Page 38 of Executing Malice (Jefferson Rejects #4)

LEILA

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My head swims with all the extra information.

All the things I didn’t think myself capable of and yet, he’d been so proud telling me of my crimes. He looks at me like I hold his very soul in my hands.

But am I that person? Am I capable of setting a person’s property on fire? Do I enjoy chaos?

The answer, every single time is ... yes.

I do. I hide it well. I keep it tucked under the rug, away from the shrewd eyes of Jefferson, but the truth is I don’t have patience.

I don’t have the grace to turn the other cheek.

Ninety percent of my inner thoughts are how I would like to stab someone in the eye with a pen or cut their tires.

The sheer amount of violence I feel all the time. ..

I thought it was normal. I thought everyone had the occasional dark thought when a customer is being exceptionally stupid, but maybe there is something wrong with me because my thoughts aren’t little voices wishing them to leave.

Mine urge me to grab them by the back of the head and smack their face on my counter .

Maybe I need help.

Maybe I should look into getting a therapist. Get myself admitted. This shouldn’t feel right.

I run a shaky hand over my face and back through my hair. In the dim light of the bank washroom, my uncertain gaze catches on my reflection over the sink. I stare long and hard at the face I’ve stared at a million times over the years and still not recognizing it.

Maybe even less now.

The minor things I’d begun to learn about myself scatter out of my hand to tumble into nonexistence because this Leila staring at me is still a stranger. Even after all this time.

A dry sob leaves my chest and I slump against the counter. My palms dig along the edges as I fight to get keep my shit together. Falling apart doesn’t help.

I lift my head again and blink harder at my reflection, willing my brain to remember something . Anything. A crumb of memory.

But only silence echoes between my ears.

Resigned, I push away and fix my attention on the bag Dante gave me. It sits on the counter, practically weightless, but heavy with implication.

I haven’t looked inside yet, but he shoved it into my hands with a firm, “Put these on. No panties. ”

I’m not in the mood for any more games, but I reach inside and withdraw the short, black, button-up dress I bought a million years ago during a trip with Mom to Pinecrest. It had been on a mannequin in a shop window, and I made the mistake of gasping and pointing at it, saying, “Oh my gosh, that is so cute!”

Mom pulled me inside and next thing I knew, I was walking out with a dress I am not nearly bold enough to wear in public.

It’s way too short. Short enough that if I drop something, it forever belongs to the floor because bending down is a hard no.

But it’s made even shorter by the slits on either side that bare way more leg than I have ever shown or feel comfortable showing.

The neckline dips in a wide, dangerous V that frames my breasts before a tiny row of buttons keeps it all together.

Where the hell had he even found this? I chucked it somewhere towards the back of my closet where I’d hoped it would disintegrate and become moth food. But it’s as bright and flowy as the day Mom shoved it into my hands.

I could refuse.

I’m a grown woman and I don’t have to listen to peer pressure. But I know if I go out there without it, he’ll only force me into it, and it’s already been a long ass day.

I strip out of my jeans and blouse and drag the dress down over my head. It takes some wiggling to properly fit all my curves into the confines. I have to double check my ass to make sure nothing is spilling out.

It’s not bad.

Definitely daring, a lot out of my comfort zone, but I do like the way it strains across my chest and fills out around my hips even though I know I’m about to become the talk of the town the second I step out, especially with the silver stilettos he’d included in the bag.

Got to give it to him. The man has good taste.

Well, in for a dollar, in for a pound, I ruffle my hands through my hair, giving the strands volume. I plump my tits and drag my panties off. My old clothes are dropped into the bag and I take a step back to admire what little I can see in the mirror.

I don’t know what his plans are, but if this doesn’t get me laid, I might have to tie him down and fuck him myself.

Amused, I yank open the door and stalk across the polished floor. My five-inch heels crack against marble, sounding sexy and dangerous echoing off the walls as I gather up my things and head for the door.

Any doubt I may have had, any sprinkling of insecurities, vanishes the second Dante’s head comes up and his gaze lands on me.

The man freezes.

His brown eyes darken with a feral hunger that echoes in the flaring of his nostrils, the tightening in his jaw.

His entire body tenses as if he’s one breath away from lunging at me and consuming me whole.

