Текст книги "Depraved devotion"

Автор книги: Morgan Bridges

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CHAPTER 29

GENEVA

My blood races through my veins. “What does that mean?”

Ghost reaches up and drags his fingers along the glass with his gaze locked on mine. The gesture is slow, his fingertips moving in a gentle caress right where my face is.

“Sanity or desire,” he repeats, his voice like a whisper against my skin. “One keeps you safe, the other sets you free. Your sanity is the wall you hide behind, the rules and protocols that you think will protect you from me. But we both know that’s not going to work.”

He tilts his head, studying me. “Your desire, though? That’s raw. Unfiltered. It’s the part of you you’re too afraid to acknowledge.” His voice softens. “Letting me in will set you free. But keeping me out? That’s madness.”

I stay silent, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response, but his words slice into me like a scalpel. Is he right about me? Or is this just another manipulation tactic meant to confuse me further?

“What happens when your sanity unravels from the strain of resisting me, Dr. Andrews?”

“You’re delusional.” My voice trembles despite my best efforts to steady it. “This isn’t about sanity or desire. It’s about control.”

Ghost’s lips curl into a slow, knowing smile. “Control, yes. But not in the way you think. This isn’t about me taking control of you. It’s about you giving it to me. Willingly.”

I shake my head. “You’re trying to manipulate me. Twisting my thoughts and my emotions until I can’t see reason.”

“Am I?” His tone is soft but laced with challenge. “Is that why you’re here?”

“I’m here because I have to be,” I snap. “Because you forced my hand. Not because I want to be.”

“You’ve said your piece, so why haven’t you left yet?”

I don’t know.

The charged silence between us grows like a weed, strangling the life from me. I stand there, staring at my adversary until I think I’ll go crazy from just looking at him. If I give Ghost my desire, I’m insane. If I fall into insanity, that’ll lead to my desire.

Ghost knows he’ll have both, no matter what I choose. So is it really a choice to begin with? No. This man only plays games he knows he can win.

And the prize is me.

A distant rumble sneaks through the thick prison walls, breaking into my thoughts. It’s faint at first, like a low hum, but quickly grows louder. It’s a discordant symphony of shouts, metal clanging against metal, and the unmistakable edge of chaos.

Ghost’s fingers pause on the glass, his gaze flicking to the door behind me for a split second. His expression morphs, the smugness melting into sobriety.

“What’s happening?” My voice is tight with unease, but he doesn’t answer right away. The sounds outside the room intensify, and a knot forms in my stomach.

“Geneva,” Ghost says, his voice low and fervent. “You shouldn’t be here right now.”

I open my mouth to respond, but a deafening crash cuts me off. The door shudders, the hinges rattling violently as something—or someone—slams into it. I spin around when a man shouts just outside the room. It’s followed by another farther away, and the garbled fragments dissolve into the background noise that’s still gaining volume.

“It sounds like the natives are restless.” Ghost’s voice is calm, but his tone lacks its usual edge of amusement. His eyes flick back to me, sharp and assessing. “Get away from the door.”

I nod just as another loud bang sends a jolt through me, freezing me in place. Something heavy slams against the door, and a wet, gurgling sound cuts through the air. It’s followed by a sickening thud of a body hitting the floor.

The room falls eerily silent, save for my ragged breathing. I glance at Ghost, whose posture has gone rigid, his eyes fixed on the door with an intensity that speaks volumes.

“Is he dead?” I whisper, though I already know the answer.

Blood seeps under the door, slowly pooling on the concrete floor. My stomach flips, and I take several steps back, pressing myself against the wall as my chest tightens.

Ghost doesn’t move, his gaze never leaving the door. “You need to stay calm,” he says, his voice quieter now but no less commanding. “It’s not safe out there.”

“No shit,” I hiss.

“Listen to me. Don’t open the door, no matter what you hear.”

I swallow hard. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to protect you.”

“What? How?”

Ghost’s eyes lock onto mine, and for a moment, I see something in them. Determination? Concern? Whatever it is, it makes my skin prickle with something I can’t name. Without another word, he steps back from the glass.

“Ghost,” I say, my voice trembling. “What are you doing?”

He doesn’t respond. Instead, he scans the room, his gaze acute and methodical, before turning toward the metal table on his side of the interrogation room. He steps onto the chair first, then climbs onto the table, the cuffs clinking as he moves.

