by Kenya Wright
So good. Too good.
“All mine.” I pulled out of Eden, and those sweet walls gripped my cock eagerly, trying to yank me back in. “Damn you.”
My cock throbbed as I slid in and out of her, and I held her body tighter against me. Hard and greedy like a mad man, scared that she would disappear, if the hold was too loose. Petrified that heaven would take my angel away. The idea of any other man touching her, holding her, fucking her, it triggered rage to blaze inside of my chest. She was mine and no one else could have her.
“Jean-Pierre,” she moaned.
I grunted, “Mien.”
This woman was all mine. This pussy, this love, this beautiful woman slipping against my body, becoming one with me, this was why I would wake up every day.
Many stood in our way. I didn’t know if they were trying to block the path to our love, or not. But they were coming. Crouching within the shadows of Paris. Refusing to let us enjoy our lives. But we would win. Nothing would get in our way.
Groaning, I whispered, “We’ll never be stopped.”
People were dying around us. Unexpected coincidences occurred. All these events together pointed to danger creeping up.
But all I would focus on was her.
“What would be better than you, my love?” I slowed my strokes and gazed into those lovely hazel eyes. “Nothing, my queen. Nothing.”
No other woman could satisfy me. No other woman could get my attention.
Those thoughts pounded through my head. Groaning, I fucked her with long, hard, punishing strokes
“Ah!” Coming, she clenched those wet, soft walls around my cock, milking the tip and driving me crazy. “Jean-Pierre!”
Frustrated, I growled as I came with her. I’d wanted more time. I was nowhere close to done. I’d wanted to flip her around, drive deep into that fat ass. I’d craved her mouth on my cock. I’d hoped to lift her up off the desk at the end, carry her to the wall, and fuck her some more.
I had thought I was the one in control, and then Eden brought me to the brink of climax, begging for release.
“Sirène.” My orgasm rose along with her and I dove into her throbbing ocean, headfirst. And I didn’t care if I would drown. I couldn’t even catch my breath or maintain my balance. “Fuck, Eden. Damn you.”
Still coming, she hugged me to her, rocking her hips and gazing at me through sleepy eyes.
I whispered, “Heaven.”
And we descended into a blur of intense pleasure. United. Joined together in this passion. I swore we exploded. I spilled into her, cum spurting from my cock and coating that pussy.
After a few minutes, I caught my breath. Exhausted, she lay back down on the desk. Her chest rose and fell. Her breasts were moist and shiny within my office’s light.
I touched the center of her chest, right between those full breasts. “Feel free to come to my office anytime. You could never interrupt me.”
“And if you’re busy, just let me know and I’ll come back when you’re not?”
“I’ll never be too busy for you, Eden.” I helped her up and gave her my shirt. “Let’s go. Just put this on. You won’t need any more clothes.”
She put the shirt on. I loved the way it dangled around her. I hoped her scent was all over it. She tried to scoot off the desk.
Fuck sitting in my office, drinking whiskey, and brooding.
“No. I want you to save your energy. I’m not done playing you yet.” I lifted her off the desk and carried her out of my office. “That was just the first movement.”
I spent the rest of the evening trying to dominate her. But that pussy, or her body wouldn’t be obedient. Many times she owned my cock like no other. Such a small, sweet creature. Complete feminine perfection. Soft. Delicate. Still she took my cock, her hips doing dirty dances to the tip. Her moans, a seductive symphony.
She owned me like no other.
Before Eden, my life had been—guns and nameless women. Bombs and impeccable suits. Blood and sleepless nights. Private jets with no place to go.
And there was no real lust. Not a lust for life or wanderlust to see more.
I moved like a phantom. I lived like a zombie. I loved like a man without a heart. With no pleasure. No love. There was only bloodlust to feel the space between darkness and pain.
And I saw Eden.
And I started a war.
And now I had her.
And no one would ever get in our way.
Pleasure was stronger than pain.
I’d dealt in the game of pain for a long time. I’d been battered and broken, beat, stabbed, and shot. I could say with confidence, that the body didn’t retain the memory of pain. While the injury hurt, or the illness crippled, it healed. It was all forgotten by the brain. Even the nerves overlooked the past.
But the body was different with pleasure. A taste. A scent. The soft feel of skin. Those were things that the brain recalled with total clarity.
As I finished playing Strauss’s Sonata all over Eden’s body, we lay together in bed. She fell asleep first, resting her head on my chest and giving out a soft snore.
And I thought of the ways I would protect us. Rafael would find Shalimar and figure out what was going on with Celina. While I yearned to spend the rest of my days in bed and naked with Eden, I would need to step it up and get answers. Time was of the essence. Anything could happen in the next weeks.
Damn it. I’m going to meet with Kazimir, end all these unanswered questions, and ask the Lion himself what’s going on. Let’s see if he’ll be reasonable.
Now that Eden was in my hold, nothing could come for us.
When it came to the Lion, every move would have to be well-thought out.
