Page 55 of Twisted Temptation

DANTE

My wife is a natural with a gun. She put six holes in a paper man, two of them in the face, and it turns me on more than it should.

Now I’m hard as fuck, and that is a fucking complication.

I walk her out of the range to where Caruso is waiting for us by the elevator. “What did you need me for?” I ask.

“One of Grazalov’s men was spotted on the casino floor tonight.”

I look at Sunny. She’d been walking around the casino alone tonight. No protection. No security. If one of Grazalov’s men had been there, bold enough to make a move, she could have been hurt before anyone knew what was happening.

The thought sends a cold edge through me.

“Take Mrs. Di Zaro up to the penthouse,” I say to Caruso.

Sunny turns, surprised. "You're not coming?"

Her cheeks are still flushed, and her eyes are bright and sparkling. I keep my hands in my pockets where they can't do anything stupid, like take her by the hand, ride the elevator all the way to the penthouse, and spend the rest of the night making us both moan.

"I have business."

Her gaze lingers on my face. Probably because my tone was sharper than I’d intended.

"Well," she says, a little softer. "Thanks for the lesson."

I don’t miss the disappointment in her tone, and I don’t like the way it tightens a knot in my chest.

"You’re welcome."

The elevator doors open, but she pauses.

"Does that mean I get a gun now?" she asks with a sunshiny smile.

“We’ll discuss it later.”

“You mean we’ll argue about it later.”

“That too.”

Mischief sparkles in her beautiful eyes. “And I will win, and you will give me a gun. So let’s skip over you pretending you’re not going to give me one and just give me one already.”

"Goodnight, Sunny."

The doors close, and I’m left alone in the corridor. But I don’t move because I’m trying to process whatever the fuck is going on with me.

When I stood close to Sunny and felt her soft skin under my palms, not only did I have a violent urge to peel those yoga pants off her and take her against the wall, but something warm and unusual poured into my chest.

Something achy and soft. And, Jesus, what the fuck is wrong with me?

Whatever it is, I need to get a grip and put a stop to it.

My phone vibrates in my pocket.

It’s John Marco.

"Grazalov's man was on the casino floor tonight,” he says when I answer.

“So I’ve heard.”