Page 17 of Bought By Sin

Damn this.

Damn him.

The urge to lean against him, to rely on him to ground me when my body responded to his touch, was almost too much of a fight.

Desire struck me with the force of a full-body charge. It electrified me, forcing me to breathe faster and want to gravitate toward him. It purged me, chasing away all the panic and worries and insistence to be strong and stay on guard. And it scared me, teasing and tempting me to wonder what it would be like to experience more of him gazing at me like I was a gift to behold and taste and treasure. Like I was a treat to torment until this raging hot lust would consume us both.

He set his other hand on me. On my left hip, opposite of his right hand clutching my right side and reminding me of his advantages. Of how long his fingers were, of all the unspoken and inhibited strength in his grip. Of how much taller and bigger he was to overtake me and have his way with me, however he wanted.

I swallowed hard, unable to quit staring at his hooded gaze, his face so serious with need as he familiarized himself with being this close.

What if…

I bit back a groan of need, so perplexed and peeved that in just under a minute, he could make me think like this. That he could get under my skin and make me respond not like an owned thing but as a woman who could embrace desire. I exhaled harshly, almost like a grunt of need. Like this, coiled up tight and ready to explode.

He stepped back. In the turn of one second into the next, it was over. His hands left my sides. His fingers no longer dug into my flesh. Releasing me abruptly, he retreated and put another foot between us.

I ached for his touch. I caught myself from following after him and stopped short in leaning forward.

“You’ll serve me one way or another, Mila.” Now when he said my name, it was without the deeper tone. The hardness and neutrality were back in it, like when he might speak to any other person under his rule.

Disappointment filled me. I wanted to frown at this odd sense of being hurt by his… his… rejection? I wasn’t sure what to deduce from him, but I was thoroughly displeased with myself that he had tricked me into thinking he wanted to use me for my body.

I was even more dismayed that I had looked forward to that suggestion.

How could you let him get to you like that?

Scolding myself for actually wanting him, I focused on not showing an iota of a reaction to his backing out of the room and leaving me with no clear answers.

I didn’t know what he wanted me for.

All I could tell myself was that he didn’t want me.

7

LEV

Mila was already awake when I sent a guard to fetch her. Fetch wasn’t the best word. She wasn’t a dog that I would train to come at my summons. But I dispatched one of the guards on the premises to escort her to my house.

Having someone else bring her to me seemed infinitely safer than if I were to walk over there and be alone with her again. After the blue balls I’d given myself when I ripped her shirt, I didn’t particularly care for a repeat of that instant lust barreling through my veins.

It was a test to see if she would react to my touching her at all and talking to her with the intention of seducing her. It was an experiment to see if she’d respond in kind, throwing herself at me or maintaining that aloof silence.

I still wasn’t sure if she had passed or failed. She had reacted to me, though she masked it well. She kept her composure, but she couldn’t have done a damn thing to hide what she couldn’t control. Such as how her eyes sharpened and blazed with desire, those pupils widening. How her breath hitched and she’d shifted involuntarily when I backed off. I felt the tension radiating from her. It added to the spark of attraction between us, one that I seriously doubted she wanted to acknowledge or accept.

All that I accomplished from that “test” was to prove to myself how badly I wanted her. Her submission, her loyalty, her servitude. Fuck, just a chance to be near her again and try to solve who the hell she really was, who she could be with such stubborn defiance.

She entered the kitchen where I finished a protein drink. Eyeing her over the rim of the cup, I took in the simple and functional attire she’d chosen. Athletic shorts and a plain tank top. It made sense for the heat, and it was probably what she was used to as a runner the Cartels used.

“Eat,” I said once I was done with my drink. Gesturing at the dishes that my cook, Selma, had laid out, I indicated for Mila to sit down and have breakfast. Much like how I’d tossed her that water in the car ride, I wanted to see if she’d shun my offer of food and nourishment.

She sat and began to eat.

Obediently.

But not too quickly to give the impression that she’d been starved.

While she ate, I took a seat and checked over messages on my phone. It wasn’t quiet, with several guards and soldiers switching over for their patrol shifts in the other room. Selma and a couple of maids were noisy in the other part of the kitchen. Out front, the landscaping crew was making a ruckus with blowers and other gas-powered tools.