Chapter Twenty-Four
Reaper
It takes me ages to fall asleep. Ages, lying there, holding Adriana, trying to stifle the storm raging in my heart and the rising tide of arousal within me that grows from the sheer fact of holding her naked body next to mine.
I want to lie next to her, silent, watching and listening to her breathe; I want to wake her up and fuck her over and over because I just can’t get enough of hearing her scream my name.
I want to ask her what the fuck it is that changed her mind from wanting to kill me to wanting to blow my mind with how incredible it feels to be buried deep inside her tight pussy.
I want to ask her why this feeling that stirs inside me makes me think maybe I don’t want to die. That thought terrifies me in ways that I haven’t felt since that fateful night that Vanessa died. Am I moving on? Am I finally laying Vanessa to rest by fucking her sister?
I lay beside her, watching her breathe, and with each exhale, I feel a piece of that old hate, that old regret, leave me, too.
Still, that fear doesn’t leave me so easily.
Adriana thinks she knows the story of how Vanessa died.
And maybe she knows more than I’m giving her credit for.
She has a web of connections in law enforcement, knows many things I don’t — which isn’t saying much, because I’ve never claimed to be a smart man and I’ve lived my life that way, which is something that Tank would definitely vouch for — but what happens to her, what happens to us, when she learns the full truth?
That the only reason Vanessa died is because of the actions I took against my old boss, Victor Moretti?
That even though I didn’t stick the needle in her veins, the only reason it went into her is because of me?
Whether I shot her up doesn’t matter; she still died in that hospital because of the choices I made. Because of me.
I don’t know when I finally fall asleep. But when I wake up and see Adriana sleeping beside me, with a peaceful smile etched onto her normally harsh, vengeance-seeking features, I have to get out of bed.
Am I giving myself a real chance with her? Could she be a way to start over and have a new life? Or am I just making things worse?
I slip out of bed, and she stirs.
Her eyes go right to me. Her smile grows. It makes me sick with how caring and beautiful it is. The woman inside Adriana that hides behind her spiny shell of violence, vengeance, and grim determination, makes my heart ache.
“Good morning,” she says. There’s a lightness in her normally hard voice.
“Morning,” I say and turn away, hoping that if she can’t see my face, she won’t see the truth of what I’m thinking, because I want to hold on to this feeling of something like peace, and something deeper, warmer, than even that, for as long as I can.
But she is smart, perceptive, and I am not a very smart man for thinking I could hide anything from her.
“What’s wrong?” she says. There’s so much care and compassion in her voice that, at first, it sounds like she’s speaking a foreign language.
I blink, pause, breathe, and realize the shocking fact that, for the first time, no one in this room wants me dead. Not her, and not even me.
I turn back to face her, and she's sitting up now, the sheet pooled around her waist. Her hair mussed from sleep, and there's something vulnerable in the way she's looking at me that makes my chest tight.
"I'm just thinking," I say, which is the truth, even if it's not the whole truth.
She tilts her head, studying me with those brown eyes that seem to see straight through all my bullshit. "About what?"
About how I don't deserve this.
About how you're going to hate me when you find out the real story.
About how I'm already falling for you, and that scares the hell out of me because everyone I care about ends up dead.
"About breakfast," I say and force a grin. "I'm starving."
She doesn't buy it. I can see it in the way her expression shifts, becomes more guarded. The walls are going back up, and I hate that I'm the one putting them there.
"Ricky." Her voice has lost the soft quality from moments before. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Shut me out. Not after last night." She pulls the sheet higher, and I realize she's protecting herself from me now. From whatever she sees in my face that's making her retreat.
I sit on the edge of the bed, close enough to touch her but not quite doing it. It’s torture. Every part of me wants to reach out and touch her. "I'm not shutting you out."
“Was it just a game to you? I let you in, let you eat my pussy, suck your cock, ride you, let you come inside me, and it was all part of some sick manipulation of yours? Do you just want to hurt me more so maybe I’ll, what, kill you?”
“That’s not it,” I say. “I don’t want to hurt you. It’s just that — ”
She sits up and puts a finger into my chest. “I really don’t want to hear it.
