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If I take him out, that’s a headache. If he recognizes me as someone who has dealings with the Heralds, which I do, that’s a different ache in the fucking head.
But if he threatens Scarlett again, all of that’s going to be fucking moot.
I force myself to breathe.
He grabbed her right as I stepped inside. She probably thinks I’m hanging her out to dry. Fuck it, she’s probably thinking of screaming.
“Where’s the guy?” the guard asks, his Brooklyn accent thick. “Don’t make me shoot you, bitch.”
That’s a fucking strike. I’m thinking one might be all he’s gonna get.
From where I am, I can see Scarlett well. Especially with the flashlight up in her face.
That fuck.
Threatening her.
She offers the guard a big doe-eyed look, and it’s the type of play that wraps around my cock because she’s a fucking natural. Scarlett doesn’t hide her fear, but she doesn’t play it up. She leans into it like anyone would in this situation, and it has the effect of innocence, of guilt, and she isn’t going to give me away. I can feel it.
“Where the fuck is the guy?”
“What guy?”
“You came here with someone.”
“I came here to meet my boyfriend.” She slowly raises her hand and shows him the horribly garish diamond I got her. “Not my fiancé. So…”
“You’re not meeting anyone, and now I’m gonna have some fuckin’ fun with you,” the guy says, his voice a snarl. He raises the gun like he’s going to hit her with it.
My blood boils, rage threatening to spew like lava.
I move. Fast.
Grabbing his arm, I yank it away and slam my foot down on the back of his lower leg. Then I snap his wrist, grab the gun, and wrench the man’s head, breaking his neck.
I don’t look at her.
But I can feel her panic, her terror.
A sound rumbles in the back of her throat. I step over him, take her by the arm, and push her farther into the warehouse. She opens her mouth, probably to scream, but I bring my mouth down on hers instead.
To silence her. That’s what I tell myself. To stop her from screaming the fastest way I know how.
But there’s a part of me that recognizes the lie. I’m ice and she’s heat and life and I need that. I didn’t know how much I needed it until I kissed her.
Scarlett’s lips part with invitation, and I kiss her deep, taking her tongue in a slow, deep tango, one that has her winding herself around me like a stripper on a pole.
I’m hard, and I’m fucking sure she thinks it’s because I just killed a man.
But it’s not.
I don’t have a fetish for killing.
I have a fetish for her.
All that heat and blood and life inside of her. Her sweet fucking scent and the softness of her. If I grazed her pussy with my fingers, I know she’d be wet. That’s what’s got me hard, and while I don’t have a fetish for killing, I have zero compunctions for bending her over and fucking her on all fours on the dirty, cold ground right here under us.
And that’s exactly what I do.
