𝐌𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐌𝐚𝐝𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬

6 | Saving Ourselves of the Niceties

Y/N

I haven't seen Tom Holland in the flesh in ten months, although I've kept records of any time he and his mafia had been mentioned during my various jobs with Priya. It's surprising how many criminals in this city are somehow linked to The Family.

He stands in front of me, leaning against my desk holding a chocolate bar in his left hand and a hard drive in the other. I can't see the label but I'm sure that he would be holding his own.

"Guns get the job finished quicker," I snarl, aiming the loaded gun directly towards his chest. There's a metre or two between us, but with accurate aim, he'd be dead with one shot. The fucking audacity of this guy to break into my house, go through my private stuff and then mock my use of weapon.

"You're looking good Y/N, you working out?" He smiles, his cocky grin showing me he had not an ounce of fear in his body. Even though I'm the one with the gun, I know that he wouldn't be scared of me.

And that infuriates me.

"How did you get into my house?" I demand bluntly, still holding the gun towards him and ignoring his prior comment.

"Your code was the day I moved into the WITSEC house and when we first met, I found it quite cute actually. And this office, very impressive. What do you do now exactly? Robyn said it was for the government but I know they'd never let you work for them again after you faked your psychology degree," Tom said casually.

"What are you doing in my fucking house Holland," I huffed. I was past the niceties, regardless of whether he was my ex or not, I had one of the UK's most prolific mafia bosses in my house.

"Can we lower the gun please? It's weird for me to see you holding a weapon like this. I thought you were acquainted with house fires or steak knives from wedding ceremonies," he taunted, referring to my previous two murders plus the uh, whole Daniel situation which was my first unintentional kill.

The only ones he knew about.

He looked tired, restless, exhausted. Although he was freshly showered, wearing pristine clothes and had styled his hair immaculately, it was all a cover up. I could see straight through the facade. His eyes were bloodshot, framed by dark circles and heavy lids. His hands were shaky, his cuticles chewed at. His cologne felt like home; warm, woody, sexy.

"Would you prefer I kill you with a steak knife?" I scoffed.

"I'd prefer if you didn't kill me at all thanks," he smiled.

I lowered the gun, disabling it and taking out every bullet, throwing them down the hall so he wouldn't be able to use the gun against me later.

"Come on Darling, why are you being so defensive? We spent a solid chunk of our lives together, surely we can save ourselves the headache of pretending you actually want to kill me," he said standing up from the desk and stepping towards me.

I threw a punch towards him which he easily blocked, twisting my arm around and against my back as he pulled me against his chest. He chuckled and whispered 'why are we doing this?' into my ear before I thrusted my other elbow into his ribs, spinning around and punching him again straight on. He gripped my fist inches from his face with a cocky smirk, twisting my wrist in an almost painful manner.

"Y/N, as much as this is kind of turning me on, you and I both know you don't want to hit me," he said still twisting my wrist. It was like a fun little game to him, knowing he could overpower me so easily.

"Let go of my fucking wrist," I spat.

"Then don't try to hit me," he retorted.

"Then get out of my house," I snarked.

"Alright let's compromise. I'll let go, if you listen to what I have to say. Then I'll leave and never come back," he said letting go of my wrist and smiling. With my other hand I massaged the skin, pink and flushed with heat and pain.

"I don't give a fuck about what you have to say. I've had a long day and I'd appreciate it if you left my home before I call the police," I snarled.

"Oh come on darling, you know the police would take you to jail once they raided this little office of yours. And I know you've had a busy day, parading around our casino in a little black wig and stripper heels," he laughed.

Despite not seeing him in ten months, he still calls me darling. It's a psychological attack on my memories, my feelings, my heart. Fucking bastard.

"So you're not only breaking and entering, you're stalking me too. Great," I said rolling my eyes and crossing my arms.

"You're stalking me too by the looks of it," he said pointing back to the hard drive he was holding earlier.

"I think we're both lying to ourselves if we're pretending like we're not completely over each other," he continued. And honestly, he read my mind by saying that.

I looked at him for a lingering few seconds. I was definitely lying to myself thinking I didn't think about Tom every time I was having sex with another person. I was lying to myself when I laid awake at night missing his arms wrapped around me. I was lying to myself when I pretended to have forgotten about him entirely.

"Just stop fucking talking and let's start what you came here for," I whined, walking up to him and pulling his face to mine for a kiss. I couldn't help it, I had thought about him night after night, craving the sexual satisfaction that only he could provide. I was hooked, addicted, lustful.

Why else would he have gone through this much effort in breaking into my house for? Obviously he just wants sex. The amounts of sex I've had since our break up couldn't amount to the quality of sex I had with Tom, and I presume he feels the same.

Screw it. I'll sleep with him and then he can leave my fucking house. That's it.