Page 31 of Taming Seraphine

“Answer my questions truthfully.”

She nods, knowing I’m not asking.

“Did you stab Monica because you wanted me to be your therapist?”

She hesitates. “No.”

My eyes narrow. “Did you really lose control yesterday on your killing spree?”

“Yes,” she murmurs. “And I know I need help.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask about her end game. If the answer is her, Gabriel, and me playing happy families in my apartment, then my answer to her request is no.

I don’t get attached to women. Certainly not a woman who has the face of an angel and the heart of a killer. Definitely not a woman whose darkness rivals my own, and especially not a woman trained to throw a man’s common sense off kilter.

Before I can say anything, she slides a hand over mine. Electricity zips up and down my spine as she clutches my finger.

“You’re the only one I can touch. You’re the only person I trust.”

I meet her pleading eyes. Eyes so clear and blue, I swear I can see the flames of her soul. Eyes that draw me in and won’t let go. What’s left of my resolve crumbles.

“I’m not a good man.” I mumble.

“I don’t need a good man,” she replies. “I need someone who understands me.”

“The training will be difficult.”

She gives me an eager nod.

“There will be punishment for failure.”

“Are there rewards for being a good girl?” she whispers, her voice husky.

Her words race straight to my cock, which pushes painfully against my fly. My mind is going in the wrong direction. She doesn’t mean the type of good girl that gets on her knees and gets down and dirty to earn my approval. Seraphine probably wants chocolates or clothes or gadgets. Not my kind of reward.

I clear my throat, but it’s already too late to clear my thoughts. My filthy mind is already picturing her beneath me, naked and writhing and flushed.

“What kind of rewards?” I ask.

Pink blooms across her cheeks, and the fingers around mine intensify their grip. My brain won’t stop picturing how tight she would be around my shaft.

“Well...” She licks her lips, and it takes every effort not to lean across the driver’s seat for a taste. “I’ve never had an orgasm.”

My eyes squeeze shut, along with the muscles of my throat. I rasp, “This conversation calls for a drink.”

* * *

One of the few legit businesses my cousins retained after Uncle Enzo died is Phoenix nightclub. It owns the bar next door that serves food and hard liquor. It’s also one of the few places where the tables aren’t jammed so close together that you can hear the people next to you chewing.

Seraphine and I sit in a booth close to the fire exit. I knock back two shots of whiskey and she drinks from a strawberry milkshake.

“This isn’t the kind of training I had in mind,” I say.

“I can’t think of any reward I want more than an orgasm,” she says.

I shift in my seat. “What about perfume, clothes, makeup?”

“No.”

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