My heart pounds harder when he reaches into his pocket, producing something small and glinting in the dim light. I squint, trying to make it out.

A penny.

“Where did you get that?” I ask.

He smirks faintly, but his focus remains on the vent above him. “I’m resourceful.”

Ghost balances carefully on the table, using the edge of the penny to unscrew the cover of the vent. His hands move deftly, the cuffs barely slowing him down while he works.

“Did you plan this?” I ask.

“Plan?” he echoes, glancing at me briefly. “Not exactly. Anticipate? Always.”

“Ghost—”

“Dr. Andrews, if I explained every brilliant move I’ve made, we’d be here all day.”

I glare at him before resuming my vigilance by staring at the door. “Whatever.”

“If you’re impressed, just say so. It’s not every day you see a man dismantle prison security with spare change.”

I release a sigh, the sound a mixture of the disbelief and irritation gathering in my chest. “You’re insane.”

“I prefer the term ‘innovator.’ Insanity is just what the unimaginative call genius.”

He chuckles softly, the sound maddeningly calm. However, not once does he stop rotating the penny to loosen the screws. The first one falls into his waiting palm.

A rubber sole squeaks against the floor right before someone tests the door handle to my room. It rattles twice more. I stop breathing until the person walks away, his shoes announcing his retreat.

Ghost’s attention shifts to me. “Everything’s fine. I’ve got this.”

I swallow hard, my mind reeling. “How can you—”

A loud bang makes me jump; it’s the unmistakable sound of someone’s fist hitting a surface. Ghost and I both look at the door and then each other. Another violent impact shakes the hinges, the sound reverberating through the room.

“Open the door, bitch!”

My blood turns to ice as I rush to grab the chair and return to my position with my back against the wall. It’s not a baseball bat, but it’ll have to do.

“What about my interview, Doctor?” The man laughs maniacally, making my skin crawl. “You think I can’t get to you in there?”

The man’s voice grows louder, more insistent, as he continues to shout obscenities and threats. The only thing keeping him at bay is the door and me armed with a chair. Ghost won’t even look at me, his focus fully on the vent as he works methodically with the penny.

The odds are not in my favor.

Finally, Ghost pauses, turning his head to glance at me. His expression is cold enough to make me shiver. “If they get through that door, they’ll regret it.”

For the first time in my life, I’m glad to have a serial killer on my side.

The banging grows louder until the door handle falls to the ground with a loud clang. My breath catches, my heart pounding in my chest as I glance between Ghost and the door.

“You’re still handcuffed!” I whisper. “How are you going to stop him?”

Ghost turns back to the vent, his movements precise as he continues loosening the final screw. “Oh, Dr. Andrews,” he says, his tone chiding. “Handcuffs aren’t a limitation. They’re just an inconvenience. Have you forgotten my arraignment already?”

“The innocent man you killed in court? No, I haven’t.”

“Deputy Wilson wasn’t innocent.” Ghost makes a face of disgust. “He beat his wife every day. I did her a favor while proving a point to the judge. Win-win.”

I press myself against the wall, trying to make sense of the conflicting emotions roiling inside me. There’s confusion, anger, and a flicker of something disturbingly close to understanding.

The door slams open with a deafening crash that makes me cry out. A wild-eyed inmate with a stocky build stumbles inside before slamming the door shut. His face is flushed with exertion, his chest heaving, and he’s gripping a jagged piece of metal that’s been fashioned into a weapon.

His eyes land on me and it takes everything in me not to cower. “Well, well, well. What do we have here?” He leers at me. “It’s been a long time since I’ve smelled pussy.”

“Ghost.” I whisper his name like a prayer, teetering on the edge of hysteria.

“Fight,” Ghost says, his voice hard, unyielding. “Fight to survive.”

I shake my head, panic spilling over. “You expect me to—”

“I expect you to stay alive until I get to you,” Ghost snaps.

The inmate laughs, a dry, rasping sound. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. This won’t take long.”

Ghost slams his fist against the glass. Hard. The inmate’s attention shifts to Ghost, the man’s grin faltering at the look on his face. It’s pure, unadulterated wrath.

“Don’t do it,” Ghost says quietly. Despite the softness of his voice, the menace underneath it is loud. “What do they call you? Lobo? Listen to me, Lobo. You won’t live long enough to bust a nut, let alone brag about it.”

“What are you going to do from over there?” The inmate rolls his eyes. “Nothing you say is going to stop me.”

