Claimed by the Sicilian Tycoon (Criminal Seduction #3)(39)

“And the money,” he snapped. “Do not forget about the money.”

She sighed inwardly even as those words bounced around in her brain. The money. Wasn’t it always about that? Hadn’t the mission been about that from the very, very start….and yet…this was Andros. Andros who bought her fried chicken, and flashes of fire, treating them all in exactly the same way, as if neither was more important than the other. Andros who, despite his denial, was jealous.

Jealous.

Lyra couldn’t help the way that thought made her heart ache. She turned her back to him and looked over her shoulder. “Undo my dress.”


He narrowed his eyes, bent forward, took the two sides of the slit, and ripped them upwards. Lyra stood perfectly still as the delicate fabric parted from her skin.

“You will not wear these types of dresses again,” he said.

She shrugged a delicate shoulder. “I never wanted to in the first place. I told you that in the beginning.”

He stepped forward so that she was pulled flush against him and rested his mouth on her neck. “You are mine, Rossa.”

“Until you tire of me,” she said—unsure why her heart ached in an entirely different fashion from those words.

“Until then,” he agreed, and bit into her neck. “Until then.”





Chapter Twenty



Later, as Lyra lay sleeping curled up against him, Andros could not settle. He was sated—Lyra was right about one thing, she pleasured him in ways he could barely comprehend—but she was wrong too about many other things. This relationship of theirs, if you could even call it that, was not perfect. The jealousy he had felt seeing her laughing and talking with the boy was like nothing he had ever experienced. It ate at him, clawed at his gut, and that was unacceptable. Andros could not afford to start have feelings for Lyra.

She was his mistress, he her protector.

There must be no tender feelings in their relationship.

He turned over onto his back, seeking to put a little distance between them. It did not work. She turned too and cuddled up against him, draping one leg over his thigh, and placing her arm across his chest. Her hair feathered out across the pillow, and through the myriad lights still shining across London city he could see the perfect redness of it.

With something that felt suspiciously like a sigh, Andros reached out and picked up a strand of that hair. It felt so soft as he rubbed it between his finger and thumb, marveling at the different hues.

She was so f*cking beautiful.

The image of the bartender leaning forward to laugh with her hit, and he growled. He knew exactly what that boy was thinking. Fucking hell, he knew what they were all thinking whenever she walked past them. Lyra was sexy as hell. Everyone, him included knew it, and she was so…nice. That was the real problem, he thought. She didn’t wear the brittle mask of many other women who looked like her. Instead, she was charming, and sweet, and she made every man she talked to feel like she was there for him and him alone.

He knew that because that was precisely how she made him feel!

Perhaps if she were a little more dismissive, a little haughty. But no, that was not her personality, and right now he hated that fact. Hated the jealousy she created in him, and hated himself for not having better control over his unruly emotions.

He dropped the strand of hair, and almost absently ran his fingers along her bare arm. She was lightly tanned, the skin even softer than the hair. Everything about her was soft. Everything was warm.

Fucking hell.

With gritted teeth, he pulled himself out from under her and off the bed. Once up, he moved across to the vast windows, which took up almost the entire bedroom wall. With one hand on the frame, he leaned forward, watching the city play beneath him. Cars moved back and forth—even at this time of night, people scurried around. There were no doubt thousands of couples still awake, he thought, loving in the streets below him, the buildings around him. Men and women finding each other, discovering each other, but he couldn’t help wonder how many of them had a relationship even approaching something close to the one he and Lyra had put together out of nowhere. Not many would be his guess.

He moved across to the other side of the window, taking in the whole view, but it didn’t soothe him as it would usually have done. He was too wired up, too antsy. Something was churning inside of him—something that kept asking who Lyra would be with if not him—and Andros had no idea how to fix it.

“Andros?”

Lyra’s voice was questioning, hesitant, and he turned to see her, one hand propped up on her chin, watching him as he had watched the city.

“I thought you were asleep.”

She smiled across at him. “I was, just for a little while. I don’t know what woke me. Maybe because you weren’t here.”

Her words should have made him smile back but they did not. Instead they sent something that felt like panic running through his frame. “Go back to sleep, Rossa. I’ll come back to bed in a moment.”

“Why don’t you come lie down next to me and I’ll give you a massage,” she suggested. “Work some of that tension from you?”

“I’m not tense.”

“You so are.”

He sighed even as he moved back across to the bed, unable to think of a reason not to join her. “I will hold you instead, then you can fall back to sleep.”