Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 88215 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88215 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
I’ve been at the wrong end of a gun, but this? This…whatever it is between us? That’s new for me and far more frightening than a bullet to the fucking head.
But what’s even more terrifying?
Not acting on it.
Not feeling her skin on mine.
Not plundering her body like the half-starved man I am. Starving for her. All of her.
It’s like my body is no longer my own when I take her hand and pull her to me. When I press my lips to hers. When I peel off her clothes, lay her down like she’s more precious than a ten-pound diamond. She’s the sky, and I’m the wind. We’re a matching set.
We fucking belong together.
I’m tired of fighting it. Tired of being alone. Tired of not getting the revenge I crave. Tired of not being inside of her again.
I’m. Just. Fucking. Tired.
Yet looking at her beneath me on the cement floor of the basement with her father’s frozen corpse only a few feet away, I feel a new energy coursing through my veins, and I know that energy is courtesy of Frankie.
I fuck her hard. With my entire being, I fuck her. The pleasure is enormous, and it’s not just in my cock; it’s everywhere. It’s not knowing where I end and she begins. It’s some otherworld shit I never thought could exist.
Everything with Frankie is new.
Fucking is new. Kissing is new. This feeling in my gut like I could break her in half and break me along with her is new.
It’s because I fucking love her.
The very thing I thought I was incapable of has been given to me by this girl. A gift I won’t ever be able to repay.
I thank her for it. Not with my words, but with my body. I thank her in every way I can. Fast. Pounding hard. I make sure she understands the depth of my gratitude before sending her soaring into an orgasm that has her digging her heels into my lower back and screaming my goddamned name.
In the end, I’ll have both Frankie and my revenge.
Chapter Forty-Four
Before I shut down ‘the monster’ I send an untraceable message to Nine and hope he understands what I’m asking him for.
“Aren’t you going to send the text to Griff?” I ask Smoke as we ascend the stairs. It’s already light out. We’ve been in the basement all night.
Smoke tucks the phone in his pocket. “Not just yet. We’ve got a little time. I’ll send it later. Griff can wait to find out Frank’s dead while I decide how to go about killing him.”
“I don’t suppose you’re hungry,” I say.
Neither of us has eaten since the day before.
“Fucking ravenous,” Smoke rubs his stomach, his abs flexing under the thin material of his t-shirt.
I lead him to the kitchen and find dried pasta and a jar of marinara in the pantry. I take some ground sausage from the freezer, which thankfully was still frozen even with the power off, which means it must not have been off that long. I defrost it in the microwave.
Smoke watches me as I brown the meat and add it to the sauce to simmer. When I’m done and set the plate in front of him, he leans in and smells the food like it’s something to be savored. “It’s not much, but it’s all I could manage with what’s here,” I explain.
Smoke digs in like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted, and something about that makes my heart flutter. He moans in pleasure while he chews, and I lean forward on the counter to hide my hardened nipples.
“By far, the best I’ve ever fucking had.” Smoke says, but he’s not looking at the food.
He’s looking at me.
I blush, then feeling uncomfortable under his unyielding gaze, I go back to my own food and change the subject. “I’m sure there are plenty of other women out there who’ve made you better food than this.” I stab at a rigatoni and pop it into my mouth.
It is good. But as I suspected, it’s not great by any means.
Smoke’s answer surprises me. “I’ve never had anyone cook for me before, besides Zelda.”
There are wounds peppered in his voice. A vulnerability in his eyes. It makes me want to take care of him. Cook for him something better than dried pasta and canned sauce.
“I’ve never had anyone cook for me either,” I confess. “At least, I don’t think. I don’t remember much about my mom. I was too young when she passed so I’m not sure how she was in the kitchen. And well, my Dad, you know that story now.”
Smoke’s hand slides across the table and briefly covers mine. He squeezes my hand then slides it back and returns his concentration to his food as if nothing had happened.
As if he hadn’t just wrecked my entire world with one fucking touch.