She gripped his tank and pulled him closer, hips moving a tormenting circle on his fingers. Placing his lips where her shoulder met her neck, he bit. She screamed and he lifted his head, crushing his lips against hers to stifle the noise. She hungrily took him, moaning into his mouth, grinding her pussy on his fingers while gripping his shoulders, skin rubbing against skin. Anteros growled and pushed her harder into the tree, plunging deeper. When Frankie was like this, it was fucking maddening, almost enough to forget that she still hadn’t said what he’d told her to say.
Reluctantly, Anteros slid his fingers from her body. Frankie made a small noise in the back of her throat, but she still didn’t admit her need. With his free hand, he grabbed her own and shoved it in her jeans, forcing her to feel the wetness. The heat. The blatant need.
“Say it.”
“Okay,” she hissed, lidded gaze slowly transforming into a glare. “I like it.” The ire in her tone dissipated and her glare dropped to the ground. A ghost of a smile came to his face, but he worked it out with his jaw before she could see it.
“Close, but not quite.” Before she could respond, he dropped her hand and pulled her into a kiss.
He devoured her.
Ate her.
Consumed her until there was nothing left. Anteros had been aching to kiss Frankie for a month and now that his lips were on her, he was punching himself for not doing it the first fucking moment he’d laid eyes on her. Held between his palms, he made sure to keep her still until he was done feasting. Her tongue found his, tangled with it and waged war, but she surrendered. Arching her back, she sighed and capitulated.
Fuck.
She was made for him. Her saliva got him drunk. Breaking the kiss, he lavished her jaw, her throat, then sucked on the veins. He held her face so she had to stay still and take his attack, her breath uneven in the night. When he went back to her swollen lips, he bit the lower one until her breaths disappeared inside a thready cry. Then he thrust his tongue inside to silence her scream, the coppery taste of her blood sharp in his mouth.
She was still hot on his tongue when he noticed Frankie had been touching herself the entire time. Anteros stifled a groan at the realization. His forehead was to hers, light only a sliver through the space between their faces.
“I need this,” she whispered. Just as their lips were about to touch, the crunching of twigs sounded; someone was in the woods with them.
Their heads broke apart and snapped to the sound.
“Is that you, Boss?” called the unmistakable voice of Little O. “You okay?”
Frankie tore from his embrace but before she could run, Anteros snatched her elbow. Terror dripped down her face like wet paint and she tugged furiously on the grip.
“Stay,” Anteros said. “Don’t go back.”
“And be what? Your permanent slave?” Her eyes darted to where Little O’s voice had been heard. Anteros pulled her and she spun as if they were dancing. Her back hit his chest and he locked her in with one arm.
“Only if you beg,” he said in a low growl. Truthfully, if she came back, it would have to be as a prisoner. He’d been working the problem in his head over and over like a vulture with a carcass. That night at the hotel, something had become inviolable: they would be together. Somehow, he would have her at his side. He just hadn’t figured out how yet.
“Let me go,” she said, raking nails along his wrist. As painful as it was to release her, he wasn’t going to take her without consent. He needed Frankie to want him, fully and without hesitation. With a frustrated groan, he pushed her off him. She stumbled forward, throwing her hands out to keep from falling over.
She ran toward the cluster of abandoned buildings and half-finished developments beyond the trees. Just before the copse ended, Frankie turned back, cornflower eyes locking with his. The air stilled.
Half engulfed in shadows, Frankie watched him. She was too damn radiant, destroying the shadows around her like the sun does night. Watching her in the trees, Anteros realized he didn’t know when he would see her again. It was like someone had put cinderblocks on his chest. He’d gone a month without her, he didn’t think he could go another. Frankie’s mouth parted and her eyebrows caved, as if sharing the same thought. A crunch of more twigs snapping sounded as Little O got closer and Frankie turned, running toward the concrete and steel ruins of unfinished New York City developments.
Anteros bent over and picked up her knife—his knife—watching her get sucked into the syrupy black night. The blade was fresh with Big O’s blood. When he stuck it into his boot, it stained his flesh.
“Boss?” Little O came through the trees, pushing small branches out of his face. “What are you doing out—” He stopped completely when he saw Big O. As Little O steadied himself on a tree, Anteros couldn’t stop staring at the spot where Frankie had disappeared. A month he’d gone without her, and in the end, she’d sought him out.
“And you didn’t see anything?” Pretty Boy asked. Anteros thrummed his fingers on the table, deciding how to respond. Two days had passed since Frankie had come for him and Anteros
was losing his fucking mind. As much as he wanted to force Frankie to come back with him and say fuck it all, she still wasn’t ready. She had the darkness but she feared it—feared him—and he wasn’t going to take her captive again. When she came to him, it would be willingly.
I found your map.
Anteros looked at his fingers against the shiny table, thinking back to the way they had just recently felt inside Frankie. Wet and hot, always constricting for him, even when she pretended to hate him. He’d left a clue for her, and in the end, it had brought her back.
They’d all but decided Lucia was behind Big O’s assassination, a fact Anteros didn’t dispute as it meant the Wolves had a place to direct their ire. The knife used to kill Big O was still in Anteros’s boot, blood long dried, the same one she’d used to carve him. He’d stared at the missing spot in his knife holder for weeks, would never mistake it.
It was an essential piece of intel, one that would have given Frankie and himself away, and thus had to be hidden—at least that was what Anteros told himself. The reason he carried it in his boot all the time was less clear.
“That’s not what I said.” Anteros stopped thrumming and looked up. “I said I didn’t see his face.” Pretty Boy scrunched his eyebrows, but Anteros knew he didn’t question his loyalty. He would never think it was Frankie. The truth had died that day in the hotel. As far as the Wolves were concerned, he hated the Pavoni Princess as much as the next soldier fighting this war.