Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

arms pinned behind my back, holding me firmly by the wrist,
but my other hand pushes against his chest.
It’s useless. He’s too strong.
He kisses me until I make a small, pleading sound in my
throat. Then he pulls away, breathing just as hard as I am.
He says roughly, “You knew I wasn’t a choirboy.”
“If you think that’s getting you off the hook, think again.”
“I told you I wasn’t a good man.”
“You didn’t tell me you were the head of the Russian
mafia.”
“I’m not the head.” He pauses. “He’s in prison. I’m
second-in-command.”
“Jesus!”
“Nobody’s perfect.”
My laugh is caustic. “Seriously? That’s your argument for
why I should keep seeing you?”
His eyes flare. There’s something dangerous in his gaze.
Something animal.
I’ve never seen him look more handsome.
He growls, “No. This is my argument for why you should
keep seeing me.”
He kisses me again, so ravenously, I’m bent back at the
waist.
Part of me wants to break away. Wants to bite his tongue
and tell him to go back to whatever hellhole he came from and
leave me alone forever.
The bigger part of me—the stupider part, apparently—
wants everything he’s got to give me and doesn’t give two
flying fucks about anything else.
It’s really too bad I haven’t had sex for so long. I think my
sad and lonely vagina has now hijacked my entire body.