Page 34

I t’s after three o’clock in the morning when I finally pull into the driveway, my body thrumming with exhaustion and frustration.

The night has been a complete waste—fruitless hours spent at the Den, the pounding bass of the DJ’s set still rattling around in my skull like a hammer on metal. I spent the bulk of my time conducting interviews with the club’s current staff, pushing for answers Angel Fury’s team had somehow overlooked.

Most of them were either too scared or too clueless to be of any real help.

And then there was the bartender.

Stella Vargas.

The pushy, overly familiar woman who seemed to think offering up information required her to offer herself in the process.

Fucking hell.

Even now, I can still hear the over-the-top wannabe sultry lilt of her voice slinking into my ears like poison.

“Mr. Fury said I should tell you everything I know,” she had murmured, a slow smirk tilting her lips as she leaned in too damn close, pressing her too-long nails into my forearm. “How about you come to my place for a nightcap after close, and we get down to our discussion?”

Her perfume had been thick and cloying, clinging to the air like cheap whiskey.

It took everything in me not to rip her hands off my body and throw her across the bar.

But I don’t hit women. Ever.

Instead, I’d pinned her with a glare so sharp it could’ve cut through concrete.

“I don’t know what Mr. Fury told you,” I said, my voice low, controlled, “but I know he didn’t mean for you to proposition his son-in-law, Miss Vargas. Now take your fucking hands off me and don’t ever touch me again.”

Her eyes had gone wide with something close to panic, her grip loosening instantly.

“O-okay. Sorry, Mr. Ramirez.”

“Did you have anything to do with the robbery?” I demanded.

She shook her head so hard her earrings swung.

“N-no. I swear I didn’t.”

That’s what they all fucking said. But I knew someone was lying.

Someone was always lying.

Now, as I step into my house— our house —the tension in my chest doesn’t ease. If anything, it coils tighter.

But then I hear voices drifting in from the kitchen.

I stop in my tracks, my head tilting toward the sound.

It’s her. My Pixie.

Her soft, sweet voice reaches me like a balm against my frayed nerves, but then I realize what she’s saying.

And my heart nearly fucking stops.

“I’ve loved him my whole life, Andrea.”

Holy. Fuck.

She loves me.

Aella loves me.

It’s like the whole world shifts beneath my feet, and for the first time in my life, I swear to God, I feel weightless.

Then my sister’s voice breaks through my euphoria.

“Good.” Andrea’s voice is softer than usual, almost gentle. “Take care of him, okay?”

And then Aella speaks again, and this time, her words knock the wind clean out of my lungs.

“I’ll try,” she murmurs. “For however long he lets me, I’ll try.”

Something inside me snaps.

I slam the front door shut, loud enough for them both to hear it.

I don’t wait for them to come to me.

I go to her.

I follow the sound of their quiet conversation, my pulse a heavy, steady drum in my ears. When I finally step into the kitchen, I see them—Andrea wiping at her eyes, and my wife, my Aella, standing there in a goddamn crop-top and soft lounge pants that cling to her hips like a fucking dream.

They both startle at my presence.

“You two alright?” My voice is rougher than I intend.

Andrea whirls around and glares at me. “Jesus, Sammy! You scared the shit out of me!”

I smirk.

My sister is a firecracker, but she’s not actually scared of me.

She never has been.

She grabs her purse and walks over, pressing a kiss to my cheek like the conversation she just had with my wife isn’t currently rewiring the entire architecture of my brain.

“Thanks for having us over, Aella,” Andrea says with a warm smile. “I had the best time.”

“You need me to call a driver for you?” I ask, still processing, still trying to breathe through the sheer magnitude of what I just overheard.

Andrea shakes her head and says her goodbyes.

I don’t argue, but as soon as she’s gone, I pull out my phone and shoot a text to Santos.

Me

Follow my sister home. Don’t let her see you.

A confirmation comes back almost immediately.

Santos

Yes, boss.

Then it’s just me and her.

Alone.

I turn my attention back to Aella, drinking her in—the delicate curve of her jaw, the way her hair falls in soft waves around her face, the hint of pink still dusting her cheeks from her earlier emotions.

She looks fucking perfect.

And she loves me.

The knowledge is a live wire running beneath my skin, setting every nerve ending on fire.

I take a slow, measured step toward her.

She shifts, eyes flickering with uncertainty, but she doesn’t move away.

Doesn’t run.

I wouldn’t let her even if she tried.

I reach for her, trailing my fingers down her bare arm, watching as a shiver ripples through her.

“Say it again,” I murmur, my voice rough and desperate and nothing like the composed man I pretend to be.

Her lips part. “What?”

“You know what,” I growl, stepping even closer, caging her against the kitchen counter.

Her pulse hammers at the base of her throat, and fuck, it makes me want to bite her.

But I wait. I need her to say it.

I tilt her head back, forcing her to meet my gaze. Her breath stutters, her lips swollen and slick from my kisses, her pupils blown wide as I hold her there, trapped beneath my touch.

“You heard all that, didn’t you?” she whispers, her voice shaking, thick with emotion, accusation, and something else— something darker.

Possession.

Like she already knows what she does to me. Like she understands, deep down, that she owns me in a way no one ever has.

But she doesn’t fully know.

Not yet.

I tilt my chin, my lips brushing the shell of her ear, my voice raw with need. “Say it again.”

Her fingers curl into my shirt, bunching the fabric in her fists. Her chest rises and falls too fast, like she’s struggling to breathe, like she’s unraveling right in front of me.

