Calamity's eyes fly wide open, and he stiffens, expecting me to shoot him. I slap it into his palm and then press close to him, the muzzle of the gun pressing between my breasts. I get in his face, well aware of just how dangerous this stunt is. I could lose my life in an accident or by a purposeful choice, but I don't care. It's a risk I'm willing to take.
Our lips are inches apart. His breath is coming hard and fast, his expression vacillating from angry to confused.
"If you need blood, Calamity, you can have mine. You want to take my father's child? Take me. I'll die right here, right now, if that's what it takes to atone for my family's guilt."
My heart stutters painfully in my chest, not at all convinced of my words. My brain says yes, my body riots, trying to trigger my flight response. I stay put, leaning over the center console to maintain my position over him.
"Penelope..." His voice is thick, and his swallow rasps in the car's silence. My heart thunders. Rain slaps the windshield. His breath is a ragged rhythm I use to count the seconds.
"Kiss me or kill me, Calamity. There is no third option."
Calamity's arms are around me in the next second, and the jab of the gun disappears from my chest. Calamity takes a second to flick the safety on again before it clatters to the floor.
Then his mouth is on mine, his hands in my hair, dragging me as close as humanly possible, and my heart squeezes for a different reason.
Kiss me it is, then.
14
Calamity
This is really not the fucking time to be doing this, but I can't help myself.
Freeing one hand from its vice grip on her hair, I tear at the front of her blouse, not even bothering with the buttons. I'm shocked she's not wearing her riding jacket, but it just makes things easier. One less thing I have to rip off of her. I regret the choice to give her clothes back. The pastel dresses were infinitely easier to fuck her in.
She lets out a shuddering gasp when I move my mouth from hers to trail hot, wet kisses down her throat. There's a spot on her neck that makes her squirm and, wedged as she is between the steering wheel and my front, it feels incredible against my growing arousal.
She lets out a soft moan when I slip my hand inside her torn blouse and slide my fingers beneath one of her newly acquired bras. Her nipples are already drawn into taut little peaks, and she keens when I pinch one between my thumb and forefinger.
It feels as if there's not enough air in the Camaro. The need to be inside her is so overwhelming I almost can't breathe.
"You're fucking incredible," I groan against her throat.
And she really is.
Somehow, against all sanity, she's cut through every defense I've erected over the years. And when she discovered the truth that's guided my decades-long vendetta, she didn't run away screaming or try to deny it. She's proven herself to be better than any of the shits she calls family by facing down the barrel of my gun and daring me to shoot. It isn't a ploy or a joke. The absolute certainty in her eyes chills me. She's willing to take a bullet she hasn't earned to give me my retribution.
She's right. There are only two options with Penelope Cruz, and walking away isn't one of them.
There's the small problem of her jeans. I'm definitely never letting her wear them again if she stays. I want to live between those golden thighs, and being denied for even this long is infuriating. I'm definitely not letting her clamber off of me. I find one of the artfully ripped holes and use it to tear out the seam of the jeans.
"Hey," she grumbles. "I need those."
"I need to be inside of you," I counter. "You'll get over it."
She doesn't have a good counter-argument and merely groans when I nudge the silky panties aside to expose her pussy. She's soaked already, and my finger sinks easily into her. My thumb finds her clit, swollen and needy. She rocks hard against my hand, seeking more friction. It's a mirror to another night we spent together, where I felt the first inkling of guilt for what I've done to her. I couldn't imagine wanting more than to torment the little Spade for daring to share blood with my enemy.
And now I can't believe I was such a bastard. Penelope hasn't changed from the moment she got here. I'm the one changing. Somehow she thaws years of anger and cuts me right down to the soul, reminding me I'm more than just Calamity.
I'm also Vincent Gardel. The soft-hearted idealist who falls too hard and too fast and always gets hurt by more ruthless men. I try to bury it, to deny it's there. But the Spade tattoo is always a reminder of who I am and where I come from. Calamity will always have to exist if I will survive.
But for Penelope? I can be Vincent, just this once.
Her hips roll still more urgently, trying to find the friction she needs as I coax her closer to orgasm by stimulating her g-spot. She's whimpering, flushed and needy, and I try to capture the image in my mind. This will come to an end soon. I want to treasure the memory of her like this until the day I die.
"Calamity, please," she says, lifting herself a few inches off my lap by seizing the headrest. "Please. I need you."
Fuck, I love those words. They're a lie, even if she doesn't know it yet. She doesn't need me. She needs no one, given how tough she is. But she's offering herself, elevating me to her status in her mind. And that's what I treasure.
