Series: Chicago Sin Series by Renee Rose
Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
I settle beside her and stroke my palm over her hip. “A little. I understand it better than I speak it. I’m second generation American, so my grandparents speak it.”
“Wow.” She turns into me, her palm coming to rest on my chest. “Are you always… like this?”
I push a swatch of curls over her shoulder, so I can see her gorgeous breast. “Like what?”
She chews her lip. “Like this in bed.”
I only partially manage to hide my surprise. I learned a long time ago that any time you get a woman to talk about sex, you don’t do anything to shut that communication down. Hannah wants to talk—I’m in. Even if I am so far out of touch with my emotions, I’m a robot.
I consider. “No. I don’t think so. I used to have more game. My techniques were... more stylized. I even thought sophisticated. But with you…” I close my eyes letting pleasure of what we just did wash over me. “It’s more raw. Hungry. Almost desperate.”
She blinks at me. There’s vulnerability shining in those sultry brown eyes, but I’m not sure what she needs me to say. Or if I already fucked this up.
“Every time we do it, something in me thaws,” I admit.
More vulnerability washes over her face, and her breath quickens. Is her lower lip trembling?
I come out with it—all the honesty I know how to give. “You’re healing me.”
Her eyes fill with tears, and she lets out a puff of air. I cup her face, trying not to react to the tears. A couple spill down her cheek, and I thumb one away.
“You’re destroying me.” Her voice chokes with tears.
I freeze. Stop breathing.
What is she saying? What is she telling me here? Fuck.
That shifty thing happens again in my chest.
“How?” My whole body’s tense for her answer.
She sits up, and I follow. “Armando, what is this? I don’t even know what we’re doing, but I know it’s a bad idea.”
Aw, shit. My heart stops beating. My chest goes stiff.
“I don’t have the answers you’re looking for,” I admit.
“Everything is happening so fast. Like a raging storm.”
“It is.”
“So what is this? Is it just sex… a lot of it?”
I shake my head. “No, Flowers. It’s not just sex. I can tell you that much.” Although I can’t keep my damn hands off this woman.
“But it’s dangerous,” she adds.
A fist clenches in my gut.
“I don’t keep feelings locked up in a box. My emotions are big, and they bleed into everything. And I don’t want to fall in the deep end when I know there will be no one around to pull me out.”
I digest that metaphor. Does the deep end mean love?
Fuck.
I want to tell her I won’t hurt her. But she’s right. Someone wants me dead. I don’t know if I’ll live through the week. And even if I do, Hannah and I are worlds apart. She’s color and light and delicate flowers.
I’m darkness.
Death.
Destruction.
I live and breathe in a den of sin.
I have zero to offer her.
In fact, my continued presence in her life is only a grave danger to her.
As soon as I stop pretending I believe she’s actually a problem for me, I should walk.
Walk away and never look back.
If I had any decency, I’d do it right now.
But I don’t. I grip her face and claim her mouth like she just professed her love to me. Which, in a way, she did.
“We’re both in the deep end, Flowers,” I tell her when we break apart.
I’ve never been in so deep.
She bleeds…. I bleed.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Hannah
Armando’s phone rings in the middle of the night. The way he rips out of bed on a gasp tells me he’s used to waking up fighting. Another sharp inhale through his nose, and the light from his phone comes on. His expression is hard. Warrior-like. “Yeah?”
I hear a clipped male voice on the other line, the tone just as sharp as Armando’s. I hear the words shot up and cops.
Armando swears and starts pulling on his clothes like he’s going to battle. “‘Kay. I’m coming down… No, I’ll Uber… Yeah.”
I turn on the bedside lamp and climb out of bed, too. My heart pounds, even though I don’t know what the emergency is.
Armando ends the call and buttons his pants, then slides the phone in his pocket.
“What’s the matter? Who was that?” I ask. Maybe I’m being too forward, but he is in my apartment and in my bed. I think I’ve earned the right.
He turns to look at me. His face is hard. Unforgiving. His expression is lethal.
“I need to leave.” His eyes dart around the room. “You’re going to have to stay—”
“Don’t even think about tying me up.” I’m proud of myself for keeping my voice low and threatening, instead of hysterical, like last time.
He is thinking about it. I can tell because he doesn’t move. He’s still standing there, looking at me.