His slow, steady inhale cuts through the distance and I swear he has swallowed all the air because I can’t breathe.

I can barely think. The best I can manage is standing paralyzed as he slings one long leg over his bike and pushes to his feet. My heart hammers with excitement and that primal panic of being cornered by a wolf as he stalks in my direction, his every stride a threat.

He must have seen it in my eyes, seen the spooked rabbit ready to bolt because his lips curl up on one side and he taunts, “I dare you to run.”

The words vibrate in my bones, course through my blood. I tremble and my mouth parts, but nothing comes out.

He’s on me in seconds, chest to chest. His heat is an ocean flooding my lungs until I’m drowning in him. I’m dizzy with it. Lost so deep that when his hand clamps around my jaw, tilting my head, I let him. I let him drag his thumb across my lower lip, press in until I open for him obediently.

“Fuck,” he hisses, breath hot against my cheek. “You have no idea how fucking badly I want to eat you. Sink my teeth into your flesh and consume every inch until you can never leave me again. ”

My thighs clench at the cannibalistic image of being wholly consumed by him. Bitten so hard, I mark. I bleed.

“Then eat me,” I practically beg.

The snarl that rips from him is anything but human. His hand slides from my jaw to my throat. Possessive fingers curl around my throat. He squeezes just enough to make me weak.

“Oh, I plan on it. I’m going to hurt you so fucking bad, you’ll beg me to never stop.”

God, what is wrong with me?

I am throbbing with such violence, such unmatched desire, I’m ready to rip his pants open. I’m ready to climb his cock and let him prove it. I’m half crazed with the need to be claimed. To be brought to the very edge of agony before being released.

He must have seen the torment on my face because his grin is animalistic, smug with cruel arrogance that only makes the ache worse.

“Not here.” He presses his forehead to mine.

His breath hot and ragged filling my mouth.

“If I wasn’t such a jealous, possessive asshole, I would strip you naked right here and let everyone watch me claim you, but your body is mine and mine alone.

Only I get to see the marks I leave on you. Only I get to see your pussy squirt.”

I whimper, nails digging into his shoulder. “ Please...”

His hand tightens on my throat, silencing me with that ruthless control. “Please what, Leila? Use your words.”

My body shudders. So pathetic and wanton. Desperate on a level that is pure torture on its own.

“Don’t make me wait.”

His laugh is cruel. “Oh, you’re going to wait.

” His lips brush mine with a slow, taunting sweep.

His teeth follow when I sag into him, boneless and weak.

They cut into my bottom fold until I taste blood and my cry is swept away with the flick of his tongue.

“I want your cunt throbbing before I fuck you raw.”

With a final wicked smirk, he tears himself from me.

My body lurches with the sudden loss. It thrums with the absence of his weight, his heat and violence.

But it’s only long enough to seize my wrist with one hand and gather my forgotten belongings with the other.

He doesn’t speak. It’s not necessary when he drags me across the street.

At the bike, my things are shoved into the side compartment with quick efficiency and he returns with the helmet from the other day. Our gazes meet as he frees one hand to cup the back of my skull and jerk me to him.

All the while, he stares, fixated on my eyes. On the parting of my lips. He’s so enraptured by every flicker of emotion I’m unable to control.

Carefully, he draws the helmet down over my head, snaps the latch into place beneath my chin and flicks something along the side with his free hand.

“Mic,” he explains before I can ask.

With his finger still hooked in the strap, he tugs me to him and kisses me so softly my toes curl, but there is an almost demonic fire in his eyes, a sinister glint of twisted pleasure that sets my insides ablaze.

Without a word, he turns and slings his leg over the seat. He straps his own helmet into place, draws on his gloves before patting the spot just behind him.

“On,” he commands, voice echoing through the confines of my helmet.

As simple as he makes it sound, I hesitate.

My gaze sweeps over the sprinkling of people moving along the sidewalks.

None are close enough to see my crotch when I lift my leg and throw it over the smooth leather.

I wiggle against Dante’s back. My hand jerks to my backside, tugging and adjusting the scrap of fabric barely covering the crack of my ass.

“You couldn’t bring something a little longer?” I grumble.

“I could have but didn’t.”