Page 9 of Craving Chaos

Oh. Shit.

The man has game. Or at least, he talks a good game, and that can be just as important as the rest. Most of the time, when a partner tries to top me, I find it more funny than anything. That shit’s innate. Either you have it or you don’t. Most don’t.

I think Renzo may have been given more than his fair share.

Fuck me. I’m playing with fire.

And while I’m not the type to retreat, I’m not stupid, either. So why is it so damn hard to keep from egging him on? Why do I desperately want to know how far he’d take the conversation? I need to know what he might say next and whether it will cause a surge in my pulse—that delicious feeling of lightheadedness signaling the body’s preparation for something extraordinary.

It’s a sensation I rarely encounter outside the boxing ring. And Renzo Donati seems to summon the reaction at will as though I’m a puppet on strings.

Why is it always the impossible ones that pique my interest?

It’s not happening. Not again.

Me: I’m at work, so that’s unlikely. I’ll be there at one.

I hit send, hoping I don’t sound as though I’m presenting a challenge or am affected in any way by his comment. In reality, I wish my panties were in a twist because it might give me the friction I need to soothe my aching clit.

I was right when I decided Renzo was trouble with a capital T.

I need to get those damn guns, then get the hell out of Dodge. I’m just as capable of handling this in a professional manner as any of my cousins.

Warehouse. Guns. Gone.

Easy peasy.

CHAPTER 4

RENZO

I stepped out of the shower to find two text messages—one from my guys informing me that the forklift was working and the other from my cousin Noemi giving me Shae’s number. The fact that the two showed up together was too tempting. I sent the text to Shae before I could overthink it.

Did I ever imagine my lack of clothing would come up? Not even once.

Did texting about it get my dick hard? Abso-fucking-lutely.

Hell if I didn’t have to get back in and shower again after our exchange. All it took was the flash of an image—her smart mouth speechless as I rammed my cock inside her—and I was too hard to ignore. I had to paint the shower wall with cum like a fucking teenager before I could think straight again.

That woman does something to me, and I don’t like it. My belligerent insistence on seeing her again is evidence enough that she’s a dangerous distraction. Like she so graciously pointed out, I have more important matters that require my attention. And yet … when I considered texting Conner or handing off the meeting to one of my men, I couldn’t do it. I found myself rationalizing a personal appearance. We’ve held up the exchange because of my father’s death. It would be prudent of me to show respect and appreciation by overseeing the matter myself.

That crock of shit is what I continue to tell myself as I park outside the warehouse for my second meeting with Shae Byrne. An unmarked box truck pulls into the lot. I expect to see one of her men behind the wheel, but I should have known better. Shae’s tiny frame is perched in the driver’s seat. She’s wearing dark aviator glasses and the unbothered air of a lion with a full belly.

We round our vehicles at same time and pause to assess one another before meeting in the middle.

The stilettos are gone. She’s all business in what looks like black Doc Martin boots, jeans that are nothing more than a coat of paint over perfectly toned legs, and a black puffer jacket zipped all the way to her chin, right below vibrant crimson lips. A simple shift in wardrobe took her from business glam to a goth-girl wet dream. I’m not sure which I like more.

“You didn’t bring your men to help load,” I note, wondering if they’re coming separately.

“Short notice. Everyone was busy.” She lifts her sunglasses and squints into the back seat of my car. “Looks like I’m not the only one who came alone.”

“I assumed you’d bring your crew.”

“You know what they say about assuming…” she says in a singsong voice.

What I would give to fuck that smart-ass smirk off her face. I’d spin her around, press her flush against the hood of my car, and make her pant until she was too cum drunk to give me sass.

Hell, I have to stop thinking like that before I end up with a hard-on and give her more ammunition.

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