Chapter Twenty-Nine
Adriana
Thirty seconds pass while the time dribbles down my skin, making me itchy like ants crawling across my body.
A minute passes, and the ants have formed an anxious nest in my hair.
Then another minute, and I can’t even fake disinterest for the audience of the old women — several of which are talking about my fears, that Reaper is taking way too long in the bathroom — and instead am shifting, moving, my eyes locked on the hallway, wondering just why the fuck my man is spending so long in the bathroom with a flirtatious Chinese gangster.
Fuck, I just called him ‘my man,’ didn’t I?
And it felt… kind of right.
Behind me, the older women have decided it’s a good thing that Reaper is apparently bisexual.
It gives them more opportunities to set him up, and one of the old women has decided she’s going to slip him the phone number of her very available grandson, who is on the Los Angeles City Council and has his eyes on even higher office.
Just as I’m about to whirl around and yell, “He’s mine,” at the geriatric matchmakers, Reaper appears at the entrance to the dining room, his arm around the Triad guy, the two of them smiling and laughing.
Reaper sits down next to me, chuckling under his breath, while I stare at him like a second head has sprouted from his shoulder and started speaking Spanish.
“What the fuck happened in the bathroom with that guy?” I hiss at him, all while trying to keep a smile on my face and our cover, like I’m some ignorant tourist just out for dumplings with her boyfriend who has no problem being incredibly flirtatious with gangsters.
“You mean with Yichen?” Reaper says.
“Is that his name?”
“Come on, you know it is. Unless that dumb tourist act of yours isn’t really an act,” he says, winking at me.
“He’s a good guy. Well, for being an awful gangster.
We talked; the sparks weren’t there — even he said so — but we still hit it off.
He’s got season tickets to the Lakers, almost courtside, just a few rows back. We might go sometime.”
“Did you get his number?”
“Fuck yeah, I got his number,” Reaper says, taking out his phone and showing me the screen. There’s already a sizeable text chain between him and Yichen, with more than a couple of GIFs and memes.
“Should I be jealous?”
“Maybe. They’re great seats.”
I narrow my eyes at him, and he grins that cocky grin that makes my stomach do something complicated and unwelcome.
"You're enjoying this way too much," I mutter.
"What, making friends? Building connections for our little operation tomorrow night?" His voice drops to that teasing register that makes my skin prickle. "Or are you talking about how you're sitting there looking like you want to stab poor Yichen with your chopsticks?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure you don't." He leans closer, his voice a low rumble meant just for me. "You’ve got that look, Adriana. That territorial look. Like when a cat sees another cat in its yard."
The heat that flashes through me is immediate and unwelcome. He's right, and that realization hits me like a punch to the gut. I am jealous. Actually, genuinely jealous of a Triad gangster making plans to watch basketball with this broken, beautiful disaster of a man sitting next to me.
When did that happen? When did I start thinking of him as mine?
I force my expression to stay neutral, but something must show because his grin widens.
"There it is," he says, satisfaction coloring his tone. "You are jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"It's okay, you know. I think it's kind of cute."
"Cute?" I turn to face him fully, ignoring the curious glances from the old women behind us. "I am not cute."
"You're right. Sexy as hell when you're possessive, though."
My pulse kicks up, but I keep my voice level. "We have time to kill before tomorrow night. And we have a lot of important work to do first."
His eyebrows raise, the playful expression shifting to something more focused. "What kind of work?"
I reach over and grab his hand, my fingers closing around his wrist with deliberate firmness. The contact sends electricity up my arm, but I keep my voice steady and low.
"The kind where I claim my territory."
His breath catches, just slightly, and I see his pupils dilate. The cocky grin transforms into something darker, hungrier.
"Here I thought you were all business," he murmurs.
"I am all business." I stand up, keeping hold of his wrist, tugging him to his feet. "This is business. Making sure you remember who you're working with."
The old women behind us whisper excitedly in Mandarin, probably making bets about whether we'll make it out of the restaurant before tearing each other's clothes off. Smart money says no.
I throw some money on the table and then pull him toward the door.
We nearly make it before my tongue is in his mouth and my hands are on his ass.
