Chapter 15 Geneva
GENEVA
BENEDETTO STRETCHES WITH A GROAN, ROLLING HIS SHOULDERS before grabbing his suit jacket off the back of the chair. “Well, this has been fun, but I’ve got places to be. People to extort.” He winks at me as he slips his arms into his coat. “Try not to traumatize her too much while I’m gone.”
Ghost doesn’t respond, but he’s watching Benedetto with an air of impatience that has my skin prickling with awareness. He’s waiting, no, eager for him to leave.
There’s a shift in the atmosphere the second Benedetto grabs his keys. Tonight has been fun, and for the first time in a while, I felt normal. Not like a woman who’s marked for death and dependent on a serial killer to protect her.
Unfortunately, that’s over now.
Benedetto heads toward the door, pausing just before he steps out. “If you need me, you know how to find me, Ghost. Otherwise, I’ll be back tomorrow.”
Ghost doesn’t bother acknowledging him. I wave at Benedetto before sipping my whiskey, waiting for Ghost to say what’s on his mind. That’s one thing about him: He’s always honest. Brutally so.
He lifts his hand to lightly trail his fingers over the back of my wrist. It throws me off balance, how easily this man’s touch shifts from delicate to destructive. And back again.
“I don’t like this,” he murmurs.
I blink at him. “Like what?”
He presses his thumb against my pulse point as if needing a simple reminder that I’m alive. “You being in danger,” he says softly.
The hint of vulnerability in his voice makes my chest ache. Ghost has always been confident. Annoyingly so. Some of that could be due to his hold over the Malone family, but I think the real reason is deeper. Like Benedetto said: Ghost creates scenarios in order to ensure the outcome.
My life—or death—is the one thing he can’t control.
Ghost rips off his baseball cap and tosses it onto the coffee table before running his hand through his hair. “Marcus Telford. That’s the man who got Skinner released from prison.”
I straighten slightly. “Who is he exactly?”
Ghost takes hold of my wrist again. His grip doesn’t hurt, but it’s still firm enough to remind me of the strength coiling underneath his skin. “He’s a ‘fixer’ who works for someone powerful.”
I swallow hard. “And?”
Ghost leans in, his mouth brushing the shell of my ear. “I’m going to rip him apart and deliver every single piece to his employer. Before I do the same to them.”
I should face the reality that everything Ghost has done, and plans to do, is illegal. I should think about Telford and the fact that he’s still looking for me. And that someone above him has the power to free a known rapist with the intent to kill me.
But all I can focus on is Ghost.
The way his muscles tighten with pleasure whenever he touches me. The way his eyes travel over my body as if the sight of me is enough to sustain him. The way our connection has become his purpose in life.
“I won’t let this go,” Ghost murmurs, voice rough.
I nod slowly. The alcohol, paired with the heat of his body so close to mine, makes it hard to concentrate. “I know.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
I frown. “Nothing.”
He wraps his fingers around my throat, running his thumb along the slope of my neck. “Geneva, are you scared I won’t come back?”
I freeze, blinking rapidly.
Am I afraid of that? Yes, but I don’t know how to say it. How to admit it. Most importantly, if I do, I have no idea what that’ll do to me.
“I’m looking at you the same way I always do,” I say with a teasing note in my voice. “Because you’re a psychopath with a god complex.”
His lips twitch. “Cute.”
“I try.”
Ghost doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink, continuing to study me with that unnerving intensity of his. He’s always watching, calculating, and dissecting. Reading me in ways I don’t think I’ll ever be able to reciprocate.
I want to ask him what he’s thinking about. What he sees when he looks at me. But I swallow the words gathering on my tongue, very aware of his grip around my throat. Like his presence, his touch makes it impossible to ignore him.
With a regretful sigh, he releases me. Leaning forward, I set the drink down on the coffee table, keeping my fingers wrapped around my glass a moment longer than necessary to give myself a brief reprieve from his intense scrutiny.
I can’t discern whether it makes me nervous because he can see things I don’t want him to.
Or if his gaze roaming over my face and body makes me burn with an uncontrollable desire I see reflected in his eyes.
I exhale, forcing myself to meet his gaze. “What is it?”
His lips curve slightly, his amusement lazy, but there’s something else beneath it. Something ravenous.
“You already know,” he murmurs.
I do. Because we’ve been here before, with me dancing around my desire for him until he catches me and I surrender.
It’s before his body is pressed against mine, his hands gripping my hips, pinning me down as he fucked me like he couldn’t stand the thought of anyone else ever touching me.
Because that’s what Ghost does. He’s possessive in a way that doesn’t make sense to my mind. But my body understands.
And craves it.
He hums deep in his throat, trailing his fingers down the side of my neck. “You want to know why I’m looking at you like this, Doc? Because I know exactly what you look like underneath me. I know how you sound when you beg. And I know how you taste when you come.”
My legs press together involuntarily as memories slam into me all at once. Ghost smirks, like he can see every thought flashing across my face. Like he can feel the way my body responds to him, no matter how much I try to hide it.
“Deny it,” he says, his breath skimming my lips. “I fucking dare you. Tell me that you don’t like the way I fuck you. That you don’t like it when I fill you with my cum. That you can’t stand the thought of me stretching your pussy again. Tell me, and I’ll believe you.”
His words make me clench around nothing.
“I’m not denying it,” I say, my breathing thin.
“Then why are we still talking?”
Ghost doesn’t wait for an answer. He never does.
He slides his hand up my throat, then presses his thumb just beneath my jaw, tilting my head back to expose my neck. He studies me for a second, his hazel eyes bright and burning, like he’s deciding how he wants to devour me.
I barely have time to take a breath before his mouth is on mine. It’s not a kiss. It’s possession.
Teeth, tongue, and the heat of his body pressing into mine like he’s trying to dig beneath my skin, like he wants to own me from the inside out. I whimper against his mouth, my fingers twisting into his shirt, pulling him to me. Needing him closer.
Ghost groans like he’s starving for me. And his hands are everywhere. My hips, my waist, threading through my hair as he yanks my head back, deepening the kiss. His tongue slides against mine, barely controlled, feeding on my response to him.
“You drive me fucking insane,” he rasps, his lips trailing down my jaw, his teeth scraping against my pulse. “Tell me that you need me like I need you.”
I try to speak, but he moves too quickly, yanking my head back even farther, so I can’t look anywhere but at him. His eyes burn into mine, fierce and unrelenting.
“Fucking say it.”
“I need you, Ghost.”
The moment the words leave my mouth, something shifts between us. His pupils contract and he digs his fingers into my skin until it hurts. Then a breath shudders out of him, rough and uneven, before he crushes his mouth against mine again. Only this time, it’s not domination.
It’s worship.
He treats me like I’m something sacred and untouchable, yet he can’t help but defile me. Like the more he consumes me, the closer he is to salvation.
Ghost has made me his religion.
I feel it in his touch. The way his hands glide over my skin with reverence and awe, memorizing me like a devotion whispered in the dark. There’s no hesitation in him, no doubt. Only faith. A primal, terrifying faith that I am his. And he is mine.
His kisses are prayers. Desperate. Passionate. A plea and a promise wrapped in sin. His body is an altar, built for destruction and control, but he lays it before me willingly.
And only me.
He clings to me with a devotion so absolute, it’s frightening. Because faith like his doesn’t waver. It doesn’t allow room for doubt.
And faith like that?
It burns.
It consumes.
It has the ability to destroy.
But Ghost doesn’t fear destruction. He welcomes it. Thrives on it.
So if having me means burning the whole world down, he’ll strike the match with a steady hand. Because in his mind, I’m worth the fire.
I’m worth everything.