Reaper (Boston Underworld, #2)

by A. Zavarelli

He grips my hair into a makeshift pony tail and tugs on it. His mouth hovers over mine, the heat of his every exhale skating over my lips. “Nobody else gets to see you like that,” he declares. “Ye’re claimed.” His words douse me in gasoline. His eyes light the match. And when he grinds himself against me, all that’s left to do is burn for him.