If you’re going to go on about your wanting-to-die bullshit, or anything else, just shut the fuck up about it.
I don’t deserve it. You don’t deserve it.
And you don’t deserve me. But I am choosing you, just like I chose to fuck you last night.
Don’t fight me on this. Choose to live and do the right thing, so that I don’t feel like I wasted my fucking choice and hours of my life having sex with you, when I could’ve just masturbated by myself and had just as great of an orgasm as the ones that you gave me last night. If not better.”
I laugh. “‘If not better?’”
“I know what I want. I work hard. I practice. So, yeah, I meant it — better.”
I put my hand on her thigh, feel the warmth, the smoothness, feel desire burn itself up my arm with the fervent want to bury myself deep inside her. Maybe she’s right. Maybe she isn’t. But that question can wait, because there’s something else on my mind: her challenge.
“You’re wrong.”
She moves her leg just a little, opening it, and her eyes flash with challenge. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Prove it.”
I reach for her, pushing her shoulders back against the pillows. Her eyes widen in surprise, but before she can say anything, I crush my mouth against hers. The kiss is hungry, desperate, all teeth and tongue and need. When I pull away, she's breathing hard.
I don't give her time to catch her breath. I move down her body, my hands spreading her thighs apart as I settle between them.
"What? No warm-up?" she gasps, her voice pitched higher than usual. "You're just diving face-first into my pussy?"
"Shut up," I growl against her inner thigh. "I know what I'm doing."
She makes a little scoffing sound that pisses me off and turns me on at the same time. Like she's challenging me, doubting me.
That decides it.
I grab the sheet and tear it into strips with more violence than necessary. Her eyes go wide as I wrap one piece around her head, covering her eyes.
"Reaper, what are you — "
I tie her wrists to the headboard with the makeshift restraints, pulling them tight enough that she can't move but not tight enough to hurt her. Much.
"This is ridiculous," she says. I roll my eyes and spot her black lace panties crumpled on the floor from last night. Perfect.
I stuff them into her mouth before she can finish whatever smart-ass comment she was about to make.
I can see the shift in her eyes above the makeshift blindfold — the way they widen with surprise and something darker. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, and I can tell she's trying to work out what game I'm playing now.
"You want slow? You want a warm-up? Fine. But remember: you asked for this."
I start at her ankles, pressing soft kisses to the delicate skin there.
My lips barely graze her, just enough contact to make her squirm against her restraints.
I can feel her pulse jumping under my mouth as I work my way up her calf with deliberate slowness, my tongue tracing lazy patterns that make her muscles tense.
My cock is already hard, pressing insistently against my stomach as I take my time exploring every inch of her legs. The sound of her muffled breathing through the panties in her mouth is driving me crazy, but I force myself to go slower.
I spend what feels like hours on her thighs, alternating between feather-light touches and firmer pressure, never quite reaching where she wants me most. Her hips buck upward, seeking contact, but I pull back each time, chuckling at her frustrated whimper.
"Patience," I murmur against her skin, and I can feel the vibration of her growl of annoyance.
When I finally move higher, bypassing her center entirely to kiss along her hipbones, she actually snarls behind the gag.
Her whole body is trembling now, skin flushed and slick with perspiration.
I'm so hard it's almost painful, but watching her come apart under my deliberately torturous pace is worth the ache.
I map every curve of her torso with my mouth, paying special attention to the sensitive spots that make her arch against me — the hollow of her throat, the underside of her breasts, the soft skin just below her ribcage. By the time I reach her nipples, she's practically vibrating with need.
The taste of her skin — salt and something uniquely Adriana — has me drunk with desire. Every small sound she makes goes straight to my groin, and I have to grip the sheets to keep from losing control and taking her hard and fast like every instinct is screaming at me to do.
Instead, I continue my methodical worship of her body, determined to prove that she was dead wrong about being able to do this better herself.
When I finally settle between her legs, I can see how wet she already is, and the sight makes my mouth water.
But I'm not done torturing her yet. I start with the lightest possible touch, just the tip of my tongue barely grazing her outer lips.
The contact is so minimal it's almost nothing, but her whole body jerks like I've hit her with electricity.