Page 14 of Desperate Actions

Fuck.

I want that.

I want it so bad it knocks the breath out of me.

My grip tightens around the glass.

I throw back the rest of the whiskey, because the alternative is madness.

What the hell am I doing?

Aella is so damn pretty it hurts.

Too sweet. Too soft. Too fucking good for me.

She’s better than this life, better than my shadowed hands and all the violence that shaped them.

But none of that stops me from wanting her.

From craving her.

From standing here, fists clenched, barely keeping myself from grabbing and taking.

Yeah, I’m desperate.

And my actions? They reflect that.

I don’t have the self-control to pretend anymore.

Not when she steps off the elevator, wrapped in a dress so sinfully red it should come with a fucking warning sign.

My feisty little Pixie takes commands well.

I told her to wear the red.

And fuck me—she did.

I grin, slow and sharp, satisfaction unfurling in my chest as I take her in.

Every inch of her.

My gaze travels, heating as it devours the sight before me.

The sleek fall of her dark hair.

The soft curve of her waist, the long stretch of her legs.

That dress clings to her like a second skin, the fabric hugging every curve, every valley, every part of her she shouldn’t be showing off to anyone but me.

It’s like the damn thing was poured on.

And all I can think.

All I can see.

Is how easily I could peel it the fuck off.

She’s the perfect little package.

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