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Me: I'm leaving the city. I have a friend I've spoken to. Tristan Caine: Unspeak to your friend. If I'm not leaving this city, you sure as hell aren't.
"Don't you know not to run away from predators, sweetheart? We like the hunt."
“Did you feel me inside you the next day?” he whispered against the soft skin of her shell, the whiskey in his voice going straight to her head, his words going straight to her core.
“Next time, I’m going to see how loud you can scream, Ms. Vitalio. I’m going to make you so sore you won’t know if it’s from the screaming or the fucking.” This man needed a leash for that dirty, explicit mouth.
Dead or alive. Nice. Very mob-like.
Because she did not know this man. She’d met him once when he’d pushed her own knife against her throat back in Tenebrae. She’d met him when he’d threatened her on top of her car. Since then, she’d seen only terrifying glimpses of him.
But he was completely in his element now, any trace of the man who’d taken her riding on his bike, given her refuge in his territory, or cooked meals while she’d watched, completely gone.
It told her what she’d been suspecting was correct — no one pulled the gun on Tristan Caine. Yeah, well, no one dry humped him against the wall of their father’s house either.
“This body belongs to me, Ms. Vitalio,” he murmured in a low voice, the whiskey and sin combining to make her head tip back over his broad shoulder as her stomach clenched. “This body is mine,” she retorted, unable to recognize her own voice dripping in sex. He continued, like she hadn’t spoken, cupping her ass. “I’m a territorial man. And this has been mine since the moment you locked that bathroom door.” “That was one time,” she informed him, even as she knew there was no stopping them now. “Then let’s make it a second, shall we?”
Between the dirt on her skin and her disheveled hair, the slightly torn and dirty clothes and the invisible neon sign that hung over her head screaming ‘she’s miserable’, she was pretty sure Amara knew something quite drastic had happened.
