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I don't either. Something about the thought of being caught turns me on. He's barely touched me, and I'm already on the verge of coming for him.
He bites me again, pushing me deeper into the wall. The brick scrapes at my cheek, but I like the way it feels. The wall is cool against my overheated skin, the rough surface sending little pings of pleasure through my body. The loud bass from the music thumps through me, vibrating deep inside.
"You wanted me out of control?" Two thick fingers plunge inside me, hitting that spot that makes my knees buckle. "You wanted to see how far you could push me?" His thumb rolls across my clit, his body the only thing holding me up. "Well, I push back, baby. You take what the fuck I give you, not the other way around." He strokes my clit again. "Fucking come, Mila. Now."
I bite my tongue to stifle my cries as I explode, coming so hard everything goes black. The metallic, coppery taste of my blood fills my mouth. Heat blasts through me, scorching me from the inside out. Roman doesn't let up and doesn't back off. He keeps fucking me with his fingers and stroking my clit until I'm whimpering and shaking, completely wrecked.
When I come down, he's still pressed tightly against me. His body is rock hard, fury practically rolling off him. His breath is a harsh pant in my ear.
Shit. He's really pissed.
"Roman, I–"
"Let's go," he barks, sliding his hand out of my panties and pulling my dress back down over my hips. He pushes away from the wall, holding onto me until he's sure I can stand on my own…and then he grabs my hand and drags me back the way we came. People move out of his way without question as he stalks through the crowd, not even looking at me. His jaw is clenched so tight, I'm worried he's going to snap the bone.
My heart pounds as I scurry to keep up with him, walking as fast as I can to keep from stumbling. Cool air hits my skin as soon as we're through the crowd and outside. I peek up at him to see if he's any calmer now that we're not in a crowded bar.
He's not. He's still pissed off.
My stomach rolls, nervousness pinging through me. I don't think I've ever seen him so mad before. I'm in so much trouble, and I have no idea what I did wrong.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Roman
Before I ever pulled Mila inside that fucking bar, I knew better. There were too many people, and crowds in Los Angeles always fuck me up a little. Looking over my shoulder here is second nature. But she looked too beautiful in that sexy little dress, and I wanted to make her smile. I thought I could handle being inside for a while and that she'd enjoy letting loose after being cooped up all week.
I was wrong. I couldn't handle it.
She's fucking gorgeous, but I didn't expect her to look like a Siren on the dance floor, teasing me. I wasn't prepared for the pure rage that shot through me when I saw every other motherfucker inside watching her…looking at her like they wanted to swap places with me, wanted to feel her sexy little body wrapped around them while she writhed against their cocks and moaned.
She's mine, and I don't fucking share.
I tried to warn her not to push me, but she didn't listen. She just couldn't resist fucking with me, completely oblivious to what every other man in that bar was thinking.
I'm so amped up I feel like a junkie. If I don't get inside her soon, remind myself that I'm the only one who gets to touch her, I'm going to start breaking shit.
"Roman–" she starts as I wrap my hands around her waist to lift her into my truck. Her lip is between her teeth, and her eyes are wide and worried, still dilated by the wine she drank and the way I made her come for me in the hallway. She's still turned on. She still wants me. Even now, when I'm ready to kill the next son of a bitch who looks at her, she wants me.
She has no fucking idea what it does to me when she looks at me like that.
"Put your seatbelt on," I demand. I just want to get her home and calm the storm raging through me. It's vicious, roiling in my stomach like a hurricane.
I'm ready to snap.
It's been ten days since Tahani has spoken to us. Jose Guerrero has taken out eleven more of his rivals in the last week alone. We still have no fucking clue where the drugs and guns are, and the fucking judge is dragging his feet about giving us a search warrant. I'm stressing the fuck out about having Mila in Los Angeles with me when all-out war looms on the horizon, so fucking close, every agency in the area is on red alert.
Having sixty sets of eyes leering at her didn't fucking help.
I've never been jealous or possessive. I've never given a fuck about the women I slept with. Mila is different. She isn't just a piece of ass, used to make myself feel better and then never thought about again. I'm so fucking in love with her, I can't see straight.
"Mila, put your fucking seatbelt on," I growl. "Please."
"Okay," she whispers, her voice small.
I feel like a dick for snapping at her, but I can't stop myself. I don't have the words to explain how badly I want her, or how pissed I am at myself for not being able to give her one night out to celebrate. How pissed I am that other motherfuckers were thinking about fucking her. So I don't try. I just wait until she does what I told her to do, and then I slam her door and jog around to the driver's side of the truck.
She's quiet on the drive home, nervous. I grip the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turn white, trying to keep myself under control. I can still smell her on me. Her scent fills the cab of the truck, ratcheting up my body temperature until it feels like my blood boils in my veins. I'm so fucking desperate for her, it's pathetic.
