I comply, raising my hands slowly.
She pushes me into the wall and kicks at my ankles to force me to spread my legs.
"I've known you were following me for weeks, Dominic," she says, voice low and commanding.
The sound of my first name on her lips sends an unexpected jolt through me.
"I figured you were working, since that’s about all you do," I say, testing her.
"I took the night off specifically to catch you." Her hands pat me down and my dick takes notice. "Did you really think I wouldn't notice the head of the Vitale family personally stalking me? What kind of federal agent would I be?"
I smile despite the gun aimed at my head. "Interesting technique, Agent Ricci. Is this how the FBI trains you to handle dangerous criminals? A private meeting in a dark hallway, no backup, no recording devices, just you and me?"
"You're not as intimidating as you think.”
Anyone else talking to me like that would have found their face readjusted. But I like sparring with Agent Ricci.
“Then why are you holding a gun to my head?” I turn to look at her over my shoulder. “Or maybe you find this exciting. The sexually frustrated agent frisking the bad boy.”
She scoffs. "Bad boy? Is that what you call yourself? I’m not interested."
"Yet here you are, spending Christmas with me. I'm flattered."
"Don't be. This is work."
"Is it?" The hallway feels electric between us. I can smell her perfume, something expensive but subtle.
Not what I expected from a federal agent.
I move before she can react, turning, my right hand catching her wrist and twisting, not enough to hurt, but just enough to redirect the gun away from my head.
My left arm braces against the wall beside her head as I reverse our positions in one fluid motion.
I press her back against the wall, my body mere inches from hers.
The gun remains in her hand, but it's pointing harmlessly at the ground.
I smile as I stare into eyes that burn with intelligence and fury.
Her dark hair falls loose around her shoulders, different from the severe ponytail she wears on duty.
She's wearing jeans and a black turtleneck, not the standard Bureau suit. She looks younger.
More dangerous.
"You're good," she whispers, not struggling against my hold.
"You let me do that," I observe, surprised. "Why?"
Our faces are close enough that I can feel her breath against my lips.
The danger of this moment, a federal agent, a gun between us, the line I'm crossing, only intensifies the heat building in my core.
"Maybe I wanted to see what you'd do," she says, her eyes challenging me.
I've never wanted to kiss someone so badly in my life.
I stare at her lips, my baser urges warring with my common sense. She’s the epitome of law and order, duty and honor.