Ghost narrows his gaze, but it fails to hide the fire in his eyes. “If you touch her, I’ll make sure your last breath is an apology, before I cut out your tongue.”

CHAPTER 30

GHOST

That asshole doesn’t believe me. That’s his first mistake.

Lobo turns back to Geneva, his makeshift knife glinting under the harsh light. She’s trembling, clutching the back of the chair like it’s a weapon. Every part of me screams to be on her side of the glass, to be with her.

Geneva’s vulnerability wounds me, but my fury on her behalf? The fury makes me dangerous. Unhinged.

Lobo steps closer to Geneva, his blade raised. “What’re you gonna do, huh?” he asks me, trying to regain control. To be the dominant man. “You wanna watch?”

The final screw spins between my fingers, but not fast enough. My entire focus splits between the vent above me and the nightmare unfolding beside me.

Lobo takes another step toward Geneva, the smug bastard clearly enjoying the way she trembles. He thinks he’s won, that he has her cornered.

Geneva’s eyes flick to mine briefly, just enough to ground her. She exhales and her grip on the chair loosens slightly, but it’s not in surrender. It’s in preparation.

Underestimating my girl. That is Lobo’s second mistake.

He steps closer, and Geneva raises a hand. The motion is subtle, non-threatening, and calculated.

“You’ve been in a lot of fights,” she says, her voice even. “But you don’t always win, do you?”

Lobo glares at her. “You think you’re smarter than me, don’t you? Think you can talk me down?”

She gestures to his left side. “Your ribs. The way you’re guarding them. You’ve got old fractures there, don’t you? Not from sparring or practice. They’re from someone bigger and stronger. Someone who put you in your place.”

Lobo straightens. So does Geneva, matching his posture. Her expression shifts to something less fearful, and more focused. She’s studying him, dissecting him in real time.

“Your knuckles,” she continues, her voice softening but never losing its edge. “They’re scarred. Not just from fights, but from hitting walls, doors, and other things that don’t hit back. When things don’t go your way, you lash out. But it doesn’t fix anything, does it? It doesn’t stop the nightmares. The memories.”

“Shut up, bitch!”

Lobo’s shout drowns out the final screw coming loose and me ripping open the vent. Geneva is keeping him off balance. She’s fucking brilliant.

But Lobo is unpredictable. It’s in the way his jaw tightens, and how his eye twitches as her words sink in. He’s not used to being seen like this, stripped bare and analyzed. It’s unsettling him, and that makes him volatile.

“You don’t have to do this,” she says. “Hurting me won’t fix anything. It won’t make you stronger, and it won’t change what’s already happened to you.”

The inmate freezes, his hand trembling around the blade as her words hit their mark. It’s only a few seconds, but it’s better than nothing.

I grip the edge of the vent, and I pull myself up into the darkness, my blood burning with rage and purpose. She’s keeping him talking, keeping herself alive.

But that won’t last forever.

Hold on, Geneva. I’m coming.

The darkness wraps around me, the cold metal brushing against my forearms as I maneuver through the narrow space. The sounds from below filter up, keeping me informed. It’s a mix of Geneva’s steady voice, Lobo’s labored breathing, and the chaos of the riot outside.

“You don’t know a damn thing about me,” Lobo says. “You think you’re so smart, huh? Just because you’ve got a degree doesn’t mean you’ve got me figured out.”

Geneva’s response is measured, professional. She’s in her element, even under duress. “You’re right. I don’t know everything about you. But I do know that you’re better than this. You’ve survived worse, haven’t you? You don’t have to let it define you.”

In a moment of indecision, the inmate hesitates again, but it’s meaningless. Men like him are ruled by their impulses and their insecurities. It’s only a matter of time before he lashes out.

The vent creaks softly under my weight as I inch closer to the opening above Geneva’s side of the interrogation room. My hands, still cuffed, ache from the effort, but the discomfort is nothing compared to the searing determination driving me forward. She’s buying time. Precious seconds I intend to use.

The shuffle of Lobo’s boots reaches me as he shifts his weight. “This is just some shrink shit you’re using to stall.”

“Maybe,” she says. “Or maybe I’m showing you something no one else has. That you have a choice.”

His laugh is harsh. “Choice? What fucking choice do I have in here?”

