She wants his forgiveness. He just wants her body…
It’s been five years since I’ve seen her.
Five years since Gabriella James damn near destroyed me with her betrayal, sending me to hell in a cage.
I’ve crawled free, escaped the mob, opened a night club, and continue to battle my demons through underground fighting and sex. But now Gabriella’s back, begging for absolution, wanting my forgiveness. All I want is what she’s denied me for all these years—her body.
Sex. That’s all we’ll ever have.
Because Gabriella is still keeping secrets. I see it in her eyes.
I don’t trust her, and I’ll never forgive her betrayal.
But that won’t stop me from taking her.
Over…and over…and over…
“What is this?” Gabriella waved a hand toward the room, smothering the swell of jealousy surging inside her like Old Faithful. It appeared to be some kind of private room, probably for the VIPs and celebrities when the upstairs booths weren’t…secluded…enough. Too easily, she could imagine Killian’s big body covering another woman on that over-size couch. The taut muscles of his back and ass flexing as he pressed against her, drove his cock into her. Without any effort at all, she could envision him sprawled in one of those chairs, his hands buried in the hair of the woman kneeling before him, guiding her mouth up and down his dick. Once upon a time, that faceless woman would’ve been her—had been her. “You have a playroom in your nightclub? That walks the tenuous line between hot spot and stripper joint.”
“VIP room,” he corrected from behind her. Paused. “The playrooms are upstairs.”
She should hate him for admitting they did have them. And if he hadn’t delivered the explanation in that low, deep, coarse voice, she might have dwelled on that resentment. But God, the texture of it—gritty, like a road that had been churned up for repair and had just barely been smoothed over—slid over her skin in an almost rough caress. Yet, something was…off…
“Did something happen to your voice?” she asked. Although years had passed since the last time she’d seen his stunning face, inhaled his rich, dark scent, or stroked his hard, sculpted body, she hadn’t forgotten one thing about him. Not the scar that bisected his eyebrow or the mole on his left hip bone, and certainly not his voice. Before it’d been just as deep, as shiver-inducing, as smooth as bourbon—just not so…serrated.
“Jail happened to my voice,” he murmured in her ear, the undercurrents of rage swirling in his voice. “Solitary confinement happened to my voice. Any more questions?”
Jail…solitary confinement. Grief and horror at when he must’ve suffered bombarded her with relentless fists. Her fault. Guilt was bitter in her mouth. The accusation radiated from his words; he didn’t need to say it.
“Killian,” she whispered.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he growled, finally circling her and coming to a halt in front of her several feet away. As if he couldn’t stand being too close to her.
“In Boston? Or the club?” she hedged. What the hell had she been thinking coming here? That he would open his arms for her to run into? That he would say all was forgiven and welcome her home? Had she believed time would cool his anger? A part of her had. That whimsical, fanciful, the-glass-shoe-is-a-perfect-fit side that time and the pain of loss hadn’t completely beaten into submission yet.
“Either. Both.” He crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze slowly roaming over her. Flames licked everywhere his scrutiny touched. Her mouth, shoulders, breasts, hips, legs. She couldn’t prevent the spike of arousal that lit her up like a flare gun.
But staring into his fierce hazel eyes, at the flat line of his mouth, and the tiny tic of a muscle along his jaw, she called herself ten different kinds of idiot for even harboring that small hope.
He hated her.
Naima Simone’s love of romance was first stirred by Johanna Lindsey and Linda Howard many years ago. Though her first attempt at writing a romance novel at age 11 never saw the light of day, her love of romance and writing has endured. Now, she spends her time creating stories of unique men and women who experience the dizzying heights of passion and the tender heat of love. She is wife to Superman—or his non-Kryptonian, less bullet proof equivalent—and mother to the most awesome kids ever. They all live in perfect, domestically-challenged bliss in the southern United States.