Page 4 of The Mafia Enforcer's Temptation

“Maybe, but…” I graze her thigh.

I only do it to see if I’m right about the figure who was climbing out of the window, to confirm it was her, but she speaks.

It’s a challenge, a plea, and I’m not a man who deliberately misunderstands.

“Do it.”

“Think I’ll get distracted?” I ask.

“I don’t think you have the balls.”

Perhaps she’s the type to get off on a little primal play, so I oblige, and I slide my free hand along her thigh, the soft fabric that’s like a second skin gliding against my fingertips, all the way up to her pussy. I don’t know what makes me do it. Her soft and sudden intake of breath, thefuck you, assholebright in those dark eyes, or the heat emanating from her cunt.

Because I slide my hand farther up, lightly brushing over her covered pussy, feathering against her clit and then down, along her slit, the heat and wetness that seeps through making me instantly hard.

“Nice little experiment in distraction. But,” I say, pulling my hand away, “you’re wearing a Lycra body suit. Perfect for scaling down from a second-floor window in the dark.” I lean in a little closer, my lips brushing her ear, and she shivers, a soft little moan that licks my dick. “Which makes me think Iosif won’t like to hear about that.”

Her eyes glitter and she moves under me, undulating, rubbing against my cock. I don’t know her game, but that’s what it is. Now, don’t get me wrong. I like certain games, but this one? I want to be the one holding the cards at the end.

I move my hand away from her thigh and into the pocket of my pants. The shirt I’m wearing transfers her heat, like there’s nothing between us but flesh, and I pull out some restraints, snapping them onto her wrists.

Her eyes widen. I smile.

“Maybe Iosif Romanov likes it,” she says with a snarl. “Maybe it’s a game we play.”

“You like them older, huh?” As the air thickens, I run my hands over her, and in the pocket of her dress is something small, round, and bumpy. I lift it and pocket it for later.

A snap of a twig and the crush of leaves jolts me.

“You see them?” a voice says.

Fuck.

I don’t know the voice. It’s American. I slam my hand on her mouth as she sucks in a breath. I roll us into the canopy of low-hanging tree leaves because these might be her people.

Then the voice says, “If Hank?—”

“Oh shit. Terry’s dead.” A second guy.

Panicked footsteps start running and the pretty, sweet thing fucking bites me. Hard. The pain lances through me, tangling with a throb of need. I lock eyes with her. I’m still on top of her, but as her knee starts to move, I pull a knife and hold it to her throat.

I plant my knee between those slender thighs and remove my sore hand from her mouth.

Her eyes spit pure hateful fire.

I move in close so our mouths almost touch. A beat of need pulsates in the air. Her eyes still spark with anger but there’s something else, too.

Desire.

I run my tongue along her bottom lip. Her entire body jerks. I adjust the knife, so I don’t slit her throat.

But I will if she does something stupid like screaming.

“Alert them,” I whisper, “and you’ll bleed out in seconds.”

Defiance flares and she hooks those bound hands around my head and pulls me down. The knife slips, but I draw it back, right as her lips crush mine.

She kisses me, a violent fuck of a kiss, tongue invading and seducing. I kiss her back just as hard and desperate. I don’t care about anything but the fact she tastes like hate and sex and poison with a sugary edge.