I reach the vent’s edge, peering through the slats. The room below comes into view: Geneva standing firm, her hands gripping the back of a chair, while Lobo hovers a few feet away. He’s caught in her words, torn between his instincts and the thread of doubt she’s woven into his mind.

The fear is in the stiffness of her spine, buried beneath her composed exterior. She’s holding it together for now, but the tension in her body tells me she’s ready to snap.

“Lo-bo,” I call down, my voice sing-song. Both of their heads snap up toward the vent, Geneva’s eyes widening in surprise. “Uncle touched you in naughty places, didn’t he?”

“Shut the fuck up!” he screams, his voice cracking.

Bingo!

Geneva’s eyes dart between us, her composure momentarily slipping as confusion washes over her face. She adjusts quickly, her gaze softening as she realizes what I’ve done: I’ve shifted his focus to me.

To protect her.

“Tell me one thing, Lobo,” I say while scanning the vent for weak points. “What’s it like at family reunions for you?”

Lobo’s hands tremble as his fury builds with every venomous word I spit down from the vent. He glares up at me, his face twisted with rage, but his attention flickers back to Geneva.

The moment I catch his gaze darkening with intent, my blood runs cold. He knows that going after her is the only way to hurt me.

“Geneva!” I shout, my voice raw with panic as he lunges toward her.

She reacts instinctively, swinging the chair in her hands with all her strength. The heavy metal legs catch Lobo across the shoulder, sending him stumbling back with a grunt of pain. His blade clatters to the floor, spinning out of reach for the moment.

“Good one, Doc!” I yell, desperation threading through my voice as I ram my boots against the vent. My heart pounds against my ribs in tandem.

The adrenaline pounding through me sharpens everything: the fear etched into Geneva’s features, the way she scrambles to react, the glint of insanity in Lobo’s gaze as he straightens to his full height.

“You’re gonna regret that.”

He lunges again. Geneva moves quickly, using the chair as both shield and weapon. She thrusts it forward, forcing him to stumble back, but he’s relentless. He grabs the edge of the chair, yanking it hard and pulling her off balance.

Below, Lobo has the upper hand when Geneva’s forced back against the wall. The blade glints on the floor between them, and Lobo’s gaze shifts to it.

I slam my boots against the vent with mounting desperation, the sound ringing through the room. “Fuck!”

Lobo dives for the blade, his fingers brushing the handle. Geneva kicks the weapon and sends it skidding across the room. The motion leaves her vulnerable, and Lobo grabs her wrist, slamming her back against the wall.

“Geneva!” I shout, the sound echoing around me, amplifying my stress.

She twists in his grip, using her other hand to claw at his face, her nails catching his cheek. He howls in pain but tightens his hold on her and she cries out. The panic in her eyes ignites something primal in me, something depraved and savage.

The vent finally gives, the cover clattering to the floor. The scene below burns into my mind—Geneva, pressed against the wall, her face pale but fierce as she fights back, and Lobo with his filthy hands on her.

I launch myself out of the vent, dropping down into the room with a quiet thud. The second my boots hit the ground, I move. Lobo doesn’t even have time to react before I’m behind him, my arms snaking around his head like a viper. The chain of my cuffs digs into his throat as I pull it taut, locking him in place.

He thrashes, clawing at my arms, gasping for air. But I’m stronger. And I’m fucking pissed. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to touch what doesn’t belong to you?” I ask.

Geneva stares at me, frozen in shock, her chest heaving as she catches her breath. Her wide eyes lock onto mine, and for a moment, the world ceases to exist. Because she is my world.

I give her a crooked smile, tightening the chain around Lobo’s neck. “Did you miss me, Doc?”

She blinks, her lips parting as if to say something, but no words come out. Her silence doesn’t matter. I see the answer in her eyes.

Lobo’s body jerks violently, his gasps turning to wet, desperate gurgles. He claws at the chain, his nails scratching at my skin, but I don’t let up. My grip only tightens, fueled by the image of him attacking her, of her fear. Of her pain.

“No one touches her,” I growl, leaning closer to his ear. “No one.”

Geneva finally moves, stepping away from the wall, her hands out in supplication. “Ghost, stop,” she says, her voice shaking but firm. “You’ll kill him.”

“That’s the idea,” I deadpan.

She almost smiles, but the seriousness of the situation stops her. “Let him go. He’s not worth it.”

“Not worth it?” I repeat, my voice low. “That might be true. But you are worth it. Always.”

