| BOOK SIX | THE LONDON CRIME KING | A DARK MAFIA ROMANCE NOVEL |
This book contains adult language and subject matter, including graphic violence, drugs and explicit sex that may be disturbing to some readers.
This series is NOT a typical romance...
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I woke up alone in the tepee, with the fear of loss and the early morning's dark silence. A few seconds of demoralisation and embarrassment passed before I rolled onto my back and stared at the hanging collection of unlit candles.
Perhaps it was demanding of me to expect the man I fell asleep with to still be here at dawn.
We never discussed boundaries, limitations or expectations because the first stage of our relationship came very suddenly for the two of us. I told him to walk away the last time I saw him. He agreed with the bitter attitude of an affronted man.
But defying the laws of gravity is hard. I am drawn to him, no matter the circumstance, and the thought of existing without him broke my heart. I had to fix the damage I had caused, make it right between us, apologise for what may appear insensitive or thoughtless and extend an olive branch.
Big Guy made it easy for me. I primed myself for his unamiable coldness and unforgiving haughtiness. He could have sent rude, insulting text messages and cut all lines of communication. Instead, he gave me a free pass, the right to be in his life without repercussions for past mistakes.
I kind of loved the man's tolerant side.
Rubbing tiredness out of my eyes, I slipped out of the tepee to check the time on my phone and squinted at the screen.
Why am I alive and kicking at the witching hour?
Throwing the phone somewhere in the dark, I dragged myself into the hallway with the intention of making a cup of tea when the soft veil of light and the faint ripple of steam under the bathroom door stopped me in my tracks.
Brad never left.
He is taking a shower.
It was rather confusing to bathe under the hot spray at this time of night.
Imbued with a strong sense of curiosity, I backtracked into the living room with noiseless footsteps, sprawled out inside the tepee and had a mental chat with myself.
Again, I felt like something was wrong, but without asking him outright, I remained clueless.
The wanderer returned in what felt like hours later. With a towel knotted around his waist, he sat on the edge of the coffee table, messaging someone on his phone, and reached for the unzipped holdall on the floor. He found a clean pair of boxer shorts, towel-dried haphazardly, but never rushed to get dressed. His stare went to the window, where the ajar curtains made room for the streetlight.
As I did not want to startle him or invade his privacy, I turned on my side, with my back to him, snuggled into the pillow and let out a soft sigh.
I heard the sound of a zipper fastening as he closed the holdall, followed by the groan of the coffee table's rickety frame when he stood to cover himself.
His weight flattened the duck feather duvet when he crawled into the tepee. He turned on a couple of the battery-operated lights, the plastic flames flickering shadows on the tepee's thin fabric. His hand slid onto my middle section as he pulled my back to his chest. He was freshly showered, with hot, misted skin and coconut-scented wet hair. His soft lips, feather-light to my skin, placed open-mouthed kisses on my neck.
