Page 15 of Desperate Crimes (Mergers & Acquisitions #6)
I ’m so wet.
Soaking.
His hands haven’t even touched me where I need them, but my thighs are already slick with arousal.
The silk of the robe clings to my skin, sliding open at my hips, exposing me.
And when his big hands finally settle on my thighs— my bare thighs —I swear I stop breathing.
God, they’re huge . Rough. Strong. They grip like they’ve done it before, like they own me already.
This is what I’ve always wanted.
The heat. The pressure. The weight of a man who doesn’t ask—who just takes.
I can’t see a thing.
The room is drenched in darkness— warm, heavy, and complete —but I feel him.
His presence is unmistakable.
Every breath, every shift of muscle and fabric, broadcasts his hunger like heat rolling off a fire.
He’s kneeling now.
I sense the weight of him settle between my knees, the mattress dipping just slightly under his mass.
I hold still, instinctively keeping my legs together, every nerve in my body alive with tension.
Not resisting, exactly. More like waiting.
Like my body knows something monumental is about to happen.
Then I feel it.
His fingertips.
They slide up slowly, deliberately, skimming the insides of my thighs. Not rushed.
Not greedy. More like, worshipful.
Like he’s savoring every inch of skin, every breathless twitch I try to control.
A strangled sound escapes him— half groan, half sigh —when his hands reach the plush, sensitive skin near the top of my thighs.
His fingers flex. His breath catches.
“You’re so fucking soft,” he rasps, voice like gravel over silk. “I’ve dreamed about this. About you.”
And then— oh fuck yes please.
He presses my legs apart.
Firm, unyielding pressure, not rough but final, like a door being opened with a key only he has ever held.
Like he has every right.
And I let him.
Because he does .
To my utter shame, I want him.
I want all of it.
The darkness. The danger. The utter loss of control.
Him. Mostly, I want him.
I feel my arousal drip onto the sheets beneath me, shameless and hot.
He growls softly at the feel— or maybe even the scent —of it, and his fingers trail higher, teasing the crease where thigh meets heat.
“Fuck, Princess,” he breathes. “You’re already soaked for me.”
A flush burns its way across my chest, my face, everywhere .
But I don’t pull away.
I tilt my hips forward instead, offering more.
This is wrong.
This is insane.
But it’s everything I’ve ever dreamed about late at night, between the pages of forbidden books and under the hush of velvet fantasies.
His touch becomes bolder.
Fingers gliding through slick folds, teasing my clit in featherlight strokes that make my legs tremble.
My hands fist the sheets. My head falls back. I moan.
“Please,” I whisper before I can stop myself.
His laugh is low. Possessive. Devastating.
“Please what, Princess?”
His voice is low, a growl laced with command, and it vibrates through me, deeper than sound, deeper than reason.
My pride should scream at me to stop.
To shut up. To deny him this.
But it shrinks—folds up like paper under the weight of the need clawing through me.
I swallow hard, lips trembling.
“Touch me,” I breathe, barely able to say it. “Don’t stop.”
And he doesn’t.
His fingers move with maddening precision. One slides inside me—slow, smooth, deliberate.
The stretch is perfect .
Not too much, not too little.
Just enough to make my walls flutter around him, greedy and shocked.
He doesn’t thrust. Not yet.
He holds .
Like he’s giving me a second to feel what it means to be touched by him.
To feel possession.
Not violence.
Not gentleness.
Worship.
“You touch yourself at night, Princess?” he asks, voice rasping against my ear. It’s not cruel.
It’s intimate . Hungry.
I flinch, caught.
My throat closes, but I nod. I can’t lie.
“I-I do,” I whisper.
“You make yourself come with your fingers?”
My body clenches around him, my face burning.
The honesty is terrifying. Liberating.
“S-sometimes. But sometimes I use toys,” I admit, voice barely audible.
He groans. Deep. Rough. Possessive.
“Toys,” he repeats, his free hand sliding up to cradle my jaw, keeping me still in the dark.
He hasn’t kissed me yet. And I want him to. I want to see him when he does.
“Do you rub them on your clit?”
As he says the words, his thumb brushes my sensitive bud—just once.
My hips jerk . A cry escapes me.