I palm the sides of Lobo’s head to pull the chain-link more taut, even as it opens me up to getting elbowed by him. The pain of his blows reinforces how badly he could’ve hurt Geneva.

Eventually, his body goes slack in my arms, his futile struggles ceasing. The weight of him is oddly satisfying, but he’s a heavy fucker, so I’m quick to release him.

Then I kick him for good measure. “Motherfucker.”

Turning to Geneva, I find her staring at me with wide eyes. Her chest rises and falls with rapid breaths and her face is pale. She’s shaken, but she’s still standing. Still breathing.

“You okay, Doc?”

She nods slowly, as if she’s not quite sure. “You took long enough getting here.”

“What can I say? I like to make an entrance.”

CHAPTER 31

GENEVA

Ghost stands a few feet away, his expression calm, almost amused, as if he didn’t just strangle someone with his cuffs and drop out of a vent like fucking Batman.

No, he’d be the Joker. Heath Ledger style. Hot but deranged.

I exhale sharply, the adrenaline still coursing through my veins, making my knees weak. I hate the way my body betrays me in his presence, not just with fear, but with the uncomfortable heat that coils in my stomach.

“You didn’t have to kill him,” I mutter, my voice barely above a whisper.

Ghost arches an eyebrow, his gaze steady on mine. “Really? You think he’d have stopped if I asked nicely?”

My stomach twists, and I look away, avoiding the body on the floor. Ghost is right, of course. Lobo wouldn’t have stopped. I don’t want to think about what would have happened if Ghost hadn’t been here.

I shift my attention back to him. His gaze hasn’t left me, astute and unrelenting, as if he’s dissecting every emotion flickering across my face.

“You can’t keep doing this,” I say, my shoulders sagging with exhaustion. “You can’t kill every man who threatens me.”

“The fuck I can’t.” Ghost narrows his gaze. “This isn’t the attitude I expected after saving your life.”

The disappointment in his voice cuts me. He’s right. Again. How annoying.

I nod slowly in resignation. “Thank you, Ghost. I really mean it.”

A flicker of something crosses his features. Appreciation? Devotion? I’m not sure because it disappears too quickly for me to read. Whatever the emotion, it was tender. And so at odds with the killer watching me intently.

“That’s more like it,” he says. His customary grin returns. “See how easy that was?”

I roll my eyes, repressing a smile of my own. “Don’t get used to it.”

He smirks, the charm he exudes infuriating as ever. “I wouldn’t dream of it, but isn’t it customary to receive a token of gratitude?”

“Like what?” The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them, my curiosity getting the best of me. Regret immediately sets in. God only knows what Ghost’s answer will be.

“A kiss,” he says simply.

There is nothing simple about that. In fact, I can’t think of anything worse.

I scoff, trying to mask the way my blood rushes under my skin with renewed vigor. “You’re out of your mind.”

“Am I?” Ghost takes a step toward me. And another. His movements are fluid and graceful, like a predator closing in on its prey. “Or are you just scared?”

I glare at him as my thoughts collide, making my head ache. My attraction to Ghost is nothing more than a psychological response. A textbook case of gratitude and misplaced attachment. He saved my life, therefore, I feel drawn to him. It’s primal. It’s survival. It’s not real.

It can’t be.

But even as I analyze my behavior, the logical explanation doesn’t eradicate the flames of desire burning me. If I don’t put an end to this conversation, I’ll be nothing more than ash, a pile of long-forgotten inhibitions.

I shake my head, stepping farther back, desperate to put space between us. “I’m not scared and you’re not a hero who deserves a prize. If anything, you’re the villain in my story.”

“That’s fair. Here’s the thing about villains… They don’t ask. They just take what they want.”

His words hang in the air, dripping with that maddening confidence, his smirk daring me to respond. The room feels stifling, the tension coiled so tightly it threatens to snap.

Ghost steps closer, and I retreat, only to find the wall at my back. He stops just inches away, his breath on my lips, his presence overwhelming me. I could barely handle him on the other side of the glass, but now having his body nearly flush with mine, I’m hopeless.

“That’s why you’re dangerous,” I say quietly. “You take without thinking about the consequences.”

“Oh, I think about the consequences, Dr. Andrews. I just don’t give a shit about them.”

Ghost’s hand shoots out to grab me by the throat before he yanks me to him. His lips crash down on mine, and I freeze.

This kiss is unrelenting, possessive, forceful.