He responds instantly, his mouth crashing against mine with a hunger that matches my own.
His hands find my waist, pulling me against him as I taste desperation and want on his lips.
The kiss is feral, all teeth and tongue and the raw need that makes rational thought impossible.
I can barely register the delighted gasps from the old women still inside, or the way other diners are probably staring. All I know is the heat of his mouth, the solid weight of his body pressed against mine, and the way he groans low in his throat when I bite his lower lip.
"Outside," I gasp against his mouth. "Now."
I don't wait for an answer. I grab his jacket and pull him toward the door, stumbling slightly as he spins me around to capture my mouth again. We crash through the exit in a tangle of limbs and barely controlled lust.
The chill morning air hits my flushed skin, but it does nothing to cool the fire burning through my veins. If anything, being outside makes it worse. More urgent. More real.
"Adriana," he breathes my name like a prayer, backing me against the brick wall beside the restaurant's entrance. His hands frame my face as he kisses me again, deeper this time, like he's trying to claim every inch of my mouth.
The jealousy that started this whole thing is still there, burning bright and possessive in my chest. The image of him laughing with Yichen, exchanging numbers, making plans — it makes me want to mark him somehow, to make it clear to every person in this city that he's mine.
When did I become this person? This possessive, desperate woman who can't think past the need to have him?
But I can't bring myself to care about the answer. Not when his mouth is moving to my neck, not when his teeth scrape against my pulse point and make me arch against him with a soft cry.
"We need..." I start, but lose the thought when his hands slide down to my hips.
"Need what?" he murmurs against my throat.
"Somewhere private. Or close enough." The words come out rougher than I intended. "Now."
I scan the street, my tactical training warring with pure animal need. There's an alley beside the restaurant, narrow but clean, shadowed by the buildings on either side. Empty except for a dumpster and some scattered newspapers.
Perfect.
I grab his hand and pull him deeper into the alley, away from the main street and any curious eyes. My heels click against the asphalt as I walk him backward until we're hidden in the shadows.
"Here's good," I say, my voice steady despite the way my heart is hammering against my ribs. "I'm through waiting."
His eyes go dark, that cocky grin replaced by something raw and hungry. "You sure about this?"
Instead of answering, I push him back against the brick wall and kiss him again, pouring all my frustration and jealousy and want into the force of my lips meeting his.
Then, an urge takes me — I want, I need to claim him even deeper.
I growl at him, like he’s a perp and I am sick of whatever malignant bullshit he thinks he can get away with. “Put your hands behind your back.”
“Am I under arrest?”
I grip him forcefully, pulling him forward and then slamming him back against the brick. “Do I sound like I’m playing? Put your hands behind your back and stop resisting.”
I want him. I want to dominate him. Right here, right now, and if anyone sees us, I want there to be no doubt in their minds that he’s mine.
A light brightens Reaper’s brilliant eyes, and he grins at me. “Yes, ma’am.”
He complies. I still rough him up a little before stealing another deep, intense kiss. “Now, you’re mine. So don’t fucking move, got it?”
His breathing hitches, and I feel the tension in his muscles as he forces himself to stay still against the wall. The compliance, the way he's letting me take control — it sends a thrill through me that's better than any interrogation victory I've ever had.
I start with his mouth, kissing him deep and possessively before trailing my lips along his jaw.
His stubble scrapes against my skin as I work my way down his neck, tasting salt and that uniquely masculine scent that's pure Reaper.
He makes a low sound in his throat when I find that sensitive spot just below his ear.
"Fuck, Adriana," he breathes, his voice already rough with want.
My hands begin their own exploration, sliding over the hard planes of his chest through his shirt, feeling the defined muscles beneath the fabric. I can feel his heart hammering as I trace the lines of his body, mapping every ridge and curve like I'm memorizing evidence at a crime scene.
When I reach the waistband of his jeans, I let my fingers dance along the edge, just barely touching skin. He jerks slightly at the contact, a sharp intake of breath telling me exactly how affected he is.
"Still not moving," I murmur against his collarbone, approval clear in my voice. "Good boy."