Chapter 14 #2
“You got dinner, so I’ve got cleanup,” I say with as much suggestive flirtation as I can in my tone.
Then I lean in and kiss his cheek, lingering there for longer than is polite in front of company.
It’s just that I like the scratch of his whiskers against my lips and the way his breath hitches just enough only I can notice.
He eyes me warily—hungrily?—as I move away with our plates.
Our friends go to leave soon after with talks of baths and bedtime routines. Betsy waggles her eyebrows, looking between Deuce and I as they say their goodbyes. She clearly thinks there’s something romantic going on here, which is good. Means we’re playing our roles well.
The second the door closes Deuce presses his hand down on my chest, his fingertips pressing on my collarbone as he pushes me into the back of the door.
My body flops against the hard wood, my skull knocking a little too heavily as well.
I wasn’t expecting that kind of aggressive move out of him.
Perhaps I’ve let my guard down too much here at Deuce’s home.
He leans in just like he did upstairs in the bathroom, his cologne wafting between us, along with the fresh smell of whatever pomade he puts in his hair.
It’s a manly smell, one that makes me want to purr like a cat and rub myself all over him.
His nose skims along my jawline as his hands trap me in place.
I could get out of his hold, but I don’t want to.
I like the way he makes me feel small and feminine beneath his hulking frame.
Tall girls rarely feel petite and yet with his height and these flat sandals, I feel it.
My eyelids flutter and all the little details flood my brain, pushing out reality.
His hand gripping my hip. The scratch of his whiskers on my face.
The vibrational groan from his chest. The way my heartbeat is hammering in my throat.
His lips trail from my jaw to my ear, his teeth nipping at the lobe.
Shivers run down my back, my eyes slamming shut.
“Quit. Playing. Games,” he growls in my ear.
The words threaten to douse me with cold water.
He goes to step back, but I have one more critical detail that’s circling my brain.
He’s hard again. Just as hard as he was upstairs in the bathroom when I didn’t have a stitch of clothing on.
The man wants me. Or at least my body. And I don’t particularly care to dance around it any longer.
Because, in a flash of awareness that leaves me a little stunned, I want him too.
As he’s taking a step back, I take a step forward, my hand slithering between us to grab his dick with a grip no fainting debutante would dare attempt. He jolts of course, his upper body convulsing forward. His gaze flies to my face, eyes wide but more than a little pissed off still.
I certainly have his attention.
My hand slides up his length and he hisses an audible breath out through his nose. “This doesn’t feel like a game,” I whisper.
I see the way his eyes change. The pissed off burns away into an inferno of want. Need. A desire so acute it threatens to burn this whole house down.
That’s when the window right by our heads shatters, spraying shards of glass all around us.
Everything happens at once. Deuce grabs my shoulders and we both pitch the opposite direction.
Deuce twists as we go down, making the landing soft for me as I lie across him.
A flash of headlights appears and then disappears just as fast.
We both roll and I have my knife in my hand before I’m on my feet again, pointed at the front door. Deuce grunts, pulls me behind him and barks orders.
“Stay back. Get a gun.”
I stare at the back of his head. Even in this emergency I’m stunned by his boldness. He’s barking orders at me? I hear tires flinging gravel, the sound getting more and more distant.
“They’re leaving.” I shove Deuce and fling open the door. Maybe I can still get a plate.
He shoves me aside and steps outside first.
I hook a foot around his ankle to slow him down and step around him as he rights himself to run down the porch steps. He’s only two strides behind me when we both grind to a halt in his driveway. They’re gone. Whoever it was.
“Fuck,” I bite out, tucking my knife back under my dress in its holster.
“You motherfuckers!” Deuce shouts.
I turn to him, a little surprised he’s this upset. I mean, yeah, it’s a window, but we can get it replaced fairly easily. Except he’s not looking at the shattered window at the front of the house. He’s looking at his car.
He runs over, his hands skimming down the back corner of the bumper, which now sports a dent with deep scratches. “My baby!”
Okay, the wailing is a bit much. It’s just a car. I tell him so and he rounds on me, murder in his eyes.
“I hope your dreams dry like raisins in the baking sun.”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. I think he means it.
“I’m sure it’ll buff out,” I offer helpfully. “Either way, don’t touch it yet. Let’s see if we can get a paint sample from it.”
He mumbles something else, his hands diving into his hair, leaving it a bit of a mess. I leave him to cry over his car while I search for any clues that might have been left. I find a brick in the front entryway. That must have been what shattered the glass.
“Real original,” I say out loud.
I pick it up and turn it over to see chicken-scratch writing in what looks to be white paint, offering a message that immediately has me on edge.
Call off MM.
There’s only one MM I know. New York’s Mafia Maven. Bettina Barzetti.
I guess it’s not a secret I’m in Heaven, Mississippi, any longer.
They’ve followed me right to Deuce’s front door.