1
Delilah
When I’m outside the gates of the archbishop’s lavish home, I pull off the mask and snake my way through a series of barren alleys to the rental car, careful to stay in the shadows. I’ve made this kind of getaway dozens of times, and used every precaution to ensure I wasn’t followed tonight.
Then why does it feel like I’m being stalked?
I glance over my shoulder. Nothing—not a nocturnal hunter tracking a meal, or a leaf rustling in the distance. Nothing. Still, I can’t shake the feeling.
I don’t know what’s spooking me. Probably that bastard priest who thought he was Jesus Christ.
This is the second time in a week that I’ve sensed someone close. The last time, Virginia Bennet’s ankle was shattered by a bullet inside St. Maggie’s Church. We still don’t know who fired on her, only that the shot came from the balcony, near where I was positioned. Someone had gotten close to me that night. Too close.
As I reach for the car door handle, a large, gloved hand muzzles me, with a strong thumb positioned beneath my jaw in such a way that I’m unable to sink my teeth into the leather palm covering my mouth. A second hand captures my wrists, while powerful thighs cage my legs. Before my brain fully registers the danger, the muscular body has me pinned securely against the car door.
In mere seconds—that’s all it takes—the attacker divests me of every tool I have to protect myself. He’s a trained professional. He has to be.
I draw a deep breath, as reality sinks in. There’s no escape.
No escape.
No escape.
No escape.
The warning blasts inside my head, activating the floodgates until the adrenaline rushes in, triggering every human survival instinct my body knows. Fortunately, years of CIA training fall front and center. Leaning on those lessons is my best chance for survival, but only if I keep my wits about me.
I curl my toes, digging them into the soles of my shoes, pressing hard enough that I can almost feel the hard ground beneath me. The connection is enough to shift my focus.
There’s no immediate escape, but I need to let it play out a little. I need to wait for the opportunity to present itself. He wants something. Otherwise, he would have already slit my throat.
“Who are you?” I sputter through clenched teeth.
The man says nothing, letting my anxiety build.
Can he sense the growing fear? Smell terror seeping from my pores?
I regulate my breathing, and concentrate on detecting a scent or a tic, anything that might help me identify this stranger.
But there’s nothing. Not a single thing to clue me in to his identity.
I’m at his mercy, and the longer this goes on, the more control he has over me. But there’s not a damn thing I can do to help myself. You can keep your head and find some patience. Yes. That I can do.
While I wait for the stranger to reveal himself, I peer into the pitch-black night, at nothing.
The air around us is still, thick enough to choke a horse. And the only sound is the high-pitched call of the cicada, escalating the drama inside my head.
Will the assailant deliver his response with razor-sharp words or with a brutal physical act? I brace for the latter with the laser focus only adrenaline provides.
If he moves to strike me, I’ll be able to free myself—as long as I don’t hesitate. I can’t squander the opportunity. It might be the only one I have.
Somewhere I find the discipline to remain quiet. It might be the most difficult thing I’ve ever done. But when I asked who are you?, the ball moved squarely into his court. Anything I say now will only be a show of weakness.
Finally, after what feels like hours, he lowers his head, his warm breath an inch from my temple, and the ridge of his steely cock pressing into my lower back. “More than just a pretty boy,” he taunts.
2
Delilah
Gray Wilder. Using my own words to mock me.
I’d know his voice anywhere. It haunts my dreams. Day and night.
It’s always Gray. Always.
His clever fingers teasing my needy flesh. His lazy drawl coaxing me to come again and again. Demanding it. And before the tremors subside, it’s his spicy scent that lulls me into a restless sleep, stirring a primal need to submit that I haven’t felt since Kyle died.
Gray Wilder is dangerous.
Never more so than now.
“Let go of me,” I mumble into the supple leather stretched across his palm.
“In good time. I’m enjoying this too much. You, helpless. Mostly silenced. My hard cock near enough so you can think of nothing else, but not close enough to where you want it. It’s like Christmas Eve at Wildflower, all over again.” He lowers his head, until I feel his warm breath on my scalp. “I hope you’ve been a good girl. Otherwise Santa will leave you wet and wanting.”
The memories come flooding back.
“Remember?” he murmurs, his lips grazing my hair.
When I don’t make any effort to answer, he squeezes my thighs between his, tightening the vise little by little, until all I know is the ache in my core. “Remember?”
“Yes,” I concede in a muddled response. It’s enough to satisfy his arrogance, but not enough to bow fully to him.
“The opulent Sultan’s Palace. You, bound to the bedposts with long silk cords. Open to me. A jewel in your navel and another in that pretty little ass. Do you remember how you whimpered when I tightened the jewels on your nipples? Do you remember how much you begged?”
I don’t utter a sound.
“What were you beggin’ for, Delilah?” His voice is low, wrapped in a luscious timbre as he cajoles an answer from me.
But tonight, unlike Christmas Eve, I don’t acquiesce easily. If he wants something from me, he’s going to have to take it.
As if he reads my mind, his teeth sink into my neck, into the very spot he knows will make my knees weak.
“Ahhh.” The lusty moan escapes into the humid night before I can stop it. Damn you, Gray Wilder.
“I can’t hear you,” he taunts, with the ring of victory in his voice. He loosens his hold on my jaw. Why not? He knows he’s won. “What were you beggin’ for that night?”
I’m not afraid of Gray. Not physically. But I do want him to let me go. And I want to know how he managed to overpower me so easily. He’s a billionaire playboy, and I’m a trained agent—a lethal one. It’s no contest.
Then why can’t I move?
“Release,” I hiss into his leather-clad fingers. The asshole loosens his grip so I can speak audibly, but not enough that I can weaponize my teeth. It’s the only reason he still has all his fingers.
“You’re going to have to do better than that, Delilah,” he purrs. “What were you beggin’ for?”
I’m going to knee the bastard in the balls the second I’m free. “An orgasm.”
“Better. But not good enough.” He sinks his teeth into me again. Biting and sucking the tendon in a way that’s sure to leave a bruise—in a way that sends shivers skittering in every direction. Dammit. There’s no way to hide my body’s reaction from him.
The slow curl of his mouth singes my skin. Bastard. I squeeze my eyes shut.