I taste her. Her lips, her lust, the wine she just finished.
It burns through my resistance, and I slide my hands down her back until I can cup her full ass through her jeans. I squeeze. Fuck, it’s firm, round, and I moan again. She presses into me, her tits against my chest, and she moves her hips, grinding herself into me.
Then she moans.
And grabs my ass. Grabs, then slaps. Hard.
Being spanked wakes me up. My eyes fly open and, for a second, I see Vanessa’s face looking back at me and realize what I’m doing and just who it is that I’m about to throw to the floor, strip, and tongue-fuck until she screams my name.
Vanessa’s sister.
This is wrong.
Beyond wrong.
I must stop.
In one motion, I twist and then pick her up and throw her over my shoulder. This has gone on long enough — one second more, and it doesn’t matter what I think, there will be no stopping.
“You’re drunk, Adriana. It’s time to put you to bed.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Adriana
The son of a bitch is carrying me and says he’s going to put me to bed, like I’m some disobedient child.
I’ll show him.
“No, I won’t go to bed,” I say, squirming and flailing my arms in a vain attempt to hit him. It doesn’t do much good, except to earn a firm smack on my ass.
“Stop it. You’re going to bed, and that’s it.” Then, I’m tossed through the air and onto the bed, and he points a finger at me as I lie on the bed, glaring at him. “I’m fucking done with your petulant bullshit. Do what’s good for you: go the fuck to sleep.”
I flip him off and stick out my tongue because I’m a mature adult and no one tells me what to do.
He rolls his vibrant eyes, snorts, and leaves.
The door clicks shut, and I'm alone with the spinning room and my wounded pride. I should be furious. I am furious. But the alcohol has made everything soft around the edges, including my anger.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling, willing sleep to come. The bed feels too big, too empty. My body still thrums with adrenaline from our confrontation, from the way he manhandled me like I weighed nothing at all.
Like I was his to command.
The thought should piss me off more than it does. Instead, my mind drifts to earlier tonight, to the moment his mouth crashedagainst mine. The memory hits me like a physical blow — the desperate hunger in that kiss, the way his hands tangled in my hair like he was drowning and I was air.
This isn't how I imagined him at all; the Reaper I'd built in my head was a monster, a heartless dealer who'd destroyed my sister without a second thought. But the man who just put me to bed? The one who bakes fucking cookies for abuse victims and fixes their broken shit? The one who basically worked a case with me to get Mario to back off and had no problem letting me take the lead?
I close my eyes, but that only makes it worse. Now I can see his face clearly, those impossible eyes that seem to look right through me. There's something hypnotic about them, something that makes my pulse quicken in ways I don't want to examine too closely.
Heat pools low in my belly as I remember the weight of his body against mine, the way his voice went rough when he said my name and commanded me to go to bed.
I should get up. Take a cold shower. Do something other than lie here thinking about him like some lovesick teenager. But my body has other ideas, and the alcohol has stripped away my usual iron control.
My hand drifts down my stomach almost without conscious thought, slipping beneath the waistband of my jeans. The fabric feels too tight, too restrictive. I shimmy out of them with clumsy, urgent movements, kicking them off the end of the bed.
The cool air hits my skin and I shiver, but not from cold. My fingers find the edge of my underwear, and I hesitate for just a moment before sliding them down my legs too.
This is insane. This is Reaper I'm thinking about — the man I came here to destroy. But my body doesn't care about logic right now. It only remembers the way he looked at me, the way his hands felt when they gripped my waist.
