Sleeping With the Enemy

Sequel: Chapter Seventeen

Anthony

Two months passed, and not a single word was heard from Diego. It was like he vanished. Dropped off the face of the Earth. Evaporated into thin air, never to be heard from again. Part of me wanted to believe that was the case, and we were rid of him for good, but in my heart, I knew it was never that easy.

Problems like Diego didn't just disappear—he was way too prideful for that. With his ego bruised, he might shy away for a while so he could lick his wounds and regroup, but he'd be back.

I was anxious, and every day we had to wait, I just got wound tighter. Holding back wasn't in my DNA, and even though I trusted that Brandon knew better than I did, it killed me not to go at Diego, guns blazing. Why not shoot up his entire compound? Rip his men apart limb by limb until they gave him up? Why were we letting that bastard breathe another second longer after coming after Gemma?

The way Brandon could compartmentalize had me in awe. It was his daughter they were after. His own flesh and blood. Sweet and feisty and beautiful-beyond-comprehension Gemma. But watching Brandon operate, you'd never know.

He was the pillar of composure, not rattled or off his game in the slightest. Cool, calculated, and willing to wait as long as it took to do this the right way. Jesus, what was it like to have that kind of restraint and understanding? Sure, Gemma wasn't in immediate danger, but wasn't every day that Diego was free a potential threat?

If it was up to me, I'd hunt the son of a bitch down, completely unsatisfied, until his blood covered my hands. Until his stone cold heart stopped beating. Until his body was stiff, rotting at the bottom of the ocean.

It wasn't up to me, though, and so as much as it killed me, I deferred to Brandon.

Maybe it was all the pent up energy I was wrestling with, and not so much waiting on Diego. Since moving back to the Avenettis, alone time with Gemma was reduced to a few stolen moments here and there, not nearly enough to satisfy my insatiable, throbbing need for her. To be so close to her and not able to touch her scorching body, brush my lips across her rosy cheeks, whisper all of my dirty thoughts into her ear... yeah, that was a level of psychological torture I didn't know existed.

We'd hardly left the house since the shooting, but that didn't mean we had much alone time. If Josie and Ryan weren't wanting to hang out with Gemma, then Brandon was calling me in for a meeting or I was training with Alex. Almost every night, we ate dinner with her family, and with the heightened security, it felt like we were under constant watch. It was almost like the world was conspiring against us, pulling out all the stops to keep us apart, and it was getting fucking annoying.

I was revved up 100% off the time, and I needed some kind of outlet. The release I got from fighting wasn't as fulfilling as sex, but it was a close second, and if I couldn't have my way with Gemma any damn time I pleased, getting my hands on Diego could temporarily suffice.

The only problem was that neither of those things were happening, and I was getting so impatient that I could feel my top getting ready to blow. And that wasn't good for anyone.

My only relief came from the fact that I knew Gemma felt the same, her body language a dead giveaway. The mischievous wink she'd give me across the dinner table. The way she'd sweep her fingers against mine when we walked. The not-so-subtle cross to her legs and accompanying blush she'd get everyone she caught me staring, no doubt reading all the naughty things I was imagining in my head. It was torture for both of us, but it made the moments alone we were able to steal all the hotter.

We had all the good cliches going for us. Pent up tension. Burning desire for each other. The threat of getting caught at any second. Even as agitated and deprived as I was, it added a level of heat I definitely wasn't complaining about.