She’s awake. And she knows I’m right here with her.
I say nothing, merely hook a possessive arm around her waist. Lust flexes through my veins as I drag her back against my chest, squeezing her to me like she’s a pillow or a teddy bear.
Trinity lies still, her body a tense line against mine. Then, inch by inch, her muscles begin to relax.
Heady satisfaction settles inside me. This infuriating woman—willful brat, more like— submitting to my touch sets me off like a five-alarm fire.
I splay my fingers across her collarbone, just a centimeter from the base of her delicate throat. A non-negotiable act of ownership.
Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t fight me. Lust barrels through my veins.
I’m enjoying this, but it’s not enough.
I need to possess her stillness without reservation. I want this to be her surrender.
But I know better. With Trinity, surrender won’t happen until she’s fought me and lost. Just draping my arm around her doesn’t satisfy me. My ego won’t be appeased until I erase the analytical look she gave me in the living room.
I want her to remember she’s the captive, not the psychologist.
Not a mafia princess on a lonely pedestal.
I slide my hand beneath the oversize t-shirt she’s wearing, over the flat, soft plane of her stomach. At my caress, shestiffens and sucks in a sharp breath. I hook my calloused fingers into the waistband of her borrowed sweatpants and tug the fabric away from her body.
Then, I slide my hand inside.
Her muscles clench under my palm as I spread my fingers wide, staking a claim on her sweet, soft skin.
I kiss her neck, relishing the way her skin shudders beneath me. The sensation sends a slow, satisfying hum of electricity through my body.
My lips brush her earlobe. “You asked what kind of man I am, Trinity.”
I dip my hand deeper, pushing into the hot, humid enclosure of her panties.
Doesn’t take a sexologist to discern how turned on she is.
She’s soaking wet.
All for me.
“Allow me to show you.” With my longest finger, I push her outer lip aside and rub my thumb against her clit. “Thisis the kind of man I am.”
Chapter 18
Trinity
I grit my teeth as soon as Brody starts working my clit with his long, thick fingers.
Damn.Why does such a small part of my body have such an enormous effect?
My hapless thoughts separate and disappear as I bite down on the inside of my cheek to suppress all noise.
I was in the middle of a recurring stress dream.
Angelica and I are walking down the street when the blacked-out van screeches to a halt at the corner. In my nightmare, the middle always changes, but the ending remains the same.
I try helplessly to stop those men from snatching Angelica—by fighting, screaming, crying—but no matter what I do in my dream, I never win. Those men always seize her, she always dies, and I always wake up, alone, sweating, afraid, and alive.
Unlike my beloved friend.
