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She nods.
“And we killed all his men who were in the house. There was a shootout amongst the rest. They’re all dead.” Except for my mole and his team. “The place has been torched.”
Tasha quivers, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I—I—I stabbed that man with intention,” she sobs. “I would have s-stabbed him again. T-to k-kill him.”
Here it is. The physical pain is always secondary to the psychological. She hurts because she did something she thought she’d never do. Yes, she was trying to save herself, but that was a lost cause from the start for her and she knew it. She stabbed him with the aim to kill and to stop him from killing me.
She saved my life.
“It was you or him, sweetheart. Anybody would have done the same.” I stroke her cheek. “And you didn’t hesitate. You listened to me for once.”
She cracks a smile between her tears, but bites down on her lip as if that’s not allowed, then buries her face back in my neck. “Matteo?—”
I hold her, giving her time to grieve the girl she once was, while I wrestle with the reality that if she hadn’t delivered that stab, neither of us would be sitting here now.
She smells delicious. Clean and fresh and warmly feminine. My cock, always on high alert around her, is already painfully hard where it’s pressing into the soft curve of her hip. “Let me see what they did to you, kitten.”
“They didn’t touch me beyond—” She breaks off as my hand slips between her legs.
“I want to see what they did here,” I murmur as I carefully caress a knuckle down her sex. A tremor runs through her at my touch. Her skin is smooth, freshly shaven, a canvas prepared. By the feel of it, a wet canvas.
“I told him we weren’t married, but he didn’t believe me. And yet he wanted me marked like his other women and put to work. Even as your wife. He said that because I belong to you, I belong to him, and he could do what he wanted with me.”
My hand stills, pressing lightly against her inner thigh, my thumb pausing its sweet teasing. That logic?—
My brain short circuits. That’s no longer how it works.
I nudge her inner thigh and her legs ease open. I prepare myself for the worst. Her sweet mound tarnished by Randazzo’s seal. Black on white, red rimmed from an unwanted ink invasion.
But there’s nothing. It’s only Tasha as she was before.
“They had to call the tattoo artist in and I don’t know where she came from, but she was late. She didn’t get beyond prepping and stenciling out the design before the power cut.”
My soul sags into the sofa with relief. What I saw was only the prep drawing, with no ink. She is pure. Untouched. Mine.
Never. This woman can never be mine.
My final solution for Peter Armstrong’s retribution can go on. I could never have auctioned her off with the seal of Randazzo. To tie the Scalera operations to one of the biggest sex trafficking rings in Europe would be suicide.
Her lips press against my skin, softly, inquisitively, in slow kisses she trails up to my jaw. She rolls her hips into my touch, making my thumb connect with her sex. I respond on instinct, caressing her, and she sighs a little erotic moan that only makes me harder.
She wants this. It’s all I’ll ever be able to give her.
“You’re going to come for me, kitten?” I circle her wet clit with my thumb, our mouths a mere inch apart.
“Yes.” She rakes her fingers into my hair, guiding my head so our lips finally meet.
Our kiss is soft, gentle, a total antithesis to the chaos of the day and the way I want to fuck her. But this is what she needs. We kiss deeper, slower, our tongues connecting in an erotic dance, while her pussy meets my hand with every circle of her clit. She moans now, her release rising to the surface.
Her fingers dig into my hair, clutching, her body shuddering as she moans my name into my mouth. Her release comes as a total surrender, her body mastered by my simple touch.
We don’t stop kissing. She’s a drug that I’ve tasted and now can’t get enough of. My body is primed for its own release, and when she slides her hand down my chest and underneath my shirt, I don’t stop her.
Against all logic and common sense, I let her touch me.
When she shifts to straddle me, I groan. Some battles aren’t worth fighting. Not when her beautiful breasts are a temptation no man can resist, her nipples begging for attention. I caress the sides of her breasts, watching as her expression darkens as she leans in to kiss me again. She tugs at my T-shirt, and I sit up and edge forward so she can peel it off.
The way she moans as she finally slides both her hands over my bare shoulders and down my pecs, her tongue dancing with mine, is almost enough to push me over the edge, what with her pussy pressing into my cock, seeking friction again.