He slants his mouth over mine, his tongue seeking entrance. Seeking dominion. And somewhere beneath my indignation, beneath my confusion, a treacherous part of me comes alive.

I shouldn’t want this.

Ghost is everything I despise: a ruthless criminal who doesn’t respect the sanctity of life.

My mind screams rejection, but my body cries for more. The heat of him. The raw intensity. The dangerous edge that vibrates just beneath his skin.

But I can’t.

With great reluctance, I pull away, my breath coming out in ragged gasps. His eyes are bright with hunger, the smirk playing at the corners of his lips telling me he’s far from satisfied with a single kiss.

“That was better than I imagined,” Ghost murmurs against my mouth.

I give him a stern look. “This can never happen again.”

“Fuck. That.”

Ghost kisses me again.

The fire inside me flares, burning hotter, brighter, until the only thing I can feel is him. Until the only thing I want is him.

This man kisses like he kills: deliberately, skillfully, and without remorse.

My hands, which should be pushing him away, grab the fabric of his shirt. Not fighting. Holding. A desperate, primal contradiction that terrifies me more than his touch.

His grip on my throat tightens ever so slightly, just enough to send a thrill through me. He nips at my lower lip, the sting of pain quickly replaced by a rush of pleasure.

The contact is electric, sending a surge of adrenaline through me. I gasp, my eyes flying open. He uses the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue sweeping into my mouth.

I’m powerless to stop him.

My thoughts fragment. Professional distance. Ethical boundaries. Years of training that demand clinical detachment. All of it crumbles against the brutal intimacy of his mouth.

“Kiss me back, Geneva.”

His command is a whisper against my lips, a sensual demand that has me wanting to obey. He slowly traces the seam of my lips with his tongue. Now coaxing instead of taking.

And I surrender.

It’s a sigh. The softening of my body. The tightening of my grip on him.

I’ve studied Ghost for months. Analyzed every file, every report. I know the body pressed against me is a weapon. Trained. Lethal. Scarred. Each ridge and plane a testament to violence. I should be repulsed, but I’m enraptured.

Ghost releases his grip on my neck to place his palms against the wall on either side of my head, caging me in. All the while, he never stops his sensual assault on my mouth, even as the chain links from his cuffs press against my throat. Those same chains were just used to take a life, but now they’re on my skin, breathing life into me.

No longer a threat, but a thirst for more.

I kiss him back.

His touch changes at my response. It’s not just conquering, but something more unhinged. More desperate.

I whisper his name, overwhelmed by him. Ghost swallows the tiny sound, pulling my breath into his body. A tremor runs through him, followed by a groan of pure ecstasy that has me shaking as well.

His lips curl, but it’s not quite a smile. It’s something darker and devious. Something that says he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

To us.

He pulls back, allowing me to breathe as he trails lips along my jaw. Teeth scrape against my pulse point. Not quite biting. Not quite breaking skin. But promising that he could. That he might.

I try to stifle a moan, but I’m unsuccessful. It flows from my throat, liquid and sultry, like the dampness flowing from my pussy. Ghost freezes, his lips on my throat, his teeth testing my skin. He inhales deep and my face blooms with the heat of my embarrassment.

“I smell magnolia and pussy,” he murmurs.

Something shifts. Breaks. His façade shattering.

No more calculated precision.

No more meticulous control.

Just raw need.

He drops his hands and shoves one between my thighs to grip me, and I’m shocked by my own response as my legs instinctively spread for him. The wall is cold against my back. His body is fire. Burning. Consuming.

His touch is rough, almost brutal. Like he knows I won’t break. Like he knows I can take whatever he has to give. He sweeps his thumb across the crotch of my leggings, the material chafing against my sensitive flesh. The friction makes me groan.

“Fuck, Geneva. You’re soaking wet.”

His words only make the ache worse.

He presses his palm against my mound, the pressure deliciously maddening. His other hand grips my hip, his fingers digging into my flesh. I can feel the strength in him, the power. Every flex of his hand could end my life. The knowledge makes me euphoric.

Eyes closed, I arch into him, grinding against his palm, desperate for more. He responds with a growl, the sound low and primal as it sweeps past my ears and straight between my thighs.

I don’t care if this is wrong. I don’t care that he’s a murderer. A psychopath. All I care about is how he makes me feel.

Sexy.

Seen.

Safe.

Things I’ve never felt before, all at once.