I glance up at him, muttering, “You already know.” The difference in height is obvious under these cloaks—only the shape of my shoulders gives away that I’m a woman.
“Oh, I know. Weapons, a note for dear daddy, and off we go. But anything else?” He nods toward the shadowed alleyways and sour faces around us. “Seems like the perfect spot to take a stroll down memory lane, don’t you think?”
That mischievous glint in his eyes is in full bloom, and I’m almost tempted to smack it right off his face.
“Shut up,” even as my lips betray me with a slight smirk.
He chuckles under his breath, his fingers tracing a familiar line along my spine. “You know, I could leave my own note for Silverbeard. Tell him how thrilled I am that he left his daughter in my care.”
The thought makes me snort. “Left me inyourcare? Word it like that, and he’ll only add you to his kill list. Believe me, he’s not the accommodating type.”
“Maybe we should just say I kidnapped you, then?” He flashes me that mischievous glint, and for a second, I almost believe he means it. “Wouldn’t be entirely untrue—we’ve got a habit of using a rope here and there lately.”
I feel heat rise in my cheeks, though I keep my voice steady. “Well… ropes and I get along.”
“Among other things,” he purrs.
The brush of his hand, his touch a bit too comfortable, almost makes my pulse skip. I let myself lean in, just slightly, the thrill of being in the open slipping back in. “Other things, huh?” I murmur, tone low, mocking. “Got specifics in mind, Cagney?”
“I can think of one thing you get along almost too well with.”
The satisfaction sharpens in me, too tempting to ignore. Yes, me and that thing do get along great. There’s a power in this, holding him just close enough, knowing he’d risk everything just for this. For me.
I press in closer, feeling the heat of him, the weight of his hand under me. Salt and spice linger in the air, and I smirk, letting my words curl with challenge. “You losing control here, Cagney?”
“Out in the open like that?” he asks, voice a shade darker.
“I am,” I breathe.
“Fuck.”
Oh, he’d do it. Right here, right now, if I demanded it—fall to his knees, look up at me with that damned longing in his eyes.
My fingers tighten around material of my cloak.
You could make him beg, Gypsy. Hear him plead again, right here.
Isn’t that a dangerous temptation? One would think it would disappear after I gave into it. But no, it only grew. The monster inside my little black heart is alive and hungry. It expands, takes over, and my whole body feels it.
A hot pulse flares low in my belly as his hands slide beneath my cloak, settling on my hips with a greedy, unapologetic squeeze. He smirks—damn him—and I lean in, pulling him to me just enough to feel that dangerous thrill start to spread.
I still can’t decide which version of him I want more—the breathless fool beneath me or the cocky bastard who knows how mutual this is. Both, probably. Definitely both. Why choose, when each side makes me burn in ways I’d rather not admit?
His voice drops, brushing his lips just barely against mine, “If your father knew half the things I want to do to you, he’d never let me get this close.”
“Don’t bring him up, Zayan,” I cut in. I don’t need his reminders of Silverbeard now.
A growl rumbles from him, vibrating right through me, and then he’s gripping the back of my neck, pulling me closer, his mouth crashing against mine in a kiss that’s rough and demanding. Fine by me—I shove him back, letting him stumble for all I care. He can find his balance on something solid; all I want is to feel him pinned, trapped against something, with me in full control.
His back collides with the unforgiving stone of the alley wall, and I don’t waste a second. My hands slip under his cloak, fingers gliding over the hard muscles of his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath his skin.
One of his hands snakes up to tangle in my hair, pulling my head slightly to the side before his lips tear away from me and leap at my exposed neck. He sucks and nips my sensitive skin as I moan into him.
I can feel the heat of his breath, pulling just enough to tip my head, and he breaks away, mouth claiming the exposed skin of my neck, nipping and biting until a moan escapes me. Heat flares at every scrape of his teeth over my pulse.
“I want you,” he breathes, his voice rough, catching on the words like it costs him to say it. “No, I fuckingneedyou, Gypsy.”
He’s let me take the reins every time. Days of him giving in, doing anything I asked, never once demanding more than I offered. I’d bind his wrists, pull him under me, and he’d watch me with that look—no fight, no complaint, just him letting me take every inch. It did something to me then. Hell, it still does.
