Page 4 of Coerced Kiss

Fuck me.

Who would’ve guessed I’d be into this? I never realized I was such a twisted, kinky son of a bitch. Then again, it’s the first time I hold a woman at knife point. Although, it’s not the knife kink. It’s not the blade. And it’s not her fear. Well, not only. It’s the control. It’s knowing that in this well-lit corner of a dark street I am her god. Whether she breathes or utters her last sound for me and for my ears alone is entirely at my whim. She’s a clever girl. She reads me well. The realization dawns in her eyes as she watches me with terrified uncertainty.

I allow myself to indulge in the fantasy just for a moment, imagining how I’d make her kneel and worship her god. I won’t have to wine and dine her. I won’t have to indulge in fruitlessconversations. I won’t have to meet her family and make promises I never intend to keep. The best part is that I don’t have to trust her, because for as long as I live, I’ll never trust a woman again. All I have to do is command her.

That’s when I know.

I’m not going to kill her.

She must sense the change in me. The moment my focus shifts from killer to predator, she slams her palms on my chest and fights to push me off her, not that her efforts shift me an inch. I let her try, enjoying her fight, perhaps a little too much. It’s adorable how she punches a fist on my ribs, hoping to inflict damage.

At the same time she lifts her arm and tries to knock my hand from her throat, the door of the bar opens. We both still, our gazes locked in another quiet spell as more knowledge courses between us. She thinks she’s saved. I know exactly what she’s going to do even before she opens her mouth and sucks in a breath. Before she has time to let out the scream, I crush our mouths together. I swallow her sounds and her gasp, stealing inside her mouth with my tongue.

She turns rigid in my hold. Using the advantage of the surprise, I plunder her mouth like a greedy thief falling on a treasure. Her breath is warm and sweet. She tastes like strawberries and addiction. She’s too shocked to fight me. Just in case she gets that idea into her head, I make sure she feels the sharp edge of the knife on the soft mound of her stomach, and this time, I’m not playing, not with the knife and not with the kiss.

The subdued but deadly violence that still courses through my blood dictates my actions as I kiss her with meaning. It makes me harder. I kiss her like I’ve never kissed another woman, not even Rachele. It doesn’t have to be rough to be intense. Somehow, the gentleness with which I explore theshape of her tongue and the contours of her lips is much more explosive. Much more threatening. If I’m not careful, I could easily get carried away, but I’m always careful. I’m always in control. Even as I eat her lips, I do it with single-minded purpose. And even as I thoroughly enjoy her taste, I take stock of the people who spill out of the bar onto the sidewalk. The weapon is hidden between us, the blade cold against her warm body. For all the passersby know, I’ve got my hand between her legs. I could be fingering her right here in the open.

A guy wolf whistles. While the boisterous group disperse into different directions, I kiss her like this is my last kiss, and it’s not just to shut her up.

This kiss is different.

This kiss seals a deal.

“Is that you, Anya?” someone asks in a croaky voice.

I tear my lips from the little fairy’s mouth, noticing with no small measure of satisfaction how her pink lips glisten from my kiss, and cut my gaze toward the intruder.

An old lady dressed in a frilly blouse and a pencil skirt stands next to us. Her gray hair is piled in soft curls on her head, and her lips are painted knockout pink. The long string of pearls that’s twisted in several loops around her throat must weigh down her neck. A whiff of rosewater reaches my nostrils.

“Oh, itisyou,” she says, arranging the strap of a patent leather handbag over her forearm. A mischievous smile creases her face. “I see you finally followed my advice and caught yourself a juicy dish to break your dry spell.”

“Indeed,” I say with a chuckle, phrasing that as a question directed at my prey.

“Livy,” Anya chokes out, her cheeks flushing a pretty shade of apricot either from fear or embarrassment. “What are you doing here?”

Anya. I like it. It’s a pretty name.

Livy frowns. “I had my nightcap at the bar.” She scrutinizes Anya. “As I do every night. You know that.” Casting a curious look at me, she asks, “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your hunk?”

I press the flat end of the blade harder against my captive’s stomach, making sure she gets the message while ensuring I don’t cut her.

“I—” Anya swallows.

“Saverio De Luca,” I say. “My friends call me Sav.”

Anya sags a little in my hold as if the mere sound of my name steals her strength. I guess she didn’t want to know that.

“Olivia Simmons,” the old lady replies. “My friends call me Livy.” She winks at Anya. “Were you out on a date?”

I glide my hand from Anya’s neck down the front of her body before curling my fingers in an iron grip around her narrow hip. “I was just walking Anya home.”

“In that case, you won’t mind walking an old lady home too.”

Catching Livy’s gaze, Anya gives an inconspicuous shake of her head.

Bad girl. I tighten my grip on her in warning.

“Seeing that we live in the same building,” Livy adds sweetly.

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