Page 154 of Kissing the Villain

I lowered us to the blanket and gripped her thighs, taking a second to appreciate each of her delicious curves.

“Play with your pussy,” I ordered.

Her blue eyes widened, and like a good girl, she rubbed her thumb over her clit, moaning as I filled her to the hilt. Raising her leg over my shoulder, I kissed her skin. Licking and biting, I teased her until she moaned my name. She screamed loud enough to draw attention from above us. I looked up and saw Marcello at the edge of the cliff. He stood there for a second before he walked back toward the house.

I slid my finger across her lips, and she sucked it into her mouth. Her body tightened, then trembled as I fucked her like a savage, pounding her back into the sand. After we hit the peak of our climaxes, I rested my sweat-slick forehead against hers.

I collapsed on top of her and attempted to catch my breath. “Damn, D. You make me come so fucking hard I can’t see straight.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“For what?”

She raised her blood-coated fingers. “I got a little carried away when I clawed at your back.”

“It’s okay, baby. I embrace the pain.”

A ghost of a smile crossed her lips. “No one should like pain.”

“What did I tell you about pain?”

“It’s weakness leaving the body.”

I nodded. “You can help me wash the blood off in the shower.”

After I slid out of her, I flipped onto my back, ignoring the open gashes bleeding through the blanket. With my scars raw and exposed, I replaced the terrible memories with new ones. I took a few deep breaths as my body relaxed. Alex curled up next to me, kissing my stomach. Everywhere her lips touched, heat danced along my skin.

“I know you’re keeping secrets because you think you’re protecting me,” Alex muttered. “Just tell me one thing. Is this the calm before the storm?”

I wrapped my arm around her and kissed her forehead. “Yeah, baby. Don’t get too comfortable. Hell is about to rain down on us.”

56

ALEX

My mother strolledinto the Du Bois ballroom with her eyes pointed at the ceiling. A new client had contacted Arlo directly and requested that I assist with a fresco restoration. Mommy dearest didn’t have the skill to handle this project, but she agreed to give a quote. Fresco restorations were my area of expertise. After months of studying under Madeline Laveau, I could handle the project myself.

“Isn’t this gorgeous?”

My mother whispered as she stopped at the center of the room, staring at the hideous fresco.

“Uh-huh,” I muttered. “When can I paint over it?”

She gasped, her hazel eyes wide as she looked at me. “Paint over it? Be serious, Alexandrea.”

“I think they can afford it. I saw an original Rembrandt on our way through the house.”

“That’s beside the point,” she snapped. “You wouldn’t repaint the Sistine Chapel because you weren’t a fan of Michelangelo.”

I shrugged. “Hey, it’s not like we have to live here.”

“Attitude,” she said in a clipped tone.

“Look at the artist’s work.” I pointed my finger at the ceiling, highlighting the chipped plaster that ruined the watercolorlandscape. “The artist was sloppy. They did a terrible job with the plaster. You can see clumps near the molding.”

She narrowed her eyes at me and then followed my finger. “I’ll have Armand look at this week.”

“I can restore it,” I said with certainty. “No problem. Give me two weeks.”

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