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But I do not. Not tonight. The thought alone, with her sleepy eyes widening and her voice catching as I murmur her name, works me up enough. It is an aphrodisiac, so raw and twisted that it floods my veins. I want her. No denying it. And soon, I will have her, whether she is ready to admit she wants it too or not.
Back in my car, I pull up the feed on my phone. She is still in there, hidden behind that door. Part of me regrets not wiring the bedroom. I could have seen her chest rise, fall, and caught the way she curls into her pillow like she is waiting for someone to fill the empty space.
But no, I held back. Not out of morals because those are long gone, but because I do not want her bolting too soon. She has only just stepped into my world, this twisted game I have crafted around her every move. I have got her keys duplicated and her schedules mapped down to the minute, even her favorite coffee shops around the area are flagged on my GPS so I can linger nearby, unseen. She does not know it yet, but she is mine already.
That moment in my office the other day, when I tasted her, pinned her against the desk, sealed it. Every sigh she let slip, every secret shudder, every moan and writhe her little body gave up, it all belongs to me now. I replay it constantly, her hesitant gasps turning into something she could not stop, something I pulled out of her whether she meant to give it or not. If I scare her off now, I would lose the thrill of watching her unravel, piece by piece, realizing she is caught in me, too tangled up to run.
I flick through the feeds again, my thoughts restless but the empty rooms stare back at me, mocking me. I shouldn’t be doing this. Shouldn’t be anywhere near her. But with Ricci’s dogscircling, she feels like mine to protect. Mine to claim. And that’s the problem—I don’t just want to save her. I want to ruin her.
“Boss, you good?” Frankie’s voice, my driver, crackles through the line later that night. I don’t usually use him but I needed a getaway driver in case tonight went bust.
“No,” I snap, eyes locked on the screen as Penelope walks out of the bedroom to the kitchen for a drink. She’s shedding her robe, probably feeling too hot, her hair tumbling loose. “What did Sal say the kid’s doing now?”
“Brought home some chicks he took back from the club. Sal’s still trying to get into the building and into his apartment.”
I grit my teeth. “He’s got no idea who he’s messing with.”
Frankie laughs, rough and short. “Yeah, well, neither does she. You gonna tell her?”
“Fuck no.” I watch her rinse the cup in the sink and pad barefoot around the kitchen. “She’d run.”
“Smart girl.” He pauses. “You sure this ain’t personal? I mean, why do you have to install the cameras, we could just take out the boy.”
“Shut your mouth and drive.” My hands flex, itching to break something—Theodore’s face, preferably. But Frankie’s not wrong. This isn’t just about territory anymore. It’s her. She’s deep in my blood, and I hate it.
“You will start tailing her outside the house tomorrow,” I order.
“Yes, Boss.”
Later, I am nursing a whiskey when the feed catches her again making breakfast. It’s morning now and she is in a towel, fresh from the shower with steam curling around her like some taunting halo. I should look away, but I don’t tend to reason much when she’s around.
She is humming, soft, and oblivious, and it is tearing me apart. I have killed men for less than what is burning through menow, this raw, possessive and fucked up need rising at my gut. But there is something else too, something softer, and it pisses me off even more because it makes me want her worse.
I lean closer, muttering to the empty room. "You are going to be the end of me, sweetheart." My voice is rough, barely mine, and my free hand is already moving, sliding down to my jeans.
The zipper is loud in the silence, but her humming cuts through it, so innocent and maddening. I shove the fabric aside and wrap my hand around myself, hard and leaking already because just seeing her like this, so damp and unaware, has me fucked beyond reason.
The screen glows with her. That towel barely covers her thighs, and I picture ripping it off and pinning her to a corner as my fingers bruise her hips while she squirms. I stroke myself slowly at first, imagining her throat under my palm, squeezing just enough to feel her pulse jump and her gasps choke out as I fuck her against the wall. She would fight it, maybe, but then she would break and moan my name while I took her apart.
I want her bent over that sink, ass up and my hands fisting her wet hair as I pound into her from behind. Then on her back, her legs spread wide and pinned down so she can’t move while I bury myself deep with every thrust, making her tits bounce, her eyes wide and glassy.
My pace picks up, and the fantasies spiral. I want her on her knees, choking on cock, her tears streaking her face as I force her to take it all. Then I’d flip her over on her stomach down on the floor with my weight crushing her while I fuck her raw with no mercy, no pause until she is screaming, begging.
I want to fill her every way I can, mouth, cunt, ass, mark her so she can’t wash me off, so she feels me for days. My sick head spins with it. There will be no limit when I take her body under mine. She is mine to ruin, mine to own. Mine forever.
The whiskey glass hits the table, forgotten, and I am jerking faster now, eyes locked on her as she bends to grab something and her towel rides up. That little flash of skin snaps me.
I’m heaving and I am close, so fucking close.
"Penelope," I groan, low and guttural, her name a curse, a prayer, a claim. It rips through me, and I come so hard I’m spilling over my hand. It’s so hot and messy as I chant her name on my lips again, like she is here, like she knows.
I slump back, panting and staring at the screen, where she is still humming, still clueless, and it is not enough. It will never be enough until she is mine for real.
***
The next day, Tommy’s back with worse news. “They hit another spot. Took out two more crates. Then left a note—‘Face us, Vieri, or she’s next.’”
My blood goes cold. I was right. They know. They fucking know. I shove the table, papers scattering. “Get everyone. We’re ending this.”