Page 13 of Pitiful Lies

Something darker. Forbidden. Something certain women want to use to scratch an itch when they’re tired of their staid lives.

But Giselle’s not like that. She’s a breath of fresh air. No guile, just stark honesty and she’s so in your fucking face. And yet she is still so complex. Like she has secrets and I’m dying to know what they are.

I fucking love that about her. She makes me want to dive deep, discover it all. And I will. Even if she fights me the whole time.

A sick part of me hopes she does. But another side of me, the tender one I don’t acknowledge very often, wants her to surrender willingly.

It wants her to trust me.

Fuck, what has she done to me? Since when do I care if a woman trusts me?

Never before. Only with her. Only right now.

This woman is not some piece of ass you can use and cast aside. She demands more. That’s why I tracked her gorgeous ass all the way down to the Sunshine State.

Two months apart is all I can take. It’s been long enough. I’m taking her back home.

Where she belongs.

Period. And no, I’m not going to look too closely at that, either.

“I am not driving all the way back to Jersey City with you.”

“Yes, you are, Koukla. Be quiet now and let me drive, or else,” I warn her.

“Or else what?” she snaps.

“Or else I’ll find something to stick in that mouth to make you quiet.”

She squeaks and turns her head to face the road. I want to laugh, but I quickly realize I’m an idiot because now all I can picture is her on her knees with my dick in her mouth.

I adjust my hard as fuck cock in my pants and I step on the gas pedal.

It’s gonna be a very long ride.

CHAPTER TWO-GISELLE

Bastard.

I can’t believe Angel said that. Well, that’s not exactly true.

Of course, I can believe it.

Angel is a big, sexy, tattooed giant who loves talking dirty.

It’s one of the things I like most about him. Something I never thought I would ever admit to.

If only he wasn’t talking to every woman he fucking looks at like that.

Sadness and lust war within me, but the cell phone in my pocket buzzes and I heave out a sigh.

“Whose texting you like that?” Angel asks, his thick black brows furrowed like he’s curious, bordering on annoyed.

But I don’t have it in me to play games with him. I’m not like that.

“It’s my mom.”

“Oh,” he replies. “Call her.”

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