Page 87 of Depraved Devotion

“We’re not friends.”

“If me touching your pussy isn’t friendly, then I’d love to know what is.”

I glare up at him. “Why are you here? What do you want?”

His gaze is intense, the raw hunger in his eyes unmistakable. “You.”

“No.”

“Yes,” he whispers, the sound both confident and sensual.

He reaches out, his fingers brushing my cheek, and my breathing quickens. I shake my head, rendered mute at his touch. He leans forward, his lips brushing my ear, his breath hot against my skin.

“You want me, Geneva,” he murmurs. “Admit it.”

“Fuck you.”

“Only if you’re a good girl.”

He trails his fingers down my jaw, featherlight and deceptive. My skin heats beneath his touch, a slow burn that spreads through me like wildfire. I force myself to stay still, to hold my ground, even as my pulse pounds in my throat.

I just need a second. A small window.

My fingers twitch at my side, inching toward my phone resting on the nightstand. I keep my eyes trained on his, not wanting to give away my intentions, while hoping he’s too distracted by the game we’re playing.

But the moment I lunge for my cell phone, he snatches my wrist. I barely have time to react before he yanks me up, forcing me onto my knees, our chests colliding.

“Too slow, Doc.”

I use my free hand and shove at his chest, but it’s useless. He’s unmovable. I hate how easily he overpowers me, how effortlessly he drags me under his control.

How much I want to stay there.

Ghost flexes his fingers around my wrist, his grip now painful. His nose brushes the curve of my jaw as he inhales slowly. “Did you really think I wouldn’t catch you?”

I scowl. “I thought you’d be too busy stroking your own ego.”

“Smart mouth. The same one that screamed my name a few minutes ago.”

Heat floods my cheeks. “That didn’t mean anything.”

“It means everything.”

I shrug with a nonchalance I don’t feel. “If you say so.”

His eyes narrow at my blatant dismissal, all traces of amusement fading. His grip on my wrist tightens before he lets go, only to reach into his back pocket. The glint of his knife catches the light, the sharp blade gleaming between us, making my breath hitch.

“Ghost…” I warn.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he brings the blade to my throat, the flat side pressing against my pulse. A silent reminder of who he really is.

I go still, barely daring to breathe.

Ghost leans in, lips just brushing my ear. “Donotlie to me, Geneva.” The way he says my name is sensual, with just a hint of something unhinged.

Using the knife, he traces a path along my throat, then lower, between my collarbones. The whisper of pressure from the blade has my heart pounding so hard I feel it in every inch of my body.

Then, without warning, he slices.