Page 23 of His Savage Vow
—ROBERT MONROE
Constance
God,I’m still feeling drunk off Maximo’s nickname even days later. One little slip and the word is stuck in my head on nonstop repeat.
Firefly.
It’s a silly term of endearment, one that implies I’m delicate, weak even, but it’s the one the handsome bastard gave me, so I like it way more than I should. And I want to hear it again, potentially when Maximo’s lips are next to my ear.
Dammit, I like the name so much that I’ve even been getting up early to shower and get ready to have breakfastwith him and then eat dinner with him every night. In fact, we’ve spent nearly every moment together this week, like it’s a choice we both keep making.
And at night, well, at least my dreams are no longer nightmares about the fire. They’re hot, just in a completely different way, and all unfortunately star a certain Italian mobster. In my fantasies, our power dynamics are flipped. I’m usually the one in charge, sitting in the chair behind Maximo’s commanding desk, giving him orders and teaching him how I like it while he’s on his knees.
I wake up with my entire body flushed, feeling guilty and embarrassed before I take a cold shower and head down to see the real Maximo at breakfast. An uptight man who has never offered to eat anything except what Chef Francis serves him on his plate.
God, I’m such a fucking fool.
I’m not supposed to be attracted to the man who let my father die.
The man who rules the city through fear and blood. The man who hands me a gun in one breath and offers me a knife in the next.
And yet, here I am, wanting his arrogant mouth and his giant hands on me.
Every inch of me is well aware of the way Maximo looks at me when he thinks I’m not watching. The way he constantly eye-fucks me lately is like a foreplay all on its own. With just a lingering glance, he can make my heart hammer and get my panties wet.
Both of us have been breathing heavier than normal after our morning hand-to-hand combat training. I’m not sure which is more enjoyable, the way he sometimes sniffs my hair when he’s standing behind me or intentionally brushing the front of his pants with my ass to feel his erection when he does it.Maximo covers his groans with a cough every time, then immediately declares he has somewhere else to be, somewhere far away from me which is disappointing.
So fine, I want him. Fiercely. Shamefully. It’s the kind of attraction that burns through every reasonable thought.
But nothing can ever happen between us.
I still blame him for failing my father, for letting his men fail my father.
That’s why I do the only thing that keeps me sane. I tease him, deny him, throw guilt in his face every chance I get. Because if I don’t keep him at arm’s length, I’m afraid I’ll give in and beg him for things that I have no business wanting.
If I can’t have distance from him, then I can at least pretend I have some control.
The two of us are relaxing in his library after our second week of training sessions that have left my muscles aching and my fingers twitching for more. Every day we work with knives, guns, and bare fists, all while trying to ignore the tension that’s been building between us.
Maximo is at the far end of the dark, heavy wood table, reviewing surveillance footage on his laptop. I’m pretending to read a book on the other end, but the truth is, I haven’t turned a page in twenty minutes.
Because I can feel him.
I can feel his attention, even when his eyes aren’t on me. The tension in the room changes whenever he’s near. It’s thicker, more charged, like a storm you haven’t seen yet but know is coming.
I hate how much I crave the heat of his attention. The same attention I keep pretending I don’t want.
I need comfort, human contact, something to silence the grief clawing at my insides, but I’ll be damned before I let him see that weakness.
Maximo unfortunately looks up, catching me watching him before I can glance away.
“You’re staring,” he says.
“No, I wasn’t, you arrogant bastard,” I protest with an indignant scoff.
He smirks and leans back in his chair. “You’re a terrible liar.”
I snap my book shut. “I haven’t had any reason to practice, unlike some people.”
