Devil’s Thirst: A Mafia Stalker Romance (The Moretti Men Book 1)
Devil’s Thirst: Chapter 9

We stand on opposite sides of the elevator facing one another. His unrelenting stare roots me in place while his indomitable presence fills the space between us so thoroughly that my lungs struggle for air.

I’m as helpless as a butterfly trapped in a jar. If the jar was in his hands, would he release me or pluck off my wings as a souvenir? Release doesn’t seem an option for a man like him.

“You going to call the cops?” His casual question brings me crashing back to reality.

Here I was, letting romantic delusions distract me from who I am and the realities of my life. I absolutely cannot call the police. Calling attention to myself like that would be too dangerous, but he won’t understand. Not when I can’t offer an explanation.

“On you?” I ask with a perfect sprinkle of confusion in my voice.

Isaac’s chin dips a fraction as his gaze prods me to get serious. He’s not letting me off the hook.

It was worth a try.

“Oh, you mean about that man. I’m not sure what good it’ll do. It’s not like I have any information to offer about who he is, and he didn’t actually do anything to hurt me.”

The elevator doors open. He places a hand out to keep them from closing while I walk through. As we start down the hall, he walks beside me close enough for our arms to touch. Closer than two acquaintances would generally walk. Heat blazes across my skin with each gentle sweep of his inked arm.

“Still doesn’t hurt to file a report. That way, you have it on record.”

Each word is a scrutinizing prod. I appreciate his concern—for anyone else, it would be the right thing to say—but I need him to let it go.

I face him when I reach my apartment door and smile. “You know, you’re right. As soon as we’re done, I’ll give them a call.”

Isaac leans against the doorframe, his large body looming over mine. Wavy strands of his hair have broken free of their gelled confinement and hang down over his forehead, perfecting his bad-boy look. He even has a hoop nose ring in one nostril. He’s the spitting image of what the Devil would look like, should he choose to walk the Earth—an irresistible mix of rebellion and angelic perfection.

“Anyone ever told you you’re shit at lying?” he asks in a low rumble.

“No, they haven’t. Maybe you’re just a skeptic.” I press a finger into his chest, summoning every ounce of confidence I can manifest.

“Oh, I’m definitely a skeptic. Doesn’t change the fact that you’re a liar.” His eyes grow hooded as they drift lazily down to my lips. “You were scared to death when I told you someone was following you. Why the sudden indifference?”

“Because,” I start, my voice husky. “I have a protector.” I lift my wrist and display my evil eye bracelet. “This little guy keeps the monsters away.”

My aim is for a playful distraction, but I miss my mark, judging by the way his entire body stiffens. Even the seductive warmth of his gaze chills to an icy glare.

I’m baffled by his reaction. Had he thought I was going to name him my protector? Or was the opposite true? Did he resent the insinuation that I might rely on him for protection?

I’m at a total loss and desperately wish I could evaporate into thin air.

My hand slowly falls away from him until his fingers circle my forearm, stopping my progress. I have to hold my breath to keep from trembling at the feel of his scalding touch on my skin. Considering his sudden change in demeanor, I should pull away, but I can’t. I’m hopelessly captivated by his every movement, desperate to know what he’ll do next.

He angles my arm so that the inside of my wrist and forearm are horizontal in front of him. I hear a click before his other hand appears with a pen. He uses his thumb to slowly slide my bracelet back to my wrist. The touch is infinitely more intimate than it needs to be, causing my lungs to lose function. I have to force the silly organs to suck in a small supply of much-needed air as he takes the pen to my skin and begins to write.

I watch raptly as his tattooed fingers, strong and steady, mark me with ink of my own. The location is achingly sensitive, and I feel each meticulously penned number as though he were spelling out his phone number with his tongue on my clit rather than a pen on my wrist.

If I wasn’t already planning to shower, I’d have to change clothes anyway after this because he’s drenching my panties.

To top off his sensual assault, he uses his thumb to take one last leisurely caress across my skin. When he finally releases me, I am nothing but a puddle of desire pooled on the hallway floor.

“Trouble replaces you again, you call me,” he murmurs, then turns toward his place.

“What about your cut?” I blurt dumbly, all rational thoughts escaping me.

A flash of warmth returns to the gaze he tosses over his shoulder. “I think I’ll survive.”

Then he’s gone, taking my sanity with him.