The tease has Dominick panting, craning to see every inch of my body at once as his eyes dilate just from watching me. My nipples harden when I see the growing bulge in his slacks, knowing that I’m doing that to him. Me, Allison Bancroft, not Allie Angel.
I face away from him, letting him see the expanse of my back as I remove my bra and toss it overhead where it lands in his lap. He grabs it, fisting it like it’s more than a slip of silky lace.
I swing my hips side to side, drawing his attention lower by running my hands down my curves to one of the two places I desperately want him to fill.
The other is my heart, but that seems dangerous to consider, so I let the dreamy thought drift away like my panties as they hit the floor and I step out of them.
Fully nude for him, I sway seductively.
“Stop,” he says, softly but forcefully, his voice barely audible over the music from the speakers.
I freeze instantly, and Dom’s eyes meet mine despite the enticement of my bared body.
“You have pretty words to explain your desire to dance, to be on stage, and they are true, but I think you haven’t admitted the most obvious one.”
I suddenly feel vulnerable again with nothing to hide behind, and the naughty fun of the moment squeezes in tight as I fear what he sees. He comes around the desk, and now I’m the one being stalked as he slips a hand around my neck. I don’t resist but instead lift my chin defiantly in false bravado.
“What do you mean?”
He leans forward to whisper in my ear, holding me in place as if I’d try to get away. “You like to be watched. It feeds some beast in your core to not just explore those experiences but to have them watched by the audience.”
He’s not wrong, though the way he says it makes it seem dirtier than it is. I shrug, not giving him the satisfaction of my agreement nor the disappointment of a denial.
He growls, turning me around and pushing me forward until I’m pressed up against the glass. I know that we can see out, but the people below can’t see us.
“Look down there, Allison. See all those people in the audience? Do you want them to watch you dance, watch you seduce me with your smile and your sexy body? Do you want them to watch while I fuck your sweet pussy?”
With his last question, he moves his free hand down my back to cup me, hissing as he discovers how wet I am.
Not willing to admit it, I sass back as a last-ditch effort of rebellion. “If I’m the exhibitionist, you’re the voyeur, always watching from your perch above everyone else. You like to watch and manipulate people like chess pieces for your game.”
He’s not nearly as shy about the admission as I am, chuckling proudly. “I do like to watch . . . but only you. And I’m going to watch you give yourself fully to me, right here, overlooking that entire audience. Perhaps I’ll make the glass transparent? Would you like that?”
I bite my lip, shaking my head. “No, not them. Just you.”
His grin is full of victorious pride as my words betray me, confirming the exhibitionist tendencies I’d never really given a second thought. He rewards the honesty by slipping his fingers through my folds, gathering my juices and spreading them over my clit.
His touch is teasing, never staying exactly where I want him, not out of lack of skill but simply because he can since he’s in control.
He presses me firmly against the window, the cool glass against my cheek and breasts in contrast to the heat he’s building at my core as he tugs my hips back, forcing me to arch for him.
He smacks my ass, and I whimper in need. “Good girl,” he praises me, and I can’t help but circle my hips, wanting more, needing more. “Tell me. Who do you need?”
“You,” I whimper, and at the first thrust of his finger inside me, I involuntarily clench down, wanting to feel every inch, even if it’s not his cock.
His groan is guttural from beside me, and his finger slips deeper, curling and making my fingers claw against the glass.
“So fucking tight, Allie. I don’t know if you can even take my cock in your tiny pussy. It’s going to be a stretch, that’s for damn sure.”
He’s dirty, his normally formal tones forgotten as I drive him as wild as he’s driving me. And his words are enough to bring me closer to coming, imagining how full I’ll feel when he finally gives in to what we both want.
A gush of wetness eases his way as he adds a second finger before beginning to fingerfuck me in earnest. My eyes flutter closed at the overwhelming sensation, but Dominick slaps my ass, his voice harsh and commanding.
“No, keep your eyes open and on the crowd below you, so clueless to your getting filled with my fingers right above them. So close, but they don’t deserve your exhibition. Only I do, so give me one, Allie. I’m watching, and I want to see you come for me.”
Instantly, I’m on the edge, ready to shatter at the slightest stimulation, and Dominick does what I don’t expect. He shoves another thick finger inside me, and the stretch verges on pain, but the pleasure is so overwhelming that I come hard, crying out his name and steaming the glass with my panting breaths.
Ignoring his order to keep my eyes on the audience, I focus on Dominick, whose eyes are burning with something bigger, deeper, darker than lust as he watches me. I can feel my juices leaking over his fingers, and the weight of his gaze sends me spiraling again, an aftershock orgasm riding the wave of the first.
His fingers still deep inside me, he growls into my ear, “Tell me, Allie. In this moment, whose are you?”
I don’t even think about my answer, the word quietly falling from my lips unbidden and honest. “Yours.”
I see the flash in the depths of his eyes though his expression doesn’t change, and then he presses a gentle kiss to my neck before whispering in my ear, so soft I almost miss it, the breath of absolution upon his soul. “Mine.”
