Page 17 of Sweet Animosity

There had to be someone I knew who was home.

I raised my head and looked at the bedroom wall.

Millie and Barb were probably in. They lived in the apartment next door. We shared a bedroom wall. They were forever teasing me about how they never had to knock on the wall to tell me to keep all the sex noises down.

My lips twisted into a frown. Of course not. The last boyfriend I had was the reason I had to move. And it wasn’t hard keeping the sex noises to a minimum back in my old place, when my boyfriend was across town fucking his co-worker.

I touched my lips.

What was more pathetic? That the kiss tonight was my first one in over three years, or that it was the best kiss I’d ever had?

Damn, that man knew how to kiss. All powerful arms and skilled tongue. No hesitation or icky spit.

And the press of his cock against my stomach… I took a long gulp from my wineglass. I thought dicks that big only existed in novelty dildos.

Even the idea of him making good on his threat to shove it down my throat and make me…

No.

Focus.

That man was a Russian, tatted-up criminal killer.

I had not become so desperate for a man that I was willing to lower my standards through the floor.

No matter how good he kissed.

Besides, he was obviously involved in this mess, and since I clearly was not getting my money, there was no need for me to have any more to do with the whole fucked-up thing.

I would chalk up the experience to a lesson learned and next time get the full payment up front.

Problem solved.

Well, the problem almost solved.

I still needed to find a place to lie low for the next week, just in case.

I thought of Millie and Barb again.

No. They were too close to my apartment.

What was the point of making myself scarce if I still could be seen entering and exiting the same building every day?

My phone screen glowed. I needed a married friend who’d moved out to Naperville or Oak Park, somewhere out of the city.

I’d returned to the kitchen to refill my wineglass when there was a loud knock at the door.

The wineglass fell from my hand but thankfully landed in the stainless-steel kitchen sink where it rattled and rolled before settling next to my morning coffee cup.

I grimaced at the sound.

Tiptoeing barefoot to the door, I peeked through the peephole.

Holy shit! It was the Russian.

He’d found me.

Another knock had me skittering backwards across the floor until my ass hit the back of the sofa.

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