Page 105 of Kiss the Villain

Maybe I should’ve told him not to show up with her.

I punch in the code, narrowing my eyes. If he has the audacity to bring her, he can’t blame me for whatever fuckery my brain cooks up in retaliation.

With a large sigh, I head to the kitchen for a drink and pause at the fridge. There are three packs of organic strawberries, and a large bowl of the cut fruit sits in the middle, neatly covered.

He did this?

Why the fuck would he?

Whatever. I pull it out and nearly demolish the whole thing while obsessing over the clock.

Five minutes left.

Unless he’s still with her. Or, worse, went to her place.

My jaw tightens, and I push the bowl away, my fingers brushing the Taser in my jacket. It’s a new one since the asshole confiscated my last one. And my knife.

He’s ten fucking minutes late.

I’m pacing now, my mind racing with options.

If he went to her place, I might have to use the guards to try and locate her. But that’ll definitely get back to Jeremy, and he’s already been giving me suspicious looks. But at least Kill is so preoccupied with Glyn, he barely pays any attention to me.

I’ll deal with him later. First, I have to find that bastard before he screws something up.

It’stotallyabout protecting the woman from his ruthless way of having sex. She shouldthankme for being a goddamn Good Samaritan.

The door lock clicks, and I freeze, every nerve on edge.

Then I move, sliding behind the door, my back to the wall, knife in hand.

Relief hits me like a punch to the gut. It’s twisted and unnerving, mixing with this bubbling anticipation.

My breaths come in and out in deep, quick succession, and while my hand around the knife is steady, my palm is clammy.

It’s contagious—these mixed feelings whirling through me.

A sense of excitement.

A touch of malice.

The door opens painfully slowly, and he steps inside, all deliberate movements and irritating calmness.

There he is, the bastard.

Clad in a trench coat and a cashmere scarf, hair ruffled by the wind, cheeks flushed red.

As soon as he turns around to close the door, I pounce.

I slam him against the door, gripping his nape and pressing the knife to his pulse point. The impact rattles the frame, but he doesn’t even flinch.

The scent of wood and amber hits me like a fucking drug, and I can’t helpsniffinghim.

Why does he smell so good?

Heat radiates from him, the warmth of his hard back muscles pressing into my chest as I lean in closer. Every ridge of his defined physique is a sharp outline, and I feel each one against me as if his body is a map I can't stop tracing.

Exploring.

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