Chapter 8
Dominick
Looking at the front door of the duplex I’m standing in front of, I’m struck by how often my business is conducted in the most innocuous of settings. The door’s painted bright blue, like sunny skies and happiness. The house itself is a bright white, seemingly freshly painted.
I can appreciate that someone is caring for the home, and even their color palette. Nothing garish, but also nothing beige and boring. It’s tasteful, and that’s something I can give credit for. Though who’s doing the caring leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
I glance once at Gavin, who stands by the car at the curb.
At his nod that everything is clear, I lift my fist and knock twice. There’s a screeching cry from inside and a hushed voice whispering, both sounds getting closer to the door.
When it creaks open, I see a tiny woman with a bundle of blanket in her arms. I can’t see the baby cradled there, but as most people aren’t in the habit of caring for baby banshees, I make the obvious assumption.
The woman looks confused but continues her bouncing attempt to soothe the baby.
“Can I help you?” Her voice is high-pitched, not unpleasant, but it adds to the youthful effect of her threadbare cutoff shorts and tank top. The only major signs that she’s not a high school babysitter are the tattoos trailing down her left arm and the possessive way she’s holding the baby, obviously her own and not a paid charge.
I can understand her feeling of protectiveness, though her first mistake was in opening the door at all to a stranger she doesn’t know. She might be experienced, but she’s not that wise.
“Myra Cole?”
I remind myself to say it as though it’s a question, though I already know exactly who she is.
“Yes,” she replies warily. “Who’re you?”
“I’m Dominick Angeline. May I come in?”
My name means nothing to her, a pleasant surprise. Myra’s blue eyes scan me head to toe as the door inches closed ever so slightly.
Smart woman.
“What’s this about?” she asks, bouncing the babe and stealthily moving the door another two inches clo
sed with her hip. The baby, sensing the tension in her mother, stops caterwauling, and I get a glimpse of a round, if still mostly bald, head.
My lips tilt up in the slightest smile, not altogether fake, designed to put her at ease. “I’m here to see Robert Zallow.”
She’s good, not flinching at all at the name, no increased breathing, not a single tell. The lack of reaction is what tells me that it’s a practiced response. Most people, when they’re confronted with a strange request, will at least narrow their eyes a little in confusion.
Myra doesn’t. “Don’t know anybody by that name. If you’ll excuse me . . . have a good day.”
She makes no attempt to hide her movement to close the door this time, but there’s no way she’s getting the door closed past my shoulder. I lower my voice, dropping the soft tones.
“Let’s not play coy. I’m here to see Mr. Zallow. I’m willing to sit on your couch like a proper guest while he comes home, or I can meet him in a less . . . pleasant situation.”
I let her imagination fill in the gaps. I find that people are much more creative than I am with threats. Myra’s no exception, coming up with ones specific to her own fears. It’s a twisted joy of mine, watching her eyes flicker as her own worst-case scenario filters through her mind, wondering if I can make it come true.
I wait as she swallows once and then opens the door and gestures with her chin toward what looks like a living room. “Won’t you come in, Mr. Angeline? Would you like a drink?”
Her voice is pure saccharin, fake politeness with an undercurrent of fear. I step inside, taking in the small home with a glance. A couch and single chair take up the living room space, likely once fluffy, but now the lumps are apparent. There’s a tear in the fabric, but someone’s already mended it with secure if ugly stitching.
The television sits on a wooden cabinet, locks already in place on the doors though the baby likely can’t even sit up yet.
It shows care, forethought, and attention to detail, along with an intention to stay here long-term.
I go over and settle into the chair, unwilling to offer the entry my back, and resume pleasantries.
“Thank you, Miss Cole. Water would be lovely.”
She disappears into the kitchen for a moment, and I hear the faucet turn on and off before she reappears, handing me a plastic cup emblazoned with a BBQ joint’s name on it.
Her hand is steady, though her eyes are twitchy, watching for any threatening movement.
I feign taking a small sip, though I doubt she has poison handy. Still, I didn’t get to where I am by being careless. Resting the drink on the arm of the chair, I gesture to the phone on the couch, a small smile on my lips.
“Feel free to call Robert when you’re ready.”
She bends down to grab the phone, choosing to stand rather than sit, keeping herself close to the back-door exit. Smart lady.
It’s a pity she’s running with an Eagle Raider, though a woman like her being with Zallow is already perhaps a more valuable recommendation than I’d previously received on his character.
She picks up the phone and dials quickly, whispering harshly when the call’s picked up. “Sorry to bother you at work, but there’s someone here to see you.” She pauses a second, and I presume he repeats her words because she says again, “Yes, here. Sitting in your chair in the living room. Says his name is Dominick Angeline.”
I see the moment the questions in her eyes turn to terror and watch as she takes two steps back, getting closer to the back door.
“Miss Cole,” I say, raising my voice simply to make sure that it comes through clearly on the other end of the phone call, “if I’d wanted to harm you, I would have already. I merely wish to speak to him.”
I hear the yell as the phone slips from her ear, and on the other end, a deep voice promises, “I’m on my way, baby.”
There’s a soft buzzing tone as the line disconnects, and I imagine that right now, Robert Zallow is probably setting a personal best sprint time out of whatever job he’s working at, rushing home to come in like a saving knight in shining armor to rescue his woman from the big, bad dragon.
