Enslave Me Sweetly by Gena Showalter Read Free Book Online Page B

himself before leaving New Mexico. After our innocent tussle in Michael’s basement gym, we’d gone our separate ways to shower and change clothes. Lucius had emerged with his dark hair bleached completely white, his left eyebrow pierced, and the base of his throat sporting a skull tattoo. He looked sexy as hell.
    â€œWant to tell me what you’re thinking about?” he asked casually.
    My heart hammered at the sound of his voice. Like I was going to admit that little gem.
    He hadn’t said a word about the change, and neither had I. I could guess why he’d done it. Obviously he’d been to New Dallas before—under a different identity. This identity. He’d probably worked with the men we were meeting, and they knew him as this man.
    Lucius continued to watch me, I noticed, his ice-blue gaze intent. At least his eye color hadn’t changed. That sexy, electric blue should never be concealed.
    â€œYou might as well tell me,” he said. “I’ll get it out of you sooner and later, and you’ll be doing yourself a favor if it’s sooner.”
    â€œI’m just imagining your failure with Sahara Rose,” I lied.
    His pierced black brow arched, raising the silver stud. “If the thought of my failure is what put that ‘fuck-me-now’ expression on your face, keep thinking about it. Please.” The last word sounded foreign on his tongue, as if he’d never spoken it before.
    I fought to keep my expression neutral, to keep from scowling. With his words, he placed his pleasure-giving image right back in the gutter of my fantasies.
    â€œMust you be so crude?” I ground out.
    â€œWe kill people for a living, cookie, and you’re balking at my language?”
    We might both be killers, but we were different on so many levels. I worked for peace, for the good of the people. He worked for money. My allegiance would never waver. His probably shifted with the wind.
    â€œOh, wait,” he added. “You’re a princess, a spoiled little rich girl. And don’t try to deny it. I’ve heard stories about your teenage years. Crying and pouting when you didn’t get what you wanted. ‘I asked for a blue dress, Daddy, not green,’” he mimicked in a high voice. “Boohoo.” He rolled his eyes. “Of course you’re balking at my language. Girls like you can’t be happy, no matter their circumstances.”
    My eyes narrowed. I was not that girl anymore. I hadn’t been for a long, long time. When I began my agent training, I’d even stopped calling Michael “Daddy.” I’d called him what every other agent called him. “Too bad there isn’t a price on your head,” I muttered. “You’re one target I’d take great joy in destroying.”
    â€œWho says there isn’t a price on my head?”
    My brows arched. “Is there?”
    He shrugged. “You’re the hotshot tracker. You tell me.”
    Our gazes clashed and held. Some invisible force refused to release me from its grip as I studied him. His features were as granite-hard and unreadable as ever. Nothing about his expression or body language betrayed his thoughts.
    â€œOkay. Maybe there’s more than one,” I said. “You’re not the kind of guy who knows how to play nice. Most likely, you have enemies in every city, country, and hellhole you’ve ever entered.”
    The moment I spoke the word “play,” his eyes dropped to my lips. The word actually hung between us like a living, breathing thing. Was he imagining naked, sweaty bodies? Drugging kisses and pleasure?
    I glared at him, silently commanding him to look away. He didn’t. In fact, his stare became more intently focused on my mouth. Such intense scrutiny unnerved me, but I was used to controlling my actions. My body would obey the will of my mind, not my lust. I wanted to squirm and turn away, but I forbade myself even