“I love you, Sammy,” she whispers.

My forehead drops to hers, my own breath ragged as something feral and desperate takes hold of me.

“Again.”

She lets out a choked laugh, but her eyes are shining with unshed tears. “I love you.”

I break.

I crush my mouth to hers, kissing her so hard it’s like I can pour every missed moment, every lost year, into this single instant. I taste the salt of her tears as they slip between us, but I don’t stop.

I won’t ever fucking stop.

Because she loves me.

She’s mine, and she fucking loves me.

Goddamn.

I’ve been waiting my whole fucking life to hear those words from her pretty, pink lips. And now that I have, I’ll spend the rest of my goddamn life making sure she never doubts it. Never doubts me.

“Aella,” I growl against her mouth, licking into her like I can’t get deep enough.

Like I can’t consume her enough.

“Sammy,” she whimpers, and fuck, the way she says my name, like she’s surrendering— like she wants to be taken —has my control snapping like a frayed wire.

My hands skim down her back, gripping her ass, dragging her forward until there’s nothing between us, just heat and hunger and the brutal, undeniable truth that we need this. That we need each other.

“Need you, Pixie,” I rasp, my voice thick, ruined. “Gotta get inside you.”

Then I’m lifting her, drunk on the feel of her softness against me, of her warmth melting into my body.

There’s no time to make it to the bedroom. Fuck the bedroom. I need her now.

I set her on the cold marble countertop, watching as a shiver rips through her.

Not from the cold.

From me.

From what she knows is coming.

She’s already tugging at my belt, those sweet little hands moving with frantic need, and fuck, I love seeing her like this—needy and desperate for me.

But it’s not enough.

I need more.

I need to see her.

To own her.

Gripping the hem of her shirt, I yank it over her head, leaving her bare to me. Her tits— perfect, mine —are flushed, her nipples already tight, and I fucking groan as I palm them, toying with the stiff peaks until she squirms.

She’s breathing heavily, her lips parting on little moans, but her hands don’t stop.

She slides my zipper down, and the moment her fingers brush over the hard length straining against my briefs, my control shatters.

“Take it out, Aella.” My voice is guttural, more animal than man. “Take my cock out.”

Her breath catches, her gaze flicking to mine, wide and a little unsure, but fuck, she wants this.

She wants me.

And knowing that has my cock ready to blow.

She reaches inside, wrapping those delicate fingers around me, and my whole body jerks at the first stroke.

My head falls back, my jaw tightening as I flex my hips, chasing the feel of her touch.

“Fuck, that’s it,” I groan, watching her through hooded eyes as she rubs her thumb over the thick head, smearing the drop of precum already leaking from the tip. “Good girl.”

She licks her lips, looking dazed, mesmerized, and my blood goes molten.

“How much do you like these pants?” I ask, my voice a dangerous rasp.

She blinks, confused. “W-what?”

I don’t give her time to process.

“Fuck it,” I mutter. “I’ll buy you a new pair. Buy you a fucking truck full.”

Then I grab the flimsy fabric and rip it in half.

A startled gasp slips past her lips, her thighs trembling as I push them apart, exposing the delicate pink lace of her ruined panties.

I lean in, swallowing her gasp as I kiss her again, licking into her mouth, chasing her tongue around in dizzying, drugging circles.

“Are you wet for me?” I demand, my hand wrapping lightly around her throat, my thumb stroking over her pulse.

She trembles. “I—I, yes,” she whispers.

And I know she is. Because she always is.

So wet. So mine.

I groan, spreading her legs wider, tilting her hips so I can fit myself right there, right where she’s already slick and ready for me.

“Fuck, Aella,” I breathe, dragging the thick head of my cock through her folds, teasing her, torturing us both.

She whimpers, her hands clawing at my shoulders, her body arching, pleading.

“Sammy, please,” she begs.

My fucking undoing.

I grip her jaw, forcing her to look at me.

“Who do you belong to?” My voice is rough, deadly quiet.

Her breath stutters. “You.”

“Who’s the only man that’s ever gonna have this perfect, tight little pussy?” I push just the tip inside, my grip on her jaw tightening as she gasps.

“You, Sammy,” she chokes out. “Only you.”

I snap.

I slam inside her in one deep, unrelenting thrust, and she shatters around me, her body squeezing so fucking tight I can barely breathe.

“Jesus fuck, Pixie,” I groan, gripping her hips, holding her still as I ruin her, as I claim her in every way there is to claim a woman.

She loves me.

She’s mine.

Her tight cunt squeezes me. She’s seconds from detonating and that’s good because I don’t think I can hold on much longer.

I squeeze her throat, stroking my tongue into her mouth in time with my cock.

And she comes. Hard.

“Fucking gorgeous,” I groan, sliding out of her and grabbing my cock, two pumps of my fist is all it takes and I’m coming all over her.

I swear, from the way her eyes dilate, my sexy Pixie comes again as the first rope of cum splashes across her tits.

When we finally catch our breaths, I slam my mouth to hers, not caring about the mess between us.

“You’re so fucking perfect, Aella.”

“I love you,” she whispers, her small hands leaning on me for support.

I like that. A lot.

And I’m gonna show her how much right after I clean us both up.

“Wrap your legs around my waist.”

She listens and I pull her ruined pants off her body, kicking my shoes and pants off as I cup my palms beneath her ass, and hold her to me.

Then I carry us upstairs to our bathroom and I turn the shower on.