For the Bratva, he was becoming a legend. The tales of his exploits hit France and other parts of the world. The man was violence and high explosives. On a good day, he was ruthless. On a bad day, he was a blood-soaked monster. There was no true weakness to him. When he wasn’t killing people, he liked fast cars and faster women. But there was no person that we could threaten against him. He had a sister named Valentina, but she was just as violent and powerful as him.
What’s your soft spot, Lion? How will I stop you from bothering us?
Those were my last thoughts, as I held Eden close to me and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Chapter 6
Hindsigh
Rafael
Jean-Pierre thought of Paris as a gorgeous woman, but I knew Paris was a man. And I wasn’t into men, but I knew a man when I saw one. A good-looking one too.
And Paris, although masculine, took the average woman’s breath away. It was something about the air and water. Something about the fire in the streets and the richness of the grounds that ancient royals had walked upon.
And tonight, I stood inside the belly of that handsome, scented devil.
Giorgio stepped to my side. “My meeting with Jean-Pierre took longer than I expected.”
“You told him about the dead roommate?” I asked.
Giorgio nodded. “Is this where Shalimar’s tracker was located?”
“Yeah.”
We both stared at Forum des Halles. It was a park, an underground mall, and below that, a huge subway station.
For centuries it had been Paris's central marketplace. Back then, they’d called it
Les Halles. Parisians had bought and sold all types of goods and services. Later, food became the market’s specialty. Author Emile Zola, had once called it “the Belly of Paris.”
But then Paris grew. The marketplace crowded. The hundreds of stalls became a logistical problem. In the 60s, the city moved the stalls to a suburban area. What was left of Les Halles, was a big empty hole in the ground and rightfully, the Parisians were appalled. Ten years later, the city filled the hole with a beautiful park on ground level. A shopping mall sat underneath the park, boasting stores, restaurants, a discotheques, museums and movie theaters. The world's largest underground subway station.
I shook my head.
“It was smart of Shalimar to call from here. She could’ve been anywhere, when she did.”
“Even on the subway.”
“If she could get service that far below.”
“We must be patient.” Giorgio gestured for us to leave. “We have the address for her location that she wants Eden to meet at. We’ll show up there tomorrow.”
“Do we still have people monitoring that line? She could still use the phone later.”
“Yes. It’s probably a burner she uses for emergencies. Either way, we have several people watching.” He stuck his hand in his pocket, pulled out a mint, and offered me one. “Would you like one?”
“Why do you always offer me a mint?”
“What do you mean?”
“You never offer Jean-Pierre one. Are you trying to say that my breath stinks?”
Sighing, Giorgio popped a mint into his mouth. “You’re being anxious. Focus on something else besides this problem.”
“A mint is not going to solve this. Someone’s killing people and it looks like they’re searching for Shalimar and Eden. I don’t know why Shalimar just won’t contact me.”
“She may think we’re behind the killings.”
“She doesn’t.” I walked off. “She hates me.”
Giorgio followed. “You sure you don’t want a mint?”
“Fuck your mints!”
We headed to the limo parked a few feet away and then got in.
There was a time, when I thought I wanted a different life. A life with Shalimar. But that changed the day she ripped my heart out. Granted, I broke her heart first.
She slung a lamp at me. “Why would you sleep with the twins? Why?!”
“I…. listen. . .” I ducked as she threw several books at me. “Shalimar, would you—”
“Never again.” She pointed at me and screamed. “I will never love you! Don’t come near me. Don’t ask Celina to be with me. Stay the fuck away from me.”
“Shalimar?” I jumped back as she threw an empty bottle my way and stormed off.
The bottle hit the wall.
The door slammed.
And my heart went right with her.
I’d never got my heart back.
It had been almost three years ago. Granted, I deserved her silent treatment and hate for the first year. But the second year should’ve gave me a little leeway to return.
There was none.
Shalimar blocked off all means of communications, even silently scowling at me whenever I attempted to talk to her. I grew that second year. I appreciated her more. I looked at women differently. I tried to change.
And now the third year had arrived. She was still silent and unyielding. Still avoiding and blocking. Still hating and rebuking. This had shifted into cruel punishment with no release in sight.
Fine, Shalimar. You don’t want me. You can at least give me back my heart.
A man that lived with no heart, did not live at all. He moved in a state of recklessness. His soul became callous. His mind remained consumed by darkness.
And now you pop up in Paris? Have you brought my heart with you?
Shalimar had come to my city. The same woman who destroyed my ego. And Paris, was not a beautiful woman. Paris was a handsome, alluring-scented man more than ready to beguile and lure the lost into sinful corruption.
Paris would eat her alive, if she let him. She needed my protection, not just from the maniac who’d been killing people around her, but even Paris could snap her up and throw her away.
You’re in my territory and Jean-Pierre is busy. He won’t be able to buffer anymore. You’ll have to deal with me.
She thought that she could stay away. She thought that she could torture me. She came to Paris—to my world and didn’t say hello?
I would show her what that meant.
Where are you?
My cock jumped in my pants, which was not an ideal situation with Giorgio sitting in the limo next to me.
Where are you, Shalimar? And are you going to make me beg again? More silent treatment?
Giorgio popped another mint in his mouth. “Where are we going?”
“Are you hungry?”
“Yeah.”