I nod frantically, unable to speak.
His breath hitches. Then hardens.
“Or do you put them in here?” he growls, his voice jagged as he slides another finger inside me, pushing in beside the first.
The stretch makes me gasp.
My pussy clenches down hard, needing it—needing more .
I’m soaked. I can hear how wet I am. So can he.
He moves slowly, curling his fingers just right, dragging them against the spot that makes my toes curl and my stomach drop.
No one’s ever done this.
No one’s ever touched me like this.
I moan— soft and broken —and my hips rock into his hand on instinct, searching for friction, chasing something wild and endless building deep in my core.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Fuck, look at you. Rocking your greedy little cunt on my fingers like you were made for it.”
My head tips back, lips parted, panting.
I don’t care anymore.
Not about who I am.
Not about who he is.
Not about the darkness, or how we got here.
All I know is that I need more.
And he’s the only one who’s ever known how to give it to me.
I can feel it building—fast.
Tight. Intense.
That first wave of pleasure, cresting like a storm.
But then he leans in. His mouth brushes my ear.
And that’s when I know .
The way he breathes.
The way he touches.
The way his voice wraps around my name like it belongs to him.
“You were always mine, Leanna.”
My heart stutters.
My lips part.
Nico.
My eyes fly open, and though it’s still dark, I see him.
The outline. The shadow. The man .
Nico Jr.
Him.
The one I used to catch staring across holiday dinners.
The one who never spoke more than a few words to me.
The one who always lingered in the corners of my life.
My obsession.
My phantom.
My—wait a second.
“Oh my God,” I breathe, thighs trembling around his wrist. “It’s you.”
A beat of silence.
Then he whispers against my neck.
“Say it.”
I swallow.
“It can’t be.”
“Say it, Princess.”
I gasp.
Disbelief is warring with ecstasy inside of me as he teases my sex, making me desperate and so damn needy, I swear I could hit him.
Or beg.
“It is you, isn’t it?”
I whimper.
He grunts.
He’s got me circling the edge, but I need more.
“Say my name, Princess. Say it and I’ll give you what you want.”
And then.
“Nico!”
His fingers drive deeper, hitting that secret spot inside me, and I cry out .
He grins against my skin.
I can feel it, and it sends me spiraling.
“Good girl.”
A part of me wants to smack him, but another part is preening because I’ve pleased him.
But I’m too caught up in sensation to act. He nips at my skin, biting me gently.
“Mine now,” he growls.
And as my body shatters around his touch, slick and throbbing and ruined in the most delicious way— I know he’s right.
He’s always been right.
I’m his.
I always wanted to be.
“Glimmer,” he says, fingers still stroking lazily inside of me.
It’s a voice command that activates the soft glowing wall sconces.
He withdraws his fingers gently, wet with proof of what he’s done to me.
And I feel it then—not just the loss of contact, but the full weight of what just happened.
I came for him.
Hard.
Desperate.
Raw.
His eyes lock onto mine— those piercing sapphire-blue irises I’ve worshipped from afar for years.
They’re darker now. Dilated.
Glowing with something primal and possessive.
Heat and passion.
Obsession.
And something else I’m almost afraid to name.
And, fuck me, he’s so goddamn hot.
I drink him in—the sweat-slicked skin, the ink that winds across his chest and arms like ancient runes meant to trap me, the way every inch of his body is carved with thick, hard muscle and raw male power.
He looks like violence and salvation all at once.
He looks like every secret fantasy I’ve ever had.
Only this time he’s real .
No longer a forbidden crush.
No longer a shadow at family dinners.
No longer the man I dreamed of touching me in the dark, too afraid to even admit it to myself.
Now he’s here.
Filling me.
Surrounding me.
Claiming me in every way that matters.
My body? He owns it now.
My will? Bent beneath his hands, his voice, his touch.
My fantasies? They were always his— they just didn’t have his name on them until now.
And the terrifying, beautiful truth?
Some part of me always wanted him to have this power over me.
Always wanted him.
Even when I didn’t know what this could be, I was dreaming of him.
My Nico.
I was dreaming of this.
Of us .
And now there’s no going back.
Because now that he’s touched me?
I never want anyone else to touch me again.