Page 96 of Desperate Actions

“Do? Nothing. He won’t hit me.”

“You don’t know that.” She leans in conspiratorially, lowering her voice. “Trust me, my dad is a killer.”

It’s cute—her warning me like she thinks I don’t know exactly who Angel Fury is.

I fight back a grin.

“Pixie, your father can try to kill me, but he won’t.” I squeeze her fingers. “I can take care of myself. Besides, my pop won’t like it.”

I should be focused on her words, on prepping for the storm waiting for us at my parents’ house.

But instead—I’m staring at her.

At the way her skirt clings to her hips, the slits revealing just enough skin to make me crazy.

At the way that tight little V-neck sweater hugs her tits, the buttons just begging to be undone.

I want to hike her skirt up, see what kind of panties she has underneath.

Want to pop open those buttons, lick across her gorgeous tits, take my time worshiping every inch of her.

But I don’t.

Because we’re going to have dinner with our parents.

And I’m trying to be good.

Even though I don’t want to be.

The thing is—I spent years imagining what fucking Aella would feel like.

Years of dreaming about it.

And all of it—every single fantasy I ever had—is nothing compared to the reality of it, of her.

Because now I know.

Now I know exactly how she feels around me.

How she sounds when she’s falling apart beneath me.

How she tastes when I have my mouth on her, how she gasps and moans and begs for more.

And I only want more of her.

Want. Her. All. The. Time.

She takes up every inch of available space inside my head.

Right now, all I’m thinking about is stripping her out of that outfit.

Of pressing her against the car door, of tugging her panties aside, of sliding inside her before we ever reach Long Island.

But I know she’s feeling some big things over there, so I force myself to refocus on her words.

“What has you the most worried?” I ask.

She chews on her lip.

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