บททั้งหมดของ The Bad Gentleman : บทที่ 61 - บทที่ 70

Christian I don’t do feelings.I never have, not until a five-foot-four minx walked into my bar. Even then, what I felt wasn’t mushy, it was possessive. Everything in me screamed I had to have her. And when I want something, I take it regardless of the consequences; I never gave a fuck about consequences anyway.My decision to put off fucking her was purely about control. I wanted, no needed her to see and know that she belongs to me, I needed her to go on her knees and beg to have me. But just the fucked-up thought that she’d go running back to that deadbeat of a boyfriend messed with everything I built and I gave in, creating a fucking insatiable monster, one that needs to be in her every damn second of the damn day.Even now, just the thoughts of her softness wrapped tightly around me, the hazy look in her eyes, the sounds of her moans, and when she’s trying to contain them by biting her lips, all of it has me fucking hard in my board meeting. “Dio mio,” I mutter under my breath,

Hannah The sun kisses the side of my face lightly, forcing me to squint my eyes, moving away from the bright light. But there isn’t enough space for me to move to because the cafe I’m currently in is quaint, with table space barely enough to fit five people. I’m sure it’s a space for three, but they didn’t let us join two tables to fit our company due to their policy. It’s a cute place with an outdoor option, which we took thinking it’d be great, until the clouds cleared up and the sun came into view.“I just think she’s crazy,” Hailey’s saying, referring to some nurse who tried to marry her sick patient. I don’t even know the whole story, I wasn’t paying attention, which is a given considering the fact that my mind has been hung up on what happened at the restaurant four nights ago.Honestly, something about the interaction with Thiago Desanti stayed on my mind. It was how serious and sure he looked when addressing me, like there was no way he could be wrong. Then he asked about my

Hannah When you lie you go to hell.Those are words I grew up hearing at the orphanage. The sisters and reverend fathers always preached against lying. They hammered on it day after day, week after week like it was the gravest sin a person can commit. Possibly because it’s the easiest sin; like how effortlessly I lied to Soph when I told her I’d tell Christian about Connor and his threat even when I knew I wouldn’t.I lie awake, staring up at the ceiling counting my breath because I lost track of my sheep. I’m unable to sleep, think, or even move, just lying here with Christian’s arm on my torso, binding me to him while he sleeps.It’s the second night in a row I can’t seem to keep my eyes closed for more than a minute, which should strengthen my resolve, make me tell Christian about my worries. But for some reason, it doesn’t. And it’s not like I haven’t tried. When Christian returned from work late last night, I wanted to bring it up, but one l

Christian “Yes, Capo. What do you need?” Ricardo’s voice on the other end of the line asks.“Two guys max, and a van. Have them meet me at the intersection,” I tell him, settling into my Audi, leaning over to the passenger side to pick up my gun from under it.I never go anywhere without my gun, the only exception being inside the company. But it’s never far away.“Did something happen? I could come along,” Ricardo offers, and I can hear the bloodlust in his voice, but this is not his show.“No need. It’s a clean-up job. I’m leaving the office now, and I’ll only wait three minutes. Get on to it,” I throw out my order and hang up, my fingers circling the cold metal on my lap.I hoped I was wrong. I hoped I was mistaken and she was at a hospital like she said she’d be, but it was wrong of me to do so.Now she’s going to see that I don’t fucking bluff. And no one tests me.I turn on my ignition, prepping the car before stepping on the gas. The usual rush I get from driving this car is l

Hannah It’s sometime after midnight when Christian returns, looking freshly showered. Not like someone who put a bullet in another man hours ago. I lay in bed, both hands under my head, peeping through my half-opened eyes at him and tracking his movements. He shrugs off his suit jacket and hangs it up, followed by his pants, then he strips off his dress shirt and disappears into the bathroom, likely tossing it into the laundry before turning on the shower. Five minutes pass. Then ten. By fifteen, I start to wonder if he plans to drown himself under the spray, but after three more minutes, he appears by the door, a towel wrapped low around his waist like usual, and water dripping from his black hair. He pauses at the door, raking his fingers through his hair, and with a breath, he looks in my direction; the first time he’s done so since his return. I press my lips tightly together, hoping he’d just ignore me and continue doing whatever he’s doing. The truth is, I’ve come to terms w