Page 41 of His Dark Vendetta

Luca’s gaze travelled to my chest. I followed his eyes. The top button of my shirt had come undone, revealing the tops of my breasts. With his height, he probably had a pretty good view.

“Let go,” I snapped and yanked my arms back.

He tightened his grip and dragged his gaze back up to my face. The dark depths of his eyes deepened with sinful promise. He inched closer. “I know how I can make it up to you.”

I averted my eyes, unable to withstand the intensity of his indecent attention, but they landed on his chest. His firm, smooth chest. Thick with muscle and covered in trimmed hair. His gold chain and pendant accentuated the cleft between his pecs. I wanted to run my palms over all that hard muscle and hair and the black ink that artfully scrawledAntonio & Luciaabove his heart. My mouth went dry, and heat pooled between my legs.

“You’re deluded,” I said.

He rounded the corner of the dining table and crowded me against it. “Am I?”

I drew back, but the backs of my thighs hit the edge of the table and blocked my retreat. His big body loomed over mine, heating me from the inside, the air between us infused with his masculine scent. Clean, but musky. A hint of yesterday’s cologne. All Luca.

My breath quickened, but its shortness had nothing to do with disgust and everything to do with lust.

He released my wrist, and his hand hovered above my nipple, hard and poking against the shirt, straining for him to take the next step. He brushed the backs of his fingers across the sensitive peak, and I stifled a groan, the throb between my legs almost too much to master.

But I was angry—angry with him for putting me through hell and angry with myself for turning into putty at a single touch. I swatted his hand away. “Don’t.”

He didn’t bat an eye, his countenance unfazed, his focus fixed on my chest. He used his thumb to draw lazy circles around my areola, teasing me, making me want to beg.

“I said, don’t.” A harsh order in my head, the words came out quiet and husky. I swatted at his hand again and twisted my body away from him.

He grabbed my wrist and leaned closer, not allowing me to turn away. He lowered his face to my neck and nuzzled the space below my ear the way he’d done in the past just to fuck with me. Now the move felt ripe with sensuality.

I wished I was one of those badass women with enough strength and coordination to headbutt a man right in his smug face. But I wasn’t. Worse, my body betrayed me—my knees weakened at the caress of his breath against my skin and the brush of his nose beneath my ear—and I tilted my head to give him better access.

He rubbed slow circles on my wrist with his thumb. “Do you remember what you said to me, Shamrock?” His hot breath tickled, and his lips brushed against the ridge of my ear, sending a zing of desire straight to my core. “That night at Vesuvio? The night you took me with your mouth?”

My eyes fluttered closed and memories of my lips wrapped around his cock flooded my senses. The smell of him. His taste. “Hm?”

“You told me I could return the favor.” He nudged my earlobe with his nose—“Seems like the perfect occasion”—and teased it with the tip of his tongue.

I melted. His heat, his smell, his tongue. Years of wanting him so badly it hurt. They all conspired to box out my indignation with ruthless defiance. I sighed, a breathy, wanton noise that announced my desperate answer to his wicked suggestion.

He released my other wrist, and my hand hovered midair, my body frozen in wait for what came next.

I opened my eyes. His burned with desire, the deep brown pools speckled with rich amber flecks that almost appeared… red. The undercurrent of danger raised the temperature, and a shock of desire zipped between my legs. I rested my hands on his chest, hot and hard beneath my palms and begging to be licked, and the sparks in his eyes brightened with feral intent.

He lowered his gaze and lifted his hands to the top button of my shirt. His eyes darted to mine as it came undone, then returned to where his thick fingers worked the next button out of its hole.

I watched him, enthralled, my nipples hard, core on fire, until the shirt parted, an open invitation for Luca to explore.

He pushed the fabric aside, exposing my right breast. My nipple was plump and ready. I was ready. Ready for him to take whatever he wanted. And I wasn’t sure who I hated more—Luca or myself.

ChapterThirteen

Luca

Siobhán’s nipple was taut, a dusky rose nub thick with excitement. It stood out from her pale breast, the pert swell small enough I could cup it in one hand while pinching its swollen peak. I licked my lips, ready to see more.

“Is your pussy as ready for me as your nipple?” Her cheeks flushed, and her eyes hooded. “Are you wet for me, Shamrock?”

Her lips parted, the start of an answer, but I pushed the left side of her shirt open, and the backs of my fingers dragged across her other nipple. She sucked in a breath, and gooseflesh pebbled her skin. The tips of her nails pinched my shoulders and sent a rush of blood straight to my dick.

I was already half-hard from her wearing my shirt. The smudged and smeared makeup and mascara were gone, her pale skin fresh and clean. She had wrinkles across her forehead, at the corners of her eyes, and bracketing her lips. And those fucking freckles… They dusted her nose and spilled onto her cheekbones.

Something about her in my house wearing my clothes without any makeup… I wanted to bend her over the table and fuck her until she submitted. Until she admitted she belonged to me. Until I claimed her as mine.

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