Chapter 6
SOFIYA
I shake my head, almost disappointed at the abrupt return to what seems to be his favourite subject. And my least favourite one. But at least he’s dropped the subject of Giada. An idea which terrified me for a full minute.
And I won’t admit it even under torture, but my grandfather’s disappearance hasn’t exactly been devastating.
There’s a flicker of guilt in that. Shouldn’t I feel something for the man who taught me to clean a Glock?
But then I remember that he tried to have Maddie, his own flesh and blood, killed at her own wedding.
Still… does it make me a monster if I sleep better with him in hiding and silent? Maybe. ‘Why do you want him, anyway? I thought… I thought…’ I press my mouth shut.
He shrugs. ‘Someone should’ve put him down like the rat he is a long time ago. I volunteer as tribute.’
Fear and fury sizzle through my veins. ‘You’re right. I should’ve aimed for your head.’
‘Nah, sweetheart. That shit is nasty. There’s no coming back from your first head shot. I’m told there’s something quite visceral about watching brains splatter all over the floor.’
‘What do you care?’
He studies me in silence for a minute. ‘How long have you been doing this?’
‘Doing what?’
A smile twitches his lips. ‘Good answer. You’ve learned the basics at least. But it’s clear you’re a sapling. You’ll need to go for a head shot at some point but don’t rush it.’
‘Are you seriously giving me advice right now?’
His smile gains wings and my belly swoops wildly as it soars. Every single one of the Salvatore men are handsome.
Unspeakably so.
But perhaps it’s this new discovery of who Rafaelle truly is or this crazy circumstance we’re caught in. I can’t look away from him.
And the more I look, the hotter my pelvis gets. Until, to my horror, I feel myself getting wet. Slippery. Gushing.
Fuck.
It’s a stupidly inopportune time to be reminded I’m a virgin. That as a rule, I despise guys, especially hot-as-fuck guys like Rafaelle Salvatore.
But also… I never really had the chance to rid myself of my V-card.
From fifteen, my body was trained for kill shots and leverage, not pleasure. It became a weapon before it was ever allowed to be a sanctuary or a thing of pleasure. A thing to be worshipped and adored by a man worthy of it.
And trust? That’s a currency I never learned to spend. You don’t undress in front of someone who might put a knife in your back five minutes later. Or worse, expect something in return.
Then there was Bonafacio. My grandfather made it clear that women were meant to be pawns or property. He once told me love was a leash, or worse, a death sentence, and I believed him.
So no, I’ve never been touched in a way that wasn’t tactical. Never been kissed without calculating the angle of escape. I’ve never let myself want.
Until now.
I battle through the disarming sensation and focus on what he said. …at some point but don’t rush it. That alludes to a future scenario that precludes me being killed by the Enforcer. Despite everything he said before, I didn’t think he really meant to let me live beyond tonight.
But now…
He wants to find my grandfather. A man as talented and resourced as the Enforcer doesn’t need me for that, but if he thinks he does…
if keeping me alive is a subconscious thing, I don’t want to draw his attention to it.
Maybe the idea needs to steep a little before becoming a reality. For both of us.
‘What do you mean by “I’m told”?’ I ask instead. ‘Did you not feel it the first time you… umm… did that?’
‘Did that?’ he mocks with another grin. ‘No, duci, I did not. I tend to go for whichever way downs my target the quickest. Unless I want them to suffer. Then a gut shot works a treat. Or disembowelment with my favourite hunting knife.’
I wait for the nausea to return. For horror to arrive at the nonchalant way he discusses taking a life. But… it doesn’t.
My breath catches all over again. Am I… am I like him?
I shake my head. No. No, I’m not. ‘You actually enjoy it, don’t you?’
He seems to think about it for a moment, his hand absently returning to the bruise. Once again, his fingers dig in, prodding the contusion. ‘Enjoy it? No. Perfect my skill so I’m the most proficient I can be? Absolutely.’
‘So you grew up thinking, “I want to be the most proficient killer I can be”?’
He saunters over to where I’m laid out, his bare feet, bare chest, taking up too much room, too much of my oxygen.
My breath snags somewhere on its way to exhaling when his fingers slide into my hair to cup the back of my head. His fist slowly tightens, and I wince from the discomfort as he drags my head up to meet his gaze.
The glint in his eyes is almost manic and I know I’ve pressed a specific, possibly deadly button.
‘No, duci, I had a different set of dreams entirely, but my sweet, lovely innocence was ripped away from me. So I did what Salvatores have been doing since the dawn of time. I rolled the fuck with it until I came out on top.’
