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“Since when did you start drinking vodka?” “Since you said you wouldn’t kiss me if I drank whiskey.”
“Put some clothes on, Penelope. My men are onboard and I don’t want to kill anyone else today.”
“What did Blake do?” “Pissed me off.” I swallow. “So you killed him.” His palm presses harder into my stomach, and his chin comes to rest on my shoulder. “He was eyeing something up that doesn’t belong to him.”
“But I’m going to take you anyway, and then I’m going to ruin you.” I blink. “What?” “It’s only fair,” he says, tone devoid of emotion. An awful sense of dread creeps over the planes of my shoulders and squeezes the nape of my neck. “Why?” I breathe. He doesn’t miss a beat. “Because it’s only a matter of time before you ruin me.”
“Where are we going?” Although, my heart already knows. “My bedroom.” “Why?” I whisper. He shifts his forearms under my ass. “So I can fuck you, Penelope. Why else?”
And Raphael Visconti in all of his sinful glory, is scary as fuck.
“Do me a favor, Penelope,” he growls against my racing pulse. “Unless you’re moaning my name or sucking my dick, keep your fucking mouth shut.” Another tug on my bun, another crackle in my clit. “I’m so sick of the shit that comes out of it.”
“They tailor made you to my liking, Queenie,”
Questions for when Raphael Visconti doesn’t have his face buried in my pussy
He looks like a king.
“Good girl,”
“You’re perfect. You know that?”
“You eat burgers, although you know they’re bad for you. It’s the same thing, Queenie. You’re bad for me—” his stare carves a hot path down the front of my hoodie-clad chest, lands on the hemline, then he licks his lips “—but I still want to eat you.”
You’re bad for me—
—but I still want to eat you.”
“Come over here and tell me you don’t want to fuck me,”
There’s nothing I wouldn’t give her, and that’s the problem.
“My Queen of Hearts,” he rasps in fascination, more to himself than to me. “My beautiful demise.”
“What game are we playing now?” I breathe. His gaze is everything I don’t want it to be. “The game of make-believe, Queenie.”
“Come home, Queenie. Come home and let me worship you every day for the rest of your life.”
“Black.” They narrow. “What?” “That’s the color I want my Birkin.” I pause. “The first one.”
Grovel.”
“What?”
“She wants you to grovel, Rafe.”
I’m in Raphael Visconti’s trap, and I never want to be freed.
My heart has caught fire, and I’m in love with the Queen who lit the match.
