turning to leave, shaking hands with her father. She stood up as well, standing as tall as she could in her heels, ignoring the ache in her belly and south, one hand holding her clutch and phone, the other beside her hips.

The creeper turned to her, taking her free hand and bringing it to his lips before she could blink. Morana felt her skin crawl, even more than it had earlier when he had been trying to grope her thigh. It was just his lips pressing into the back of her fingers, a gesture so many men had repeated at the end of so many dinners, and while they’d always disgusted her, this felt more intense, more.

She could feel his stare boring into her exposed back, the man who’d fucked her minutes ago a few feet away, the man she hated, while the creeper kissed her hand. His gaze burned on her back, on her neck, on her spine.

‘Break his arm next time.’

The stare intensified. She tried to pull her hand back. The man didn’t let go.

Her father looked around the room. The stare never left her back. Was he trying to start a war? He needed to look away!

The entire restaurant was on edge, everyone on alert, hands hovering over weapons, tension ratcheting higher and higher as her father’s men headed towards the main door.

The creeper finally let go. She picked up a napkin from the table and wiped her hands, insulting him, and her father blatantly.

‘I hope we meet again soon,’ the man told her.

‘Sure, if you want another sprain and some broken bones,’ she said, her words loud enough for people to stiffen.

His gaze lingered. Her body throbbed.

She started walking towards the door with the party, keeping her gaze deliberately averted from the table in the corner, the table from where she could feel his gaze searing her, watching her every move like a panther watched a doe – still, quiet, waiting.

Her phone vibrated in her palm. Turning her eyes away, she peeked at it quietly as the men walked.

She saw the message and everything came rushing through her – the anger, the desire, the hate, the regret – mixing together in a concoction she barely even recognized anymore.

Her breath hitched.

Her body buzzed in memory on his rough hands and thrusting hips, hips she could still feel against hers, blue, blue eyes staring into hers, with the same emotions mirrored back for the split second the mask cracked.

She saw the text, and her stomach dropped, her heart pounding.

 

Tristan Caine: Apparently, you’re not out of my system, Ms. Vitalio.

 

Her father stopped her before she’d processed it, his dark eyes cold, icy on hers.

Her stomach dropped again, for an entirely different reason.

‘What were you doing with Tristan Caine?’


Comment

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

Options

not work with dark mode
Reset