There’s a solemn mournfulness to his voice, but weirdly I sense he’s not inviting sympathy.
He’s simply stating a truth.
Before I can respond, his gaze rakes my face, settling on my mouth. Sizzling. Assessing. ‘You owe me a kiss-it-better, baby.’
My throat moves in a swallow in readiness to tell him to fuck off. But the words remain locked deep inside. My own gaze drops to the bruises over his heart. This close, the skin is livid, stark even against his bronzed skin. And next to that, his flat nipple is pebbling.
He draws me close. Closer.
My breath feathers over his skin and I watch goosebumps break out over his chest. I’ve never had a great fascination for male nipples, but watching my captor’s harden beneath my gaze, the flesh around his areola rising in a constellation of bumps makes my thighs clench.
‘Remember, no teeth. Or there will be consequences.’
‘Will you let me go if I kiss it?’
‘Fuck no,’ he growls. ‘But it’ll be a start of… something.’
‘Something in my favour?’
‘Kiss it and find out,’ he replies.
My gaze drops back to the bruise.
He cradles my head in the palm of his hand, a nod towards mercy or violence. One snap and I’m dead.
But he doesn’t push me into obedience. He wants me to do it.
Or refuse.
My heart beats faster until it’s a roar in my ears. My body seems to lurch closer of its own volition. I smell his skin, a hint of sweat and man and nothing else. I’m reminded of his admonition of wearing a scent to a job.
He’s wearing nothing and yet the headiness of him hits me like a wrecking ball. I want to bury my nose in that succulent divide where one muscle pack separates from the other.
I force myself to concentrate on my destination.
The bruise I put over his heart with bullets from my gun.
An unexpected wave of gratitude and relief wash over me. That I didn’t kill him. I might well live to regret it sometime in the near future. But for now…
I brush my lips over the sore… hot… spot. Feel his fingers convulse in my hair as he hisses. Empowered by that reaction, I repeat it, lingering a little longer this time, my mouth on his skin. Another hiss. A clench of his pecs.
A rush of pleasure arrows through me.
I part my lips and this time stay for one, two, three seconds. Then tease my tongue over the starburst that must have been agony.
Agony he withstood while playing dead.
I lick him again, barely bite back a moan at the taste and texture of his salty, warm skin.
‘Fuck yeah,’ he breathes when my tongue catches the edge of his nipple.
I look up. He’s staring at me with an untamed look in his eyes.
I don’t know what comes over me.
Call it madness. Recklessness.
Maybe at the back of my mind, I don’t rate my chances of leaving this place alive and subconsciously want to hasten my end.
Whatever.
My eyes remain locked on his as I part my lips wider, swipe my tongue over him once more. Then… snag the bruise between my teeth.
Bite down. Hard.
‘Fuck!’ His hand drops from my hair and he staggers back a step.
I’m yanked forward by my teeth until I’m forced to release him.
The taste of leather and salt is still on my tongue.
I stare in part horror, part fascination, all horny, pre-orgasmic desperation, at the teeth marks I’ve added to the bruise.
A part of me celebrates the idea that he’ll bear my marks for a least a week, maybe longer. Long after he’s tortured and killed me and put me in the ground.
I’m not even sure why my gaze drops lower when I should be watching his face, his hands, anticipating his next move even though there’s very little I can do.
But when I do, and when I spot the thick bulge in his pants, the bulge growing thicker at my fascinated stare, a fractured moan escapes me.
I can feel his coiled tension, still taste him in my mouth, hear the low groan that rumbled out of him like it startled even him.
Jesus, I was meant to soothe the bruise, show the tiniest act of contrition. Instead… I bit him?
Rafaelle is still standing over me, chest heaving, eyes locked on me like he’s trying to decide whether to fuck me or finish me off.
The Kevlar vest that saved him lies on the floor next to the chair he was sitting on, and I know his weapons are nearby too.
With my ankles still bound, and the ties on my wrists replaced with metal cuffs – presumably when I was asleep – I’m a sitting duck if he decides to end everything now.
He looks down at me, a wild glint behind his eyes, his lips curling into something sharp.
‘Jesus, bedda,’ he rasps, voice low, nostrils flaring, full of heat and warning. ‘That mouth of yours is a liability. You ever bite me like that in a different context…’ He leans in, slides one hand between my clamped thighs. ‘You better be ready to deal with the consequences.’
My breath stutters.
I should look away.