Page 16 of Marked By the Mob

The sound of my name in his deep voice does something to my pulse that I refuse to acknowledge.

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I want to understand.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “How does an FBI agent end up on an auction block? That wasn’t part of any official operation, was it?”

I consider lying, but what’s the point? “No.”

“So you went rogue.” It’s not a question. “You put yourself in that position deliberately, knowing what could happen.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

The question hangs between us. I should deflect, should keep my mouth shut. But something in his eyes, in the genuine curiosity there, makes me hesitate.

“Does it matter?”

“It does to me.” He holds my gaze, and I feel the weight of his attention like a physical touch. “You’re not stupid, Emma. You knew the risks. You knew what happened to women in those auctions. But you went anyway. That’s not just dedication to a case. That’s personal.”

My throat tightens. “Maybe I just hate men like you.”

“Maybe.” His lips curve slightly. “But I don’t think that’s all of it.”

The air between us feels charged, electric. I’m acutely aware of how close he is, of the way his shirt stretches across his chest. This man bought me. Owns me, according to whatever twisted logic governs his world. I should hate him.

But when he looks at me like this, like he actually sees me, something in my chest pulls tight.

“You can’t understand,” I say quietly.

“Try me.”

I stand, needing to move, to put distance between us. But the room is small. When I turn, he’s right there, rising from the chair. We’re inches apart.

“Emma.” My name again, softer this time.

I should step back. Should maintain distance. But I don’t.

His hand comes up slowly, giving me time to move away. When I don’t, his fingers brush my cheek, tucking a strand of hairbehind my ear. The touch is gentle, almost reverent, and it sends heat cascading through me.

Something flares in his eyes, dark and hungry. Then his mouth is on mine, and I’m lost. The kiss is nothing like I expected. It’s not rough or demanding. It’s deep and searching, like he’s trying to learn every part of me. His hands frame my face, holding me like I’m something precious, and I melt into him.

My fingers find his shirt, fisting in the fabric as I kiss him back with all the pent-up tension and confusion and need that’s been building since I first saw him. He makes a low sound in his throat, and then his hands are in my hair, on my waist, pulling me closer.

We stumble backward until my legs hit the bed. He follows me down, his weight pressing me into the mattress. God, it feels good. Feels right in a way that makes no sense.

His mouth moves to my neck, trailing heat down to my collarbone. I arch into him, my hands sliding under his shirt to find warm skin and hard muscle. He groans against my throat, and the sound goes straight to my core.

He kisses me again, deeper this time, as his hands find the hem of my shirt. I lift my arms, letting him pull it over my head. His gaze rakes over me, and a bolt of lust skitters across my nerve endings, pooling in my lower belly.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, then his mouth is on my skin, kissing a path down my sternum.

I work at his shirt and he helps me, shrugging it off before returning his attention to me. His hands are everywhere, learning my body, and I’m drowning in sensation.

When he unhooks my bra and takes my breast in his mouth, I gasp, my fingers tangling in his hair. The wet heat of his tongue on my nipple sends pleasure spiraling through me, and I press closer, wanting more.

He takes his time, lavishing attention on my breasts until I’m writhing beneath him. Then his hand slides down my stomach, popping the button of my jeans.

He slides my jeans and underwear down my legs, leaving me bare beneath him. For a moment he just looks at me, and I feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with being naked. My legs twitch with the desire to close, to hide myself from his hungry gaze, but instead I open them wider, watching his eyes darken with lust.