Page 71 of Desperate Actions

A low, guttural sound that vibrates through his chest, and before I even register what’s happening, he pivots his body, moving me to the other side so I don’t so much as brush against the stranger.

“Hey, watch it,” the guy grumbles.

Sammy doesn’t bother responding.

Doesn’t acknowledge him.

Just glares, all quiet, controlled menace, and that’s all it takes.

The guy shuts up.

Moves out of the way.

And Sammy? He just guides me forward, steady and sure, like nothing ever could stand between us.

God, I hope he’s right.

Chapter 19-Sammy

The private jet taxis down the runway, the engines humming softly, a smooth contrast to the restlessness inside me.

I have my hand on Aella’s thigh, my thumb tracing slow, lazy circles against the soft fabric of her silk pants.

She inhales deeply, and I feel it before I even hear it.

The slow, measured breath, the subtle shifting of her body, like she’s settling in, adjusting, preparing.

Her scent drifts up to me, and fuck me, I hum deep in my chest.

Fresh watermelon and sugar.

Always.

Always so tempting.

Positively mouthwatering.

I move slightly in my seat, the ache of wanting her again already creeping up my spine.

Before I can act on it, a voice interrupts, “Good morning, Mr. Ramirez, can I bring you or Miss Fury a coffee?”

I grit my teeth.

I know this woman.

Not personally, but she’s one of several dozen employees working for the fleet of private planes Volkov Industries owns and uses.

She’s doubtlessly seen me, my siblings, my cousins, and the whole damn lot of Volkov and Fury offspring coming and going on these jets.

So, I know she didn’t mean anything by it.

But I don’t care.

Because she’s wrong.

“That’s Mrs. Ramirez now,” I correct her.

My tone is sharp, clipped, unapologetically possessive.

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