I brightened a little. “We can go to Shalimar’s.”
Giorgio frowned. “I’m not that hungry after all.”
“Are you implying that the food at my restaurant sucks?”
“No. It’s just that your chef hasn’t perfected the fusion of Chinese and French cooking. When you’re with me, she has to cook from the menu.”
“What do you mean? She always has to cook from the menu.”
“Nothing. But if I were you, I would let her revamp the menu.”
“She emailed me something, I refused. I like the damn menu the way it is.” I glared out of the window. “Jean-Pierre and you are such food snobs. Always complaining about the dishes. Why can’t you two embrace new things.”
“The octopus cordon bleu is atrocious.”
“That’s because it requires heightened taste buds.”
“Apparently,” Giorgio muttered under his breath.
“I’m just going to get a new chef. She’s been battling me on the menu the whole time anyway.”
Giorgio shook his head. “Gwen studied French cuisine for ten years. She’s living here to get the experience of cooking French food. You should have hired one that understood Chinese—”
“Gwen? Is that her name? Why do you know so much about my chef?” I eyed him from the side. “I didn’t even know she studied for ten years.”
“Did you read her resume? I sent it to you.”
“She was the only one that applied.”
“People probably heard that it was your name behind the restaurant and were too scared to apply. Gwen moved here a week ago when she applied. She didn’t know us.”
Gwen this. Gwen that. Interesting.
I glared at him. “Don’t fuck my chef.”
“What?” Giorgio widened his eyes and dusted off the shoulders of his jacket. “I would never.”
“You have a problem with fucking everyone’s maids.”
“It’s been a minute since I’ve done that.”
“We think it’s weird. Stop it.”
“I have.” He gritted his teeth. “And your shitty restaurant has nothing to do with my love of maids, or the fact that you’re limiting your chef’s abilities—”
“Because you’re well-acquainted with her abilities?”
When Giorgio fucked the staff, they stopped being productive. He’d caused chaos at Jean-Pierre’s house in Nice. Half the staff had fallen in love with him. The house had been a mess for weeks. The maids fought each other, and Jean-Pierre’s aunts had forbidden Giorgio to return for a good three months.
I’d let Giorgio manage Shalimar’s since Jean-Pierre kept me busy. He’d hired most of the staff, even though he found my ideas ungodly.
“Shalimar’s could be better.” He placed the mints in his jacket. “Have you even met Gwen?”
“I’ve been busy.”
“She’s quite a character and very funny. Usually she’ll come out of the kitchen and say hi. Probably because no one ever comes.”
I grumbled.
“One night I was in the. . .supply closet and when I left, I saw her crying in the kitchen. She’d just tasted those damn teriyaki croissants that you’d forced on the menu and was doubting herself.”
“The croissants taste good dipped in teriyaki.”
Giorgio pulled out his white leather wallet. It was his special one. He carried two wallets. The black wallet always sat in his left pocket. The white one resided in the right.
I’d only seen him pull out the black one a few times. I remember the whole room had gone silent to see what lay inside. He’d widened his eyes at us and simply pulled out some money.
This evening, he lay the white wallet on his lap and begun his after-treat habit. While the mint wasn’t truly a food, Giorgio would think so and want a full bath afterwards.
Continuing his conversation, he opened the white wallet and pulled out several wipes in a thin plastic container. “Maybe croissants would taste good, if they’re dipped in teriyaki. Then provide your customers with a dipping sauce, but don’t make the croissants teriyaki filled. You’re forcing something that’s not there.”
Forcing something that’s not there.
Shalimar’s face came to my mind.
I shook it away and considered what Giorgio had said earlier. “Wait a minute. Why were you in my supply closet?”
“That’s not significant to the story.”
I studied his face. “The waitresses are off limits too.”
“Now that’s being absurd. We all fuck waitresses.”
“Not mine. Shalimar’s has a reputation of high-end food and service.”
“Does it now?”
Giorgio was just a chatty cat this evening. Usually, he remained silent and in the background, but Jean-Pierre had been absent more, which gave the opportunity for others to speak. Now everyone had an idea and opinion.
And unfortunately, once a Laurent man started talking. He never shut up. The Laurent men and women were known for their mouths. Crime too. And behind our backs, many breathed legends of the Laurent men’s obsessions.
Giorgio was our youngest cousin. He was never meant to be in this life with us.
For my other cousins, our fathers had forced us into the Corsican at early ages. Louis had sold drugs around nine. His dad had gone off to prison and died years later. He’d been the main support for his mother as she cleaned floors and took care of six kids. Jean-Pierre and I trafficked drugs as kids. Our oldest cousin Pierre helped his dad in the brothel, cleaning up rooms and managing money. Now, he didn’t come around much anymore, enjoying his control over our operations in Montreal.
Basically, our fathers’ generation of Laurent were pieces of shit. Although Jean-Pierre and I would never admit to it.
Only Giorgio’s father represented the high quality of what a Laurent man could be. He was religious. He still worked with the Corsican, but on a spiritual level. He had a church that laundered money for several provinces in France, but he also made sure our men came to his church for guidance and a means to unload and repent.
