The words detonated in my chest, sending heat surging to my center like wildfire. My pulse drummed in my ears. My breath caught.
I watched, heart in my throat, as he slid lower on the bed—his movements slow, intentional, predatory. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of my pajama pants and pulled them down inch by excruciating inch, baring me like a gift he couldn’t wait to unwrap. His smirk was pure sin, his emerald eyes shadowed with ravenous desire.
“Mrs. Console,” he rasped, his breath hot against my skin, a whisper that licked over me like fire. “May I make you cum in my mouth?”
A violent tremble ripped through me, my whole body tight with need. The possessiveness in his voice—the filthy reverence—lit something primal inside me. My lips parted on a gasp, my head nodding because words failed me. I could barely breathe, barely think, as he reached for the lace edge of my panties?—
Ding dong.
The doorbell sliced through the moment like a blade.
We froze. Silence stretched thick, stunned, obscene in its cruelty.
I stared down at him, still panting, the air between us electric and full of everything we were just about to lose.
“Are you fucking kidding me,” I whispered.
“Shit,” he growled under his breath, his head dropping against my thigh. I groaned in frustration. “Who the hell is that?”
“No idea, but their timing sucks,” He sat up, already irritated.
“You want me to–?”
“No,” He cut me off. “I'll get rid of them. You stay right here so I can come back and serenade that perfect fucking body of yours.”
I giggled, tossing my pajama pants at him as he jogged down the stairs. I snuggled back under the covers with a smirk, reaching for my phone.
Then I heard it.
“Hi, can I help you?” Nick’s voice was casual at first.
“Yes, I’m looking for Michelle, my wife.”
My blood turned to ice. I shot up in bed, my heart hammering against my ribs. I know that voice. It had been months since I’d heard it—months since I had even spoken to him.
And now…he was here. Looking for my mom, his wife, and standing in front of my husband.
44
NICK
“Yes, I’m looking for my wife, Michelle.”
His words hit me like a slap to the face. I could barely process it. The audacity. My blood was boiling. I was standing on my property, watching this man—a nightmare from Melanie’s past—stare me down like he had some right to be here. I wanted to pull my gun from my hiding spot and shoot him. The rage was that intense.
Something flickered in his eyes as I glared at him—doubt, maybe. He thought Michelle was here with me, and he had no clue who I was. That made it worse. Melanie had kept him in the dark for so long. I didn’t blame her, but damn, I was pissed.“Your wife doesn’t want to see you, and neither does mine,” I snapped, letting the weight of my words sink in. The expression on his face—pure shock—was priceless. But it shifted quickly, morphing from disbelief to fury in the span of a heartbeat. It was almost laughable, the way he tried to process this
“Are you…are you telling me your M—” he started, but I didn’t let him finish.
“Yup,” I cut him off, my tone as cold as ice. I extended my hand with a twisted grin. “Nick. Consele and Melanie Consele is my wife.”
He stared at my hand like it might burn him, then locked eyes with me, his glare sharp enough to pierce through steel. I smiled wider, enjoying his discomfort.
“Over my dead body,” he growled, making a move to barge past me. I stepped in his way, my chest heaving with anger.
“Not a good idea, pal,” I hissed, the venom in each syllable vibrating through me.
“I demand to see my daughter and wife,” he spat, his voice thick with entitlement.
