Running from hell isnʼt easy. Especially when thereʼs someone dragging you back down into it.
Belligerent, brash and always in shades of black, Freya is hardly a lady. Hidden away by her father, sheʼs lived a normal life despite being born into the...
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FUCKING HER IS the closest to heaven I’ll ever get. I love eating her out. Watching her come, over and over. Her soft thighs on either side of my face. The sounds she makes when I ease my cock into her. The way her lips part and her eyes flutter shut.
And yet, when it’s over — she pulls away from me. To collect her fucking clothes from the floor. She puts them on with her back to me. And then she walks to her room.
Just like that.
Not a single word. Not a single fucking look in my direction. Anger stretches in my chest, a hot red rage lining my vision. I get dressed and pull out a cigarette — anything to occupy my hands. Anything to stop them from reaching out to her.
She really can’t stand me.
But her actions aren’t what anger me most. It’s the fact that I was anticipating something different. What the fuck was I expecting? For her to bat her lashes and say my dick changed her life? The brat won’t even let me taste her mouth.
Her hate is what I’m meant to want. To need. Her hate is what gives this meaningless life some semblance of purpose. Fuck, the thought of a Morozov hating me that much is the reason I woke up every morning for the past five years.
So why the fuck does it piss me off so much?
Thoughts ricochet in my mind at a hundred an hour, working up to a migraine. I don’t find the deep pleasure that once manifested in my chest at her hate. Instead, I find a deep annoyance. A prickly agitation.
She’s in my veins. And I imagine that attempting to get her out will be far more tiring than just leaving her there to simmer, and eventually dissipate.
The problem?
She won’t wear out. Even drugs wear out after a while, but hours after we fucked, Freya Morozov is still rushing through my blood.
I can’t get her out. Out of my chest, out of my mind.
She’s no cheap recreational drug. She’s a hard-core addiction. The kind that never leaves you. The kind that fucks you up irreversibly.
And I imagine that this is what withdrawal feels like.
I don’t realize how much time passes until the cigarette turns to ash, and the night sky turns to dawn. My phone rings, drawing me out of my mind.
It’s Vito, Luca’s papa, and my uncle and consigliere. I answer, lifting it to my ear. “Zio?”
“We need to talk,” he says on the other end. “It’s important.”
I’m almost thankful for the intrusion. Because it means I have a reason to get off the couch, take a shower, and get away from this apartment. Away from her.
Sunlight travels through the vast windows of the penthouse, bathing everything in honeyed shades of gold. Sighing, I drag a hand through my hair as I fix my gaze on the ground. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
