“Worth every punch, Topina.”
Shit. I can’t breathe.
“Now think of old ladies or something and get off me.” My voice wavers, betraying me.
He chuckles, low and dark. “That’s not nice.”
“I never said I was.”
His gaze latches onto mine. “Aren’t cops supposed to be?”
His nose grazes mine, a barely there touch that melts my insides.
“Nice, approachable. Moral to a fault?”
I force myself to breathe. “We all have our... flaws.” I whisper.
He hums, his breath skating over my lips. “I have a feeling you’re going to be mine.”
I blink at him, unsure what he even means. But it doesn’t matter. Angelo gets up, releasing me slowly, bit by bit, until?—
He pulls me up too fast, making me crash into him. His arm snaps around my waist, thick, unyielding. A low curse slips from his lips in Italian and his nose brushes my temple.
“No more sass for me?”
I swallow. “You shouldn’t be so obvious when you slug with your right.”
He chuckles, the sound deep and sinful. “And you shouldn’t bite a man when he’s kissing you—unless you want to turn him into an animal.”
I smirk. “If I bite hard enough, I’ll tame you.”
His grip tightens for half a second, heat rolling between us.
“Sounds like we should make another bet.”
No.
I don’t like this warm, playful side of him. It needs to go. He’s not allowed to be sweet. Or approachable. Or... right. I press my palms to his chest and shove, breaking free.
As I walk away, I can feel him watching me. I glance back.
And the sight of him—bare-chested, powerful, smirking like he already knows my next move—makes my stomach twist. Because if he didn't want to let me go, he wouldn’t have to.
Angelo Rossi is strong. Powerful. Entitled. Lethal. And I’ve made it out of another fight alive. How many people can say that? And why the fuck does it feel like a compliment?
I sit at the kitchen table for dinner, tryingto ignore all the subtle hints of wealth woven into every inch of this house. The pool, the sheer size of the place—that’s obvious.
But there are other clues. The weight of the real silverware.
A chef’s kitchen, gleaming with top of the line appliances. The kind that belong in a five-star restaurant, not a home. Furniture handcrafted by artisans. Hardwood floors that don’t creak.
Wealth isn’t just flaunted here—it’s embedded.
“Thinking about how nice my house is?”
Angelo’s voice pulls me back.
Despite a table big enough for ten, he sits right next to me—as if putting distance between us was never an option.
