Page 157 of Desperate Actions

But before I can say anything, the first dish arrives.

Fresh cucumbers glistening with sesame oil, seaweed salad, bok choy sautéed with mushrooms.

And then—the soup dumplings.

I can smell them before I see them, steaming, perfectly plated, served in a bamboo steamer.

I swear, I moan a little when the old woman sets them down.

Sammy chuckles, shaking his head like he finds me ridiculous.

“What is this?” I ask when she returns a few minutes later with a massive bowl filled with thick, hand-pulled noodles swimming in fragrant broth.

She sets it and two smaller bowls, chopsticks, scissors, spoons, and a ladle down between us.

“It’s awesome,” he answers, ladling some broth into a small dish for me. “This is the house special soup with hand pulled noodles, slices of short rib and beef brisket, some tendon, pickled veggies, boiled eggs, and the best broth in Manhattan.”

I pick up my chopsticks, ready to dig in, but he catches my wrist.

“Careful,” he murmurs, his voice like silk and steel. “It’s hot.”

And just like that, my hunger for food takes a backseat to my hunger for him.

Chapter 35-Sammy

Iguide Aella into the backseat of the SUV, my hands firm but careful as I make sure she’s seated before reaching over her to buckle her in.

I should let her do it herself.

But I can’t.

Not when the thought of her leaving my sight, even for a few hours, puts me on edge.

Not when I know I won’t be there to shield her from every fucking thing that could go wrong in the world.

I am so fucking obsessed with this woman.

I secure the belt with a quiet click, but before I pull back, I grip her chin, tilting her face toward mine, stealing a kiss like it’s the last taste of air before I plunge into deep waters.

Her lips part for me, soft and yielding, her breath mixing with mine. It’s supposed to be a goodbye kiss, a brief moment of connection before I have to force myself away from her.

But my mouth doesn’t want to leave hers.

I deepen the kiss, dragging my tongue over hers, swallowing her little gasp as my hand slides into the hair at the nape of her neck. The need to mark her, to remind her who she belongs to, burns through me, but I force myself to pull back.

Barely.

I stay close, our breaths mingling, my forehead pressed against hers.

Fuck. I don’t want to go.

I want to take her home, strip her bare, and remind her why she’s mine.

“What time will you be home?” she asks.

“I’m not sure. Same as last night, I imagine.” My voice is rougher than I intend, my self-control hanging on by a thread.

“Oh.”

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