The Dangerous Ones [✔️] (#1 in the Chilvati Series)

FIFTY

Who are you kidding, Spinelli. Even the thought of her with someone else was enough to curl his hands into fists. You are in love with this woman, stop denying it. Before her, life had been simply about getting the job done, numbed-out by a cold existence and surrounded by shadows. Now he had a purpose, an end game. She was the light at the end of his dark tunnel.

He straightened his stance and walked toward her. "Do you want me to go?" Please say no.

She looked up, the pained expression displaying the internal conflict raging within. "Do you want to go?"

"Hell, no."

The briefest of smiles appeared, along with a flicker of relief in green eyes. "Then no, I don't want you to," she said softly.

Thank God. "Let's focus on something else." He grabbed her hands in both of his and nodded over his shoulder. "I think that fire needs our attention." He pulled her out of the front hallway into her living room. "Romantic," he whispered in her ear as he guided her body closer. She came willingly into his arms, hands sliding up his chest and around his— Shit.

She yanked her hands away and stepped back.

Shit. Shit. Shit. He cursed his own stupidity. He should have gone into his house to change, but being worried about her state of mind, everything else had escaped his.

She moved behind him without a word and reached up to his shoulders, tugging on the jacket. Mark shrugged it off, and it landed on the chair beside him. She circled him once, studying his back and chest for signs of what she had touched.

"Take it off," she demanded, pointing at his T-shirt. Before he even had a chance to move, she reached out and grabbed the bottom of it. With one quick yank, she had it up and over his head. It, too, got tossed on the chair.

She was hard to read as she studied the shoulder holster. It was similar to the ones the police used in the way it came down from the neck and looped under the arms, the straps on both sides of the body held down by the belt worn around the waist of his jeans. There was no gun, however, and it was much sleeker in design, custom made to hug his body.

"Can I see it?" she whispered.

"No."

"Please?"

Damn it. He wanted to keep her insulated from this part of his world—the violent part.

"I've seen a knife before," she said, her voice hard, impatient.

"Ginny . . ."

She widened her stance and crossed her arms. Going nowhere.

"One quick look," he growled, reaching up with both arms to the back of his neck. A soft scratching sound echoed in the quiet stillness before his hands descended with a knife in each.

She seemed mesmerized by the one with the gut hook. "I didn't know there were two of them. They are bigger than I thought," she murmured, reaching forward.

He pulled back. "Uh-uh, they are very sharp." Deciding she had seen enough, he repeated the process to put them back in their sheaths.

Her hand touched his stomach, making him clench. She moved, her fingers leaving a hot trail as they slid across his abs to his side before brushing along the brown leather of the strapping, continuing on with the slow glide until she ended up behind him.

The sheaths lay in the shape of an upside down V, tucked just below the hills of his shoulder blades, the buckskin lying smooth against his skin. The tips of the two handles came together near the base of his neck. They were wide but flat, making the whole contraption undetectable under loose clothing.

He could feel her tentative touch as she explored the ridge of leather along one shoulder. It reminded him of their first night together, that first shy stroke of her fingers along his erection.

Shit. Normally quite fond of the gift God had bestowed him with, he now silently admonished it. Not the time, fucker. Not the time.

"Why knives?" she asked, her touch now tracing along the sheaths themselves.

He stayed silent, contemplating. Knives offered a slower and more torturous type of pain, better for extracting confessions, but that was not something she needed to hear. "Quieter," he said instead.

Her hand had reached the other side strap. Fingertips slid their way down to his jeans and dragged along his belt until she made her way around to face him again.

Her breath hitched when she got a look-see at what was waiting for her.

He froze, staring over her head. There was no point in trying to explain. He was an animal. The evidence was right in front of her.

Rock-hard evidence, that is. You just keep fucking up, Spinelli.

She moved so fast, he didn't have time to prepare. Suddenly, her tongue was in his mouth while her hands fumbled with his belt buckle. With an irritated groan, she pulled back to give her full attention to the thing, getting the job done and then yanking hard. The belt cooperated, gliding through all the loops before joining the jacket and shirt on the chair.

Planning to shed the freed holster, he grabbed the straps and—

"Leave it," she demanded roughly.

He blinked, a few times, trying to figure out the mixed message. "Ahh—"

"Don't speak."

Interesting. He dropped his hands, deciding to let her do . . . whatever. When she flicked open the button of his jeans and ripped the zipper down, he sucked in a ragged breath. She looked damned determined as she pushed at the clothing, slid her hand inside, and—

Fucking hell. He closed his eyes and groaned as his hips surged, meeting each of her strokes, his arousal pulsing. He hadn't even touched her yet and was already about to lose it, loving the fact that she was in total control of his body. "Ginny, I won't last if you keep doing that," he said, hearing the guttural edge to his own voice.

A brazen smile was all she gave him as she paid special attention to the sensitive tip.

With agonizing willpower, he captured her wrist to still her movements and set her away from him. Her mouth formed a pretty pout, but despite the fact that those perfect lips could be quite convincing and enticing, she wasn't getting her way this time.

Swinging her into his arms, he relished the small excited shriek she made. "Oh, so you like to squeal?" He went over to the fire, knelt down, and placed her on the area rug in front of it. "Well, let's just see how loud you can squeal."

Her eyes grew heavy with his words and she squirmed, shoulders pushing down into the carpet and forcing her breasts up, the soft blue silk of her blouse tightening, straining, accentuating.

"Jesus." In a rush, he ripped off the holster and tossed it on the floor. What he was about to do required full body contact and he wasn't taking any chances.

The small buttons of her blouse were annoying, and she saved him from having to buy her a new one when she pitched in and helped. In no time he was covering her from head to toe with his hands, his lips, his tongue, and then his body. Whispers and sighs blended together in the quiet night, flowing like the melody of a romantic song, building slowly—until her crescendo of pleasure culminated with a cry of his name.

There would be no more denial. He had found the woman meant for him.

Now he just had to keep her safe.

END OF CHAPTER FIFTY

That last line still gives me chills. Hot to cold in just one sentence. What do you think? Are they in danger? Has Mark lost his edge? And if so, is that a bad thing?

Please vote if you like a little fire by the fire. I know you do ;)