Grace Williams has a list of things she wants to do before she dies: walk a tightrope, dye her hair purple, skinny dip in the ocean, kiss the scarred stranger sent to kill her…
Yeah, Tavos Santos is a killer but f--- it if he's going to be Grace's killer. There are other relationships he'd rather have with the gloved beauty. None of them requiring knives.
It takes a killer to catch a killer. Now Tavos must decide… Is love worth killing for?
Excerpt: (Warning: Course language)
“Excuse me.” She rested a gloved hand on his sleeve. Was that a flinch? No. His face was like granite as he turned to face her. This man would never flinch.
“Fuck,” he said under his breath. “What do you want?” Louder. The grating language offset by a deep, low voice, the sound touching the very depths of her.
What did she want? Looking in his flat brown eyes, she knew. To live. To love. To…
“This.” Grace plucked the toothpick away from his lips and, before fear overwhelmed the impulse, she leaned forward, into his warmth, and brushed her mouth against his.
His lips were hard. Unyielding. Like him. Like fate.
She didn’t know what she had expected. Not that. Disappointed, Grace withdrew to the safety and coldness of her own personal space. She had expected more. She took a pen out of her purse. Didn’t matter. Number four. She crossed it off the list. It was done.
“Fuck.” A hand gripped her waist, spinning her and the stool around. His face fierce. He was going to kill her now. Right here, in public. For daring to kiss him. Grace opened her mouth to scream, only to have it covered with his. She struggled. His hand gripped the back of her neck, not allowing her to retreat, hard lips grinding down, his body slamming against her, knocking the wind, the fight out of her, allowing his tongue inside.
It was hungry. Primitive. Deadly. Was death by kissing possible? Her body sagged against his, all resistance gone. Her right hand crept up, around his shoulder, and into his hair. He was so lean, hard, not an ounce of softness in his body. A finely trained weapon. To be used against her.
She didn’t die. He stepped back, a dazed look in those eyes. She touched the corner of her mouth with the tip of her tongue, tasting…blood.
“Fuck.” The killer ran a hand through his shiny black hair, smoothing down the tuft she had clenched. “Fuck.”