Chapter 4 KISSES THAT TASTE LIKE THUNDER

Xavier De-Luca

I'd seen plenty of beautiful women before, but when I saw Alessia Moretti in person for the first time, I'd reacted in a way I never had for anyone. Blood heating, cock hardening, hands itching to find out how her golden hair would feel wrapped around my fist. It'd been visceral, unexpected, and almost enough to make me walk away from the task before I started, because lusting after a supposed enemy could only end in disaster.

She moved like she owned the place.

Even in a worn bookstore tucked behind an ancient wine shop,nAlessia Moretti carried herself with the kind of poise that made everyone know she was not to be messed with. The coat draped over her shoulders wasn't something fashionable at all, but the way she walked, you'd think she was carved from steel. Untouchable, beautiful and dangerous.

I watched from the doorway as she spoke with the old man behind the counter. He smiled, one of those rare things reserved for people who had been around long enough to see what real grief looks like. Then he handed her a key and disappeared through the back.

And just like that, we were alone. Good.

I didn't announce myself, not yet. I wanted to watch her a little longer. Not like a stalker, like a man staring down at his prey. Oh well, you could term that as a stalker as well. How could someone with that much blood on her hands look so composed in a place meant for quiet things?

She walked between the shelves like she was monitoring the place, her eyes trailing over book titles, her fingers brushing the edges but never lingering. Not out of nervousness but out of control. I wanted to fuck the control out of her.

She was choosing what she wanted, always in control.

Until I spoke.

"Didn't picture you as the bookstore type."

She froze.

Her back was still to me, but I saw the shift, barely visible, but calculated. Spine straight, head tilted slightly. That pause that said: I heard you. I'm deciding what to do with you. She's clearly been trained for all these.

Then she turned.

Her face was neutral, expressionless, her mask in full display. Not like she could deceive me or anything.

"You're following me."

"Coincidence," I said, stepping inside. "Or fate, depending on how poetic you are."

"Try again." Her voice was smooth. I could almost taste the sharpness behind it.

"I'm just a guy who likes books."

"You don't look like someone who reads anything without a profit margin or something to win at the end."

A smirk tugged at my mouth. "Touché." smart girl.

She narrowed her eyes slightly, scanning me. Not with flirtation, with calculation. She wasn't deciding whether to kiss me, she was deciding whether to shoot me.

Good. I needed her like that. Sharp, suspicious, real.

"Does your security know you sneak around the city alone?"

Her jaw tightened. "Is that a threat?"

"No. It's curiosity."

"And if I said it's none of your business?"

"I'd say I still want to know."

She stared at me a moment longer, then turned and walked toward the little café counter in the back. Flicked on the lights like she owned them, too. Her boot heels echoed against the floor, she took short efficient strides. Not rushed, not lazy, measured. It was like she wanted to own everything.

She made a pot of tea in silence, never asking if I wanted any. She set one mug on the counter near me. Not a peace offering. A test.

I didn't drink it.

"What do you want, Xavier?" she asked finally.

She remembered my name. That shouldn't have made my chest tighten, but it did.

"I want to understand you."

She laughed. Once. Dry. "That's what men say before they ask me to die for their cause." Again, she was smart.

"I'm not asking for anything."

"That's worse."

She walked to a chair near the windows and sat, crossing one leg over the other. From anyone else, it might've looked casual. But this was a throne posture, it reeked of elegance. Her hand rested on the spine of a leather-bound poetry collection on the table. Not for reading, she was a control freak apparently. A reminder: she was in charge, even in a bookstore.

I sat across from her.

"You don't let people get close, do you?"

"No."

"Why?"

"You already know why."

"I want to hear you say it."

She tilted her head slightly. "Is this your game? Peel back my armor and pretend you're not just another man trying to seduce me?"

"I'm not pretending anything."

She went quiet. The rain began tapping against the glass behind her, slow, rhythmic. We fell into comfortable silence. I wondered if she liked the sound, or if it reminded her of bullets.

Then she said, "Men want fantasy. The queen. The power. The idea of having some kind of control over me. They want to taste danger without choking on it."

"And what do you want?"

Something flickered in her expression.

Then she stood, suddenly, and walked to one of the bookshelves near the café window. Ran her fingers along the spines. Her back was to me again, but this time, it wasn't indifference. It was... hesitancy. Hmm, we're getting somewhere at least.

She pulled a book down. A slim volume of Italian poetry. She opened it, not reading. Just holding it.

"I had a life before this," she said quietly.

"I believe you."

"Don't romanticize it."

"I'm not."

Another pause. Then she turned and walked slowly back toward me, stopping inches from where I sat.

"You want to kiss me," she said flatly. Not a question.

"Yes."

"And?"

"I shouldn't."

"But you want to."

"Yes."

Something in her shifted. Her gaze dropped, just for a tiny second. A moment of nakedness. It hit me like a knife.

She wasn't soft.

She was lonely.

And that loneliness was what drew me in like gravity. It was like some sort of pull.

I stood, met her eyes. For once, she didn't flinch. She didn't look away.

I raised my hand and touched the edge of her jaw. She didn't stop me, but she didn't melt, either. She just stood with a curious yet unsettling look on her face.

Then, carefully, like stepping over broken glass, I leaned in.

Our lips met.

It wasn't sweet.

It was a collision.

Carefully restrained violence, the kind you feel under your skin. Her mouth was hot, demanding, angry, even. Like she was punishing herself for wanting this. For wanting me. I gripped the back of her neck and smashed the barrier between us to smithereens. I claimed her lips angrily, angry about the fact that she wasn't just any girl but someone I wanted to destroy and my mind blanked, the commanding pressure of her kiss dragging me under to a place where oxygen didn't exist. My blood turned to molten lava, and her nipples pebbled like she'd plunged headfirst into a lake of ice. The contrast of hot and cold set off a series of mini fireworks across my skin. My tongue thrust into her mouth, parting her lips and coaxing a moan from her throat. She gasped, and the world snapped back into hyperfocus. I kissed her like a starved man desperately wanting water to stay alive.

When we broke apart, her hand stayed against my chest. Pressed flat. Not gentle. Controlling the space between us.

"I don't do this," she said.

"I know."

"Don't think this means anything."

"I won't."

We both knew it was a lie.

And neither of us cared.

We just couldn't decide if this was a good thing.

I was all for revenge though.

Right?