Page 20 of Corso DeLuca

“Open your eyes for me, Jessie.”

Her lust-hazed gaze finds mine. I smile. “There’s my girl.”

“Your… girl,” she repeats as if I’ve said something foreign to her native language. I don’t know why, but the thought that she may reject my claim loosens my hinges.

“Mine,” I say with emphasis as I plow her sex.

She shudders. Her orgasm is close. “That’s it. Give me that sweet cream. You want me to have it, don’t you, princess?”

“Yes,” she pants, throwing her head back. Before she hits her peak, I snatch my fingers free and plunge my tongue into her juicy slit.

Jessie comes on a scream. Damn, that’s the best song I’ve heard in years. Fuck, I want to consume her, take every part of her, break her open, and mark her with my mouth, my hands, and my cock.

“We fuck now.”

“Finally,” she laughs. “You’re a decent guy who plays hard to get. Talk about surprises.”

What the fuck? A sick feeling drops in my gut, no-it’s a bomb because I’m going to fucking explode if she’s saying what I think she is. Like, she’s painted me as a martyr in mobster disguise.

“Explain that?”

She lifts her head, regarding me. “I’m just saying, you’re a good guy who got trapped in this life. You—”

This shit stops now. I cut her off. “So, according to you, killers can’t be gentle or kind, or know how to love a woman.”

“That’s not—you’re twisting what I mean. You’re not a disgusting, depraved man. You know what I mean.”

“So, only disgusting, depraved men are killers… like the other DeLucas.”

“Yes… I mean, shit,” she sighs. “I’m not saying it right.”

I back away. “No, you said enough, special agent.”

“Corso,” she says my name, and I hear a thousand reasons why I should let her go.

“You have a gun to your head enough times, princess… you become what you need to survive the life your given.”

“But you can change.”

Is that what she’s expecting? That our night together will somehow transform me into a man she’s proud to stand next to? ‘Cause why the fuck would she want the hands of a low-life like me on her body? Shit, this punch hurts like hell.

“I don’t regret my life, Jessie.” Even if you do.

“Corso… I wouldn’t want you to.” Something like remorse, sad, and apologetic crosses her features. Too late. She’s stirred all the reasons why it is a bad idea to keep her here.

“I get it, princess. I’m not good enough.”

She recoils as if I struck her. A sick satisfaction swells in me at her discomfort when confronted with our truth.

“You’re wrong,” she defends. But we both know I’m not.

“I know who I am. And though you loathe my savage bloodline, you want me. I can tolerate your shit-talking, but I won’t bear the blame of your descent from that ivory tower view of the world. Don’t pretend I’m not a man you despise. That you want to come to my bed, spread those thick chocolate thighs for me. That you have to fucking whitewash my blood-soaked family roots in order to fucking touch me.”

She reaches for me. “Wait… I would never treat you that way.”

Now it’s my turn to marvel in disbelief. “If you give yourself to me, it’s an admission that you welcome the touch of my darkness. That Special Agent Jessie NuCalla, justice’s instrument, wants to ride the boogeyman’s cock.”

“I don’t see it that way, Corso.”