Page 101 of Sinister Intentions

Something inside me immediately softened. “Is that…me?” I whispered, my voice barely audible. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the image. “Is that how you see me?” A part of me marveled at the beauty he’d drawn while another part felt a pang of vulnerability, knowing that he’d seen me like this, exposed and fragile, vulnerable. Naked.

I focused on the expression he’d drawn on my face, the eyes sparkling defiantly. He even caught that part of me. “Did you draw this?”

“Why?” Vince said. He took the sheet and looked at it. “It’s not perfect but close enough.” He cocked his head, then looked up at me and locked his eyes onto mine. “It’s how I see you.”

The intensity and openness in his gaze sent shivers down my spine, making my rebellious nature flare up in response. But the truth was, I couldn’t deny the beauty of the drawing any more than I could deny the magnetic pull I felt toward him.

I arched a brow, acutely aware of his nearness and the fact I was still only dressed in his T-shirt.

And that that wasn’t even the most undressed he’d seen me.

Also, not the way he drew me. No, his choice was to draw me completely naked. And much more beautiful than I really was. “How’s your eyesight these days?” I teased in an attempt to mask my nervousness with humor.

“Twenty-twenty,” he shot back, his voice low and deliberate. “Why, you have some feedback you want to share?”

My heart raced at the way he stared at me. Somehow, despite the challenge in his eyes, he looked more open, more vulnerable than ever before, and I was torn between defiance and the desire to just crawl onto his lap and feel his strong arms wrapped around me in the best hug ever.

I looked at the drawing again. “That’s not the way I look. I’m not that beautiful,” I said, then glanced back at him.

He narrowed his brows, but our eyes locked,

“You are that beautiful to me.”

The words hung in the air between us, charged with so much unspoken meaning. Was he serious? Was he seriously calling me beautiful?

Our eyes remained locked, the sexual tension between us thick and palpable.

I stood there, on the precipice of something life-altering. Despite everything, despite our differences, our conflicts, our circumstances, I wanted Vince Salvini—all of him, the good and the bad, the caring, and the ruthless.

The passion, the danger, and the unknown.

And the way he looked at me told me he wanted me, too, enough to forget everything that stood between us.

He didn’t release my wrist; instead, he pulled me between his thighs. Then pushed me back until my ass rested on the desk. He bridged the gap.

The position was intimate, and the air between us was suddenly charged with unspoken desire.

A flash of heat rose from my chest upwards, and my nipples tightened, aching for his touch.

He slid his hands under my shirt, then dragged it up, rough against my skin. He stood, pulled the fabric over my head, then sat back down and spanned his hands over my belly and circled my waist. His calloused fingers grazed the soft skin of my sides, then my back.

I shuddered, desire burning through my veins like wildfire, but his eyes held me captive and rooted to the spot.

“You want me as desperately as I want you.” He brushed his lips over the skin of my belly.

A breathy moan escaped me, and I rocked my hips forward, put a hand on the back of his head, and held him against me.

He tightened his grip on my sides and held me suspended between his lips and the desk behind me.

I needed more. Needed him. Closer. More.

Vince groaned, then tilted his head back and stared up at me. “Say it. Tell me you need me as much as I need you.” His deepvoice, the command in it, sounded more like a growl and sent a thrill through me.

I tightened my hand in his hair. Enough with the games. “I want you,” I whispered. “Please, Vince.”

The expression on his face turned almost wolfish. “That’s my girl.” He stood, boosted me up until I sat on the desk, and then pulled down my panties, the only barrier still there.

I was completely naked while he was still fully dressed.

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