Page 25 of Hot-Blooded Killer

We continue going out several times a week, being seen together in public as much as possible. Now, however, I insist on a nightly kiss goodbye—even though it makes me ache to taste her again.

The one night we go out to a club again, I drag her up against me on the dance floor.

“Wrap your arms around my neck,” I instruct her. Her eyes flash in irritation at the order, but she follows it.

I love that I can make her follow my commands.

This is going to be fun.

With both hands, I grab her hips, sealing our lower bodies together as we dance.

She goes stiff in my arms, and I lean down to whisper in her ear, pausing before I do to draw in the heady scent of her hair. “Loosen up, Principessa, or no one’s going to believe you want me as much as I know you do.”

I feel her jaw clench, and I pull back, giving her a wicked smile. “You know I’m right.”

She tosses her hair back behind her shoulders and forces her muscles to go soft and pliable. “Not as much as you want me,” she counters.

Then she melts against me, rolling her hips and thrusting them against mine to the beat of the music.

Oh fuck.

My cock instantly hardens, and I bite back a groan.

She’s right. Somehow, the memory of the taste of her only makes me want her more, not less. The thought of making her mine is an ache that keeps me hard almost constantly.

This time, she’s the one flashing a wicked smile.

But I roll with it. “That’s better,” I say. “Now everyone might believe we belong together.”

She takes it as a challenge. “Oh, I’m sure we can convince everyone of that.” She places her hand flat upon flat on my chest, then runs it down to my waist, where she plays with my belt buckle.

This time, I can’t hold back the moan. “You’re playing with fire, Principessa,” I warn her.

She shrugs and laughs. “I haven’t been burned yet.”

Maybe not, but she will be.

At the end of the song, I pull her to a circular booth in a darkened corner and order drinks. I stretch my arms out along the back of the seat, and she ducks in under it, snuggling up against me.

The heat of her body permeates me, and it’s all I can do not to lift her onto my lap and fuck her right there in the club. It’s as if that fire inside her, the bright light that I so often see straining inside her to escape, radiates a warmth just as strong as the light. And I want to bury my cock in it—bury my darkness in it until her brightness overwhelms me.

Several of her friends join us in the booth, including the ubiquitous Adele and Sarah

Gia slides one hand along my inner thigh.

“Fire,” I mouth at her.

She grins and shrugs, and her fingers flutter against the fabric of my pants.

I swell in response, and her mouth crooks up, even as she turns to talk to her friends—all of whom seem to have accepted our engagement without any further question since they passed me coming out of the women’s bathroom at the country club on their way in.

The music changes, and Sarah squeals. “I love this song. Come dance with me.” She reaches out her hands to Adele and Gia, and as they all get up to leave, Gia drags her nails up my leg, across my balls, and along the hardened shaft of my cock, which jumps as if it wants to follow her.

As if it has a mind of its own.

But as much as I want her, I’m no longer a teenage boy, prone to being led around by my dick.

Sure you’re not, a tiny voice inside my head mocks me. I shove the voice down and stay in the booth to finish my drink, until the erection subsides. For the moment, anyway.

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