I’m in a simple summer dress and flats. It’s a soft and breezy look, absolutely not sexed up.
But yet he looks at me like I’m wearing red lace, stockings, and heels, spread on his bed and begging for his cock.
Of course that’s my latest recurring dream. Bullets flying past us in some alley,him dragging me into cover and then into his cock, fucking me while danger looms over us. His mouth is at my neck, his hand around my throat as he takes my pussy, my ass, my willpower, getting so lost in me he forgets to care who’s aiming at him.
Sometimes I come in my sleep from that scene. Worse, sometimes I wake up hovering on the brink, refusing to touch myself because I want the pleasure to come from him.
He drags his gaze up from my legs, slow and shameless. “What’s got you so hot and bothered, Molly girl?”
My mouth goes dry and I glare at him. Damn him for seeing right through me. “Nothing. I just should have locked my door.”
His lips quirk. “You left it open hoping I’d come in. An invitation.”
I glare at him, ready to push, to poke the beast, to provoke him into taking me so I can pretend none of it is my fault. That’s the thrill. He’s the one crossing the line, so I don’t have to admit I was already there.
But the heat in his eyes snuffs out like someone opened a freezer when he sees the phone in my hand.
“Calling Leon, are you?” His tone turns arctic.
The hit lands low in my stomach.
He goes to my closet, and like a lunatic, all I can think about is how much I want to be inhisroom instead. To open his drawers. His nightstand. To see what’s next to his bed.
Not the big secrets. The little ones.
A Kindle crammed with spy thrillers and westerns. A box of his old photos growing up—baby Declan with that dimple, wild teenage Declan with that glint in his eyes. Stupid novelty socks, ridiculous ties, candy wrappers under his bed. Maybe a favorite mug or a worn t-shirt he can’t throw away.
Those are the secrets that matter. The ones that show whohe is when he isn’t being charming or lethal or the world’s hottest kisser. The man underneath the gangster. The one who rescues strays and spoils them rotten.
“You told me to call him,” I snap.
“That I did.” He shuts my closet door with a quiet click. “No answer?”
I press my lips together.
“Then text theeejitand invite him,” he says. It’s not even close to being a suggestion.
He motions to the bedroom door. “Come on.”
“Where?” I ask, even though I know resistance is a joke.
“Molly,” he murmurs, closing the distance between us, his fingers brushing my jaw. His mouth comes down on mine, soft and slow. It’s a kiss that makes my knees want to give up. “Did you want me to fuck you?”
“Declan Murphy,” I say, breathless, “ruiner of moments.”
“Just the boring ones, Molly lass.” He steals another quick kiss and steps back.
I am wetter from that than from all versions of the bullets-flying fantasy.
“We’re going shopping for the party,” he adds.
I blow out a shaky breath. “I have dresses.”
He smooths a hand over the T-Rex graphic on the t-shirt under his dark suit jacket. There’s something absurdly sexy about the mix of formal and boyish, and if I had my way, I’d make him dress like that all the time.
“You went through my closet,” I accuse.
“Brilliant,” he says, dry.
