Page 67 of Santiago's Conquest (Four Dark Horsemen 1)

I arch my back when his lips travel to my neck, sucking on my skin so hard I pull him closer, hating the thrill rushing through me at the idea of his hickey spreading on my flesh, warning away anyone else.

I know as long as I’m his, no one will ever hurt me again.

“Ask me to fuck you, querida,” he orders, biting on the mound of my breast as his hand cups the other, squeezing it hard, sending goose bumps all over my skin. I gulp for breath. “Pregúntame.” He trails his lips back to my open mouth, dipping his tongue inside and locking us in a deep, passionate kiss.

He dominates my mouth as if he owns it, brushing his tongue over mine, coaxing it to engage in a duel. When his thumb presses on my chin, giving himself more room, he swallows my moan, and then he sucks on my tongue and devours me once again. When he yanks at my hair, a hairpin slips under his assault, and my locks fall freely down my back.

With each glide of his tongue, pleasure spreads through me more and more, my core dampening while I drag him closer even though there is no wiggle room left between us.

His masculine scent surrounds me, creating a cocoon separating us from the cruel outside world. My hands slide over his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders, and my fingers hover over the buttons of his shirt, needing to feel his naked skin under my palms. He continues to fuck my mouth, mimicking lovemaking by pushing deeper and deeper, seeking complete surrender.

Madness.

Only madness can explain my reaction to him, fueling my blood with carnal, wicked need, washing away common sense and happiness at the prospect of living under his protection.

Except he’s the monster who hurts everyone.

My mind screams at me, ordering me to listen to its calling, dumping cold water over my head. I snatch my mouth away and shift toward the car door, pressing my back to it, covering my mouth with my palm as we watch each other, breathing heavily.

His sapphire orbs are dilated, the fire blazing in them scorching me, but I ignore the ache inside me, the betraying ache that doesn’t care about anything as long as something soothes it.

Even sleeping with a serial killer!

He lunges toward me, but my splayed palm stops him. “No,” I say, testing my boundaries, and sigh in relief when he listens, keeping his word of not taking me by force.

Tearing my gaze away from him before I succumb to my hormones’ call, I look at the window, only to blink and realize we’re pulling by iron gates with security standing nearby.

He salutes us before clicking on a remote, and they slide open soundlessly. A few seconds later, George drives onto the narrow, concrete road surrounded by a huge amount of land with oak trees and green fields, endless amounts of open space. “Welcome to mi casa, Briseis,” Santiago announces, his rough voice indicating to me he was just as affected by our encounter as me.

However, it doesn’t change anything, does it?

Our equation always ends up having a negative in it.

Gluing my nose back to the window, I notice in the distance a one-level, huge, brick house spread horizontally right in the middle of the land, with an obscene amount of windows. Does his darkness like to bask in the sunlight?

Countless lights are spread on the grass, illuminating the place, combining with the moonlight casting shadows on the ground, and it almost seems as if we’re in the forest, away from civilization.

My brows furrow when the car pulls up to the house, and I get out before Santiago can stop me, huffing and struggling with the long-ass, stupid skirt to step on the concrete. My heels click loudly as I blink at how everything around me is…

Bland.

He’s Santiago Cortez; all the luxuries this life has to offer lie at his feet. He could have had the best designers turning it into a dream straight from magazines that every single person would feel envy for the things he has.

Who in their right mind would be envious of this house that looks so scary and quite fitting to his real character?

I haven’t even realized my jaw has dropped open until Santiago shuts it with his finger, or that George has already driven off, my only way of escape from this place, leaving nothing but dust behind.

“Surprised?” he asks, sauntering toward the house and punching in a code next to the door, and it opens with a loud click. “Expected an underground shack holding my victims prisoner?” He kicks open the door and motions with his head for me to enter. “I promise you I don’t bring them to my house.”

Yeah, okay. He clearly has no problem bringing up his serial killer ways.

“No. It’s just that your mother has such a beautiful garden; everyone praises her roses. I’m shocked you have all this land to waste.” Grass and trees don’t really count, since they’re so randomly planted it’s clear they were already there, so the land doesn’t look completely bare.

Grabbing my skirt, I walk inside the house, and instantly the smell of tobacco hits my nostrils mixed with… roses?

Santiago claps his hands once, and immediately light brightens the place, showcasing a spacious, wide common room consisting of two leather couches and chairs with a small table between them. They’re holding a vase full of blooming roses, reminding me of the ones I had for my wedding bouquet. A huge flat-screen TV hangs on the otherwise bare walls. The white paint is almost blinding, and I shift my attention to the kitchen that’s separated by an arch yet has no door. Silver dishes behind the counter glisten in the light, probably even showing our reflection in them, that’s how polished they are. Various knives are spread out on the counter—for easy access, maybe?

A small bar is located in a corner, various alcohol bottles filling it, and by how most of them are half empty, it leaves no doubt Santiago likes to drink as much as he likes to smoke.

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