Page 19 of Desperate Crimes (Mergers & Acquisitions #6)

A fter we shower— together —I slip into the bathroom alone for a few minutes.

Nico had to take a call, and me? I need a second.

Some space. Some air.

A chance to find myself again beneath the flood of sensation and surrender that was last night.

But my body isn’t interested in space.

It’s still humming.

Still buzzing, and there’s that low, molten ache between my thighs is the kind that sings of pleasure taken— of being stretched and filled and claimed in every possible way .

I can still feel him inside me.

The thick press of his cock.

The way my body opened for him like it had just been waiting.

It’s ridiculous.

Insane.

Unreal.

And yet the heat that gathers between my legs when I so much as think about the sound of his voice, the rough scrape of his stubble across my skin, the way his fingers curled inside me like a promise?

That heat doesn’t lie.

Even the bathroom is like a dream. We shared the enormous luxury shower, but there’s also a huge clawfoot tub.

Immediately I think about stepping inside later for a soak.

Later.

Like a piece of me has already decided I’m staying.

What’s wrong with me?

I brace my palms on the counter, staring at my reflection. My lips are swollen from his kisses.

My skin still carries faint marks— his fingers, his mouth, his ownership.

I should be panicking.

I should be calling 911.

Screaming. Demanding answers.

Instead, I’m glowing. Planning for later.

Maybe it’s because some part of me always knew this was where I’d end up.

I mean, how many girls get to say they lost their virginity to the man they’ve secretly dreamed about for years?

And not just in some gentle, vanilla, love-song moment.

Oh no. Not for me.

How many women out there lose their v-card in a completely insane, dark-romance, hyper-possessive kidnapping scenario?

Not many.

Just me.

And Persephone, I guess.

Only I don’t think Hades ever bought Persephone silk lingerie in her exact size or built her a personal garden of black roses and starlight.

So maybe I win.

Or maybe I’ve lost my mind.

Either way?

I can’t stop thinking about him.

I splash some water on my face and pat my skin dry and walk into the bedroom.

Bed’s made. Curtain’s still drawn. And Nico isn’t there.

I bite my lip and glance at the vanity, where a pale pink silk bralette and matching panties wait for me, neatly folded like a gift.

I hesitate for a moment, then reach for them.

They're gorgeous.

Delicate.

No underwire, thank God.

I’ve always hated the tightness of it, the way it digs into my skin.

This? This feels like heaven.

And I can’t help but wonder if it’s all real or not.

How much does he know about me?

How much has he seen and collected over the years?

I slide the bralette over my breasts, and it fits perfectly.

Lifts without pinching.

Cups me just right.

The panties are buttery soft, trimmed in lace that hugs my hips without cutting into them.

My body feels sinful and soft, wrapped in silk and something I shouldn’t enjoy—but do.

I glance at the tag.

Kisses by Kylie—the best couture lingerie made specifically for plus-size women, but available in every size.

My heart stutters.

That’s my brand. My favorite. Michaela’s, too.

We always order the new releases before they even hit the site. There’s no way this is a coincidence.

I frown.

Nico was ready for me.

For everything.

And it hits me in a fresh, jarring way—not the sex, not the obsession, not even the fact that I came so hard for him I forgot my own name.

It’s this.

The details.

The knowing.

The planning.

Does he just keep beautiful lingerie in every size around here? For women he kidnaps? Is this a fucking routine?

I hold the dress he laid out for me— a slip of thing made of silk and linen, in a deep berry hue —and study the way it drapes. It’s gorgeous.

Another of my favorite colors.

Cut in my favorite style.

The kind of dress that glides over your skin and makes you feel summery and light without restriction.

But the little voice in the back of my head whispers again.

Why does he know so much about me?

“Something wrong with the size?” he says behind me, voice smooth as the silk against my thighs.

I whirl around. He’s leaning against the doorway, shirtless, pants slung low on his hips, mug in hand like he didn’t just wreck me in every conceivable way.

His eyes drag over me, slow and deliberate.

I flush—because I know what he sees.

“Fits fine,” I say a little too fast and put it on just as quickly.

“Alright. Come on.”

He smirks but doesn’t push. Instead, he takes me on a short tour of the house— his home .

And God, it’s beautiful.

Luxurious but not showy.

All warm wood and wrought iron, soft lighting, and subtle power in the quiet opulence.

Like the man himself.

Controlled.

Commanding.

Beautiful and dangerous all at once.

Like a fucking trap you want to fall into.

I don’t even try to be subtle about it.

My eyes devour him.

Nico Jr. stands just a few feet away, utterly unbothered by the fact that he’s shirtless, barefoot, and the most sinfully sexy man I’ve ever seen in my life.

And I’ve seen some shit.

But this? This is different.

This is personal.

Dark ink coils up his arms and around his wrists, swirls across his shoulders and disappears into the waistband of his low-slung jeans.

My gaze trails hungrily over his chest—broad, hard, carved with the kind of muscle that doesn’t come from vanity but from violence.

Purpose. Power.

And I recognize some of it.

The malocchio— the evil eye —sits proudly on his left bicep, just like his father and uncles.

A family sigil. A warning. A claim.

But it’s the piece on his chest that really steals my breath.

A pit viper, fangs bared, is coiled around the stem of a single black rose. The detail is exquisite—every scale, every petal inked with reverence and rage.

The snake looks alive.

The rose looks like it’s blooming right over his heart.

It’s beautiful.

Dangerous.

And somehow, I just know it’s mine.

“See something you like, Princess?” His voice is thick with amusement, low and rough like gravel wrapped in velvet.

My lips part before I can stop them. “Nice ink.”

His grin is slow and wicked, like he already knows exactly what I’m thinking.

“Glad you approve.”

He’s watching me now— really watching me —like I’m the one half-naked. Like he’s peeling me apart layer by layer with nothing but that look.

Goddamn, I feel it down to my core.

I swallow and try to focus on literally anything else, but it’s no use. The man is ridiculous.

The kind of hot that should come with a goddamn warning label.

Or a choke collar.

Or both.

The ink is gorgeous— fresh, I think —but let’s be real.

Nico Jr. would be hot in glasses held together with tape and a pocket protector.

He could show up in Crocs and a stained T-shirt and I’d still be pressed against a wall somewhere trying not to moan.

But this version?

All muscle and mystery and male?

He’s a walking sin.

And I’m already halfway damned.