That’s me.
But not now.
Though I can be monstrous, dangerous, and threatening, today is merely about setting boundaries and expectations. If Robert Zallow can behave like a gentleman, this should be nothing more than a polite but professional conversation.
Five silent, frozen minutes later, the loud rumble of a Harley being driven to its limits breaks the tension. I can feel Myra’s relief at the return of her man. Apparently she’s just as entwined in this apparent fairy tale where he’s rushing in to save her.
Odd how those childhood stories are so deeply ingrained in our psyches. I suspect that it steers more of our behavior than most people are willing to admit.
But if anything, the man rushing through the door and shoving Myra and her baby behind him is no prince. Instead, he’s a big bad wolf, a mess of shaggy blond hair windblown from the frantic ride, cheeks rough with weeks of growth, and an oil-stained tank top and jeans atop black engineer boots.
He doesn’t look at Myra, his eyes fixed on me.
“You okay?” he says over his shoulder.
Her response has just a touch of vinegar, but she’s quiet at least. “I’m fine. Mr. Angeline has been polite . . . mostly.”
I lift my eyebrows at that, considering I’ve been more than polite under the circumstances. Her man’s defensively hard look would be scary if I were anyone other than who I am. Behind Robert, I can see Gavin coming up the walkway, but I shake my head once, stopping him. No need for that yet.
“Please sit,” I say, choosing to let the steam out of the pot before the situation boils over needlessly, though ordering a man around in his own home is rather cocky of me. I lean back, taking a small delight that my chair is apparently ‘his chair’, watching as he sinks to the couch.
“Go on and take the baby to the bedroom, Myra,” he says.
She takes a step toward the hall, following his instructions wordlessly, but I hold up a hand, stopping her. “That won’t be necessary. I believe you both should hear this . . . since it concerns the entire family. Please sit.”
She pulls the baby tighter to her body, her eyes flashing to Zallow, and he scoots to the side, keeping himself between me and her as she sits beside him.
I take a deep breath, letting a long sigh out into the room.
“There are times when melodrama takes over the world. This is one of those times, I suspect. This feels like a rather significant build-up to what is really just a mere conversation. Mr. Zallow, I am Dominick Angeline. I suspect that means something to you. I simply wanted to stop by and introduce myself, seeing as how you’ve moved into East Robinsville so suddenly. And without my permission.”
His eyes narrow as he takes me in, still trying to decide whether I’m here to harm his blossoming family. Still, he sees that I haven’t moved in any threatening way.
“My apologies, Sir. My move-in was unexpected.” He glances at the baby and then back at me. “And unrelated to any work or affiliations I may have.”
His words are careful and crisp, like the military man I know him to be, but also ones of intelligence and manners. I re-evaluate him as he speaks. He might look a little wild, but there are brains behind that outer mask. I wonder if the discrepancy is intentional, meant to confuse others and lead them to underestimate him.
I won’t make that mistake. I can see the cunning light in his eyes and recognize a man who could be either a valuable ally or a deadly opponent.
I rub at my chin as though I’m thinking, but I already know my play here, what will give me the upper hand. “Perhaps you’ll let me tell you a story?”
He swallows once, an involuntary tell, but nods his chin. I lean forward, uncrossing my legs and planting my elbows on my knees, looking Zallow directly in his eyes.
“Once upon a time, there was a king. He was known as the Bastard King, not because of
his birth but because he ruled his kingdom with an unyielding grip. He kept his subjects safe from threats outside their borders.” I glance pointedly out the window and then back to the family before me. “But also from dangers within. To do so, he kept a tight rein on everything and everyone who lived in his kingdom. He knows all. Names, addresses, familial ties, allegiances, strengths, weaknesses . . . everything that made even those who loved him admit privately that yes, he was a bit of a bastard. He didn’t like engaging in violence but knew it was a tool, a necessary evil, if you will. But more commonly, his showing up for a friendly chat to someone’s home would be considered a sign of respect or a warning if they had mis-stepped in some way. Only after ignoring a warning would he lose his . . . patient nature.”
“Some, I’m sure, have tried to take advantage of that king,” Zallow says in reply, and I nod. “Yet he stayed solidly on the throne.”
“Because he only warned once,” I reply. “Then he crushed his opponents mercilessly. I’m sure you understand. If someone from East Robinsville, say, one of Pete’s boys, decided to set up shop next to your clubhouse in Johnstown, you’d have something to say about that. Correct?”
Zallow scoffs lightly. “Damn straight, we would.”
Myra gives him a harsh glare, and he clears his throat, continuing. “I’m not setting up shop here, Mr. Angeline. Just trying to make a home.”
I nod. “I’m aware of that, or this conversation would be rather different. I’ll admit I don’t always hold true to the fairy tale and give warnings. Sometimes, harsher engagement is necessary from the get-go. Something I’m sure you understand. You also understand rank and protocol from both your time in the service and your time with the Eagle Raiders. Yet, you chose to skirt both in this instance, which begs the question . . . why?”
Dirty Secrets Page 9
