Page 20 of Desperate Actions

So yeah. I’m extra vigilant.

Me, Junior, and Balor stand close guard, eyes sharp, watching.

Sigma men patrol from a distance, strategically placed, unseen but present.

Even so, Las Vegas is a loud, colorful beast, one that thrives on distraction and indulgence.

And mistakes get made in places like this.

So I watch.

I wait.

I drink.

And I try like hell to keep my eyes off the one thing I can’t have.

But it’s like there’s this magnetic pull that forces my gaze to land on her and only her.

Why fight it?

I take in my pretty little Pixie, wrapped in red silk and temptation, and for a moment—just a moment—I forget how to breathe.

She’s a goddamn knockout.

That soft smile of hers? The kind that inspires poets and painters.

I’m neither of those things. I break things for a living.

I put men in the ground. My hands are calloused, stained, built for war.

But still—I want her.

She’s sipping something pink and frothy, the rim of her glass dusted in pink sugar.

A watermelon margarita.

I know she only likes them made with fresh watermelon puree.

Never artificial. Never from a mix.

I’ve never had one before, but suddenly, I wonder how it tastes.

Not the drink.

Her.

Bam.

Just like that, my dick is hard, and I can’t stop staring at her mouth—at the way her lips part slightly as she sips, the way her tongue flicks out to catch a stray drop.

Fuck.

“Dude?”

Junior’s voice cuts through the haze.

“Shut up,” I growl, finally tearing my gaze away. “You got problems of your own.”

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