her back, her legs spilling over the side of the bed to the floor, Drago standing at the edge, she guides him inside her, watching as his thick shaft disappears through the circle of her fingers. He moves out and back in, and she comes just watching him.
Hard. Fast. Wanting more.
She grabs for him, tries to make him climb over her so she can hold him, but he shakes his head.
“I want to watch.”
Indeed, his gaze is glued to the spot where they’re joined. And then to her face when she arches and cries out. “Come with me!”
“Next time,” he promises…
—
Drago stood over Camille, her clean shirt in his hand. Not only was she asleep, he was certain she was dreaming. He could see it in the tension in her face, hear it in the soft mewls whispering through her lips.
An erotic dream…about him?
Tempted to find out, he resisted. He couldn’t get Camille out of his head. She alternately made him want to walk away from her and to have her in his bed. It took every ounce of willpower to not give in to the physical. And a reminder to himself that it would be a mistake to take things to the bedroom with her. They were too different. Always had been, despite their lust-filled weekend.
He was what he was, and she was what she was. Opposite ends of the spectrum. Beliefs. Actions. Lives.
Refusing to be recruited as a gang member when he was a kid, he’d realized that if he didn’t do something to fight back, he would eventually become a victim. Maybe dead. So at fifteen, he’d started his own antigang gang, became a vigilante leader against other gangs to protect the innocent in his own neighborhood. Street justice was more than a concept to him, and he knew that even though Camille was doing things against department orders, at heart she was a cop. She wouldn’t approve of things he’d done to survive. Besides which, he’d never fully trusted any cop, not even his own brother, who’d let him rot in Cook County.
A relationship between them would never work, and he didn’t just want physical satisfaction from her. God help him, he wanted more. He’d met a Camille different from the cop she really was. A moment in time in which all reality had been stripped away. For one weekend, at least, she hadn’t been the job. He’d been drawn to so many things he’d discovered being with her for those few days. While spending that time in jail locked away from her he’d dreamed of more.
Now Camille was dreaming again. Or still. She made a sound like a woman being pleasured. He couldn’t help his body’s reaction.
He wanted her…but he wouldn’t make a move.
He’d told her the next time she would have to ask him to touch her. And he knew she would never do so.
A sexual stand-off.
But that was good.
Because more would never work between them.
He realized how much she needed sleep, no matter that she was dreaming and restless. She couldn’t keep going without recharging. He would let her wake up naturally in an hour or two. He hung the shirt on a dresser knob, then pulled the bedspread over her and lightly tucked it under her chin.
With regret, he left the bedroom and sprawled across the couch. He could use some shut-eye himself. Assuming he could sleep. Assuming he could put Camille Martell out of mind. He hadn’t been able to forget her for one day since they’d met, so how was he supposed to do that now?
—
It was the middle of the night before Angel got to the bungalow. He sat in his car parked on the opposite side of the street and stared at the darkened windows. The kid might not know her neighbor’s last name, but she’d told him how to find the house before he’d drugged her again and had locked her back up in the closet.
He hadn’t decided what to do with the little blonde yet. She’d seen him clearly in daylight—not the real him, maybe, but the disguise he used to fade into crowds. Still, she’d had reason to memorize his features. She would be no thrill kill, but he needed to get
Hard. Fast. Wanting more.
She grabs for him, tries to make him climb over her so she can hold him, but he shakes his head.
“I want to watch.”
Indeed, his gaze is glued to the spot where they’re joined. And then to her face when she arches and cries out. “Come with me!”
“Next time,” he promises…
—
Drago stood over Camille, her clean shirt in his hand. Not only was she asleep, he was certain she was dreaming. He could see it in the tension in her face, hear it in the soft mewls whispering through her lips.
An erotic dream…about him?
Tempted to find out, he resisted. He couldn’t get Camille out of his head. She alternately made him want to walk away from her and to have her in his bed. It took every ounce of willpower to not give in to the physical. And a reminder to himself that it would be a mistake to take things to the bedroom with her. They were too different. Always had been, despite their lust-filled weekend.
He was what he was, and she was what she was. Opposite ends of the spectrum. Beliefs. Actions. Lives.
Refusing to be recruited as a gang member when he was a kid, he’d realized that if he didn’t do something to fight back, he would eventually become a victim. Maybe dead. So at fifteen, he’d started his own antigang gang, became a vigilante leader against other gangs to protect the innocent in his own neighborhood. Street justice was more than a concept to him, and he knew that even though Camille was doing things against department orders, at heart she was a cop. She wouldn’t approve of things he’d done to survive. Besides which, he’d never fully trusted any cop, not even his own brother, who’d let him rot in Cook County.
A relationship between them would never work, and he didn’t just want physical satisfaction from her. God help him, he wanted more. He’d met a Camille different from the cop she really was. A moment in time in which all reality had been stripped away. For one weekend, at least, she hadn’t been the job. He’d been drawn to so many things he’d discovered being with her for those few days. While spending that time in jail locked away from her he’d dreamed of more.
Now Camille was dreaming again. Or still. She made a sound like a woman being pleasured. He couldn’t help his body’s reaction.
He wanted her…but he wouldn’t make a move.
He’d told her the next time she would have to ask him to touch her. And he knew she would never do so.
A sexual stand-off.
But that was good.
Because more would never work between them.
He realized how much she needed sleep, no matter that she was dreaming and restless. She couldn’t keep going without recharging. He would let her wake up naturally in an hour or two. He hung the shirt on a dresser knob, then pulled the bedspread over her and lightly tucked it under her chin.
With regret, he left the bedroom and sprawled across the couch. He could use some shut-eye himself. Assuming he could sleep. Assuming he could put Camille Martell out of mind. He hadn’t been able to forget her for one day since they’d met, so how was he supposed to do that now?
—
It was the middle of the night before Angel got to the bungalow. He sat in his car parked on the opposite side of the street and stared at the darkened windows. The kid might not know her neighbor’s last name, but she’d told him how to find the house before he’d drugged her again and had locked her back up in the closet.
He hadn’t decided what to do with the little blonde yet. She’d seen him clearly in daylight—not the real him, maybe, but the disguise he used to fade into crowds. Still, she’d had reason to memorize his features. She would be no thrill kill, but he needed to get
Similar Books
