Yours (Beautiful Sinner Series Book 4)

by Elena M. Reyes

  “Morning,” she says, looking past me and toward the table where our guests will sit. “Excuse me.” Before she can sweep by me, I grab her wrist and pull us back just outside the door and to the left where we are out of sight.

  Mariah’s back meets the wall in a soft thud, and I stand a mere inch or two from her, soaking up her decadent scent and the heat radiating from her body. Our eyes lock and breaths mingle.

  A shiver rushes through her and flows through me as I lean in, lips hovering, but before they touch, I lift my face and kiss her forehead. At the contact, a stuttered breath escapes and I smile against her soft skin.

  “Ignore me all you want, Muñeca. It won’t change a thing.”

  Ignore the pet name, Mariah. “Move.”

  “One day you’ll beg me to stay.” With that, I push back and walk into the room. I take a seat beside Malcolm while she walks in a few seconds later, face flushed, and sits across from me with narrowed eyes.

  Malcolm gives me a quick look, questioning if everything is okay, and I nod. He’s not asking about his cousin, but the other people in the room.

  I’ve already sent him my observation in a text and have the clearance to proceed as I see fit, should something occur during their stay in Chicago.

  It’s a trust he’s given me. I might be his right hand here, something I never saw myself doing—not even for my own family—but the woman beside him has left me no choice.

  I’ll play my role while making sense of my sudden need for her presence in my life.

  Because it’s true what they say; there’s more value in a single drop of your woman’s come than a million pounds of gold. I want her taste in my mouth. I want to own her pleasure.

  It’s a compulsion I can’t control and don’t want to.

  This game—ignoring me for seven fucking days—has done nothing to deter me.

  If anything, she’s poured gasoline onto this fire.

  Malcolm stands, fixing his cufflink before extending a hand. “Good to see you, Kyle...” his attention then turns to the wife “...Clarissa.”

  “Likewise, my friend.”

  “It’s been a long time,” they answer in unison and then smile, the first one I’ve seen since picking the couple up, but that drops again when the manila folder in front of Asher is opened. That’s when Clarissa’s expression darkens and she turns her head toward her spouse, openly glaring. “This isn’t necessary, Kyle. Please stop this nonsense.”

  “No.” The response is cold. His body is tense and he’s breathing harshly. “We need to make sure you’re protected at all costs. Everything of mine is yours, but this makes it lawfully binding.”

  “Please.” There’s a broken plea, the tone of a woman who’s hurting, and I flip my eyes to the security guard standing just behind her chair. They sit two chairs from mine with hers being the closest, and the way he hovers seems possessive, almost challenging.

  Fingernails drumming on the table pull my attention, back toward the owner and Malcolm nods, the action barely perceptible, but acknowledging what I see.

  “Any questions before we begin?”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “Go on, Clarissa,” Asher says, giving her his undivided attention and I notice the guard’s hands clench from the corner of my eye as I turn to look at Mrs. Bennett. “What concerns you?”

  “I just see no need for this. Nothing will happen to my husband.”

  There’s a tinge of anxiety in her tone and her husband reaches out, intertwining their fingers and placing their united hands atop the table. “It’s just a precaution. Nothing else.”

  “Your money means nothing to me.” Her face turns toward his. “I need you safe and with me.”

  For some reason, I look at Mariah at that moment and take in the almost wistful expression on her face. The smile curling at the corner of plump lips and the quiet sigh that escapes. As if feeling my eyes on hers, she looks over and at once, a flush of pink dances across her soft skin—from her cheeks to the very top of her chest where the silk of her top begins.

  You okay, I mouth, and she nods quickly before turning her attention back to Malcolm’s clients.

  “...do this for me.” I catch the end of Kyle’s sentence and then watch as the woman beside him nods, but her eyes become glassy.

  “Fine.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Clarissa, I understand your concerns, but let me assure you that this is a necessary step for any man in your husband’s shoes. This isn’t to lead him toward an impending ending, but to give him the peace of mind that you’ll be taken care of no matter what.” Malcolm pushes the envelope in her direction, and I move it the rest of the way, grabbing a pen from the pile at the center of the table between us.

  She looks my way with a forced smile in thanks before picking up the pen. “I’m doing this for you, not because I want to.”

  “I know, love.”

  Mrs. Bennett signs her name and then closes her eyes. She takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly before staring into his eyes. “I did that for you, but if you ever—”

  She’s cut off by a sudden curse from behind her and a bullet that lodges itself high on the wall across from where they sit. Her screams rend the air and so does the sound of multiple guns being cocked, but it’s a missed shot, and I have her guard on the floor with my weapon drawn to his temple before anyone has time to dislodge.

  My foot is on his hand with the weapon; I aim for his shoulder and then a knee. The first makes him writhe, while the second splatters the back of my leg and hip.

  No one moves, but I see Clarissa’s going into shock and then the appreciation on Kyle’s face when I bend and knock the man unconscious with the butt of my Glock. I also notice the sudden paleness in my muñeca’s face, but I can’t acknowledge it right now.

  I’ll deal with her after the room is cleared. That flash of worry doesn’t sit right with me.

  “How? What the?” Bennett lifts his crying wife from her chair and walks Clarissa to the other side of the room, an arm possessively around her midsection. He’s shielding her from the scene, her face buried in his chest and body shaking.

  “Kyle, get her out of here. I’ll meet you later.”

  “Yeah, we’ll head back to the hotel. I’ll—”

  “No.” Malcolm holds up two fingers. Plan B is in effect, which is the use of a backup escape for clients of this nature. “Use my penthouse. I’ll have someone drive you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you, Malcolm.” Asher nods at this and I send Carmelo a text, telling him to drive the Bennett’s to the private condo Malcolm keeps near the office. They both begin to step out of the room, but Kyle pauses just within the threshold to look back at me. “I owe you my life, Javier. You noticed he was off right away and protected us both. Thank you.”

  I nod at him and they walk out, leaving the three of us standing on different sides of the table. My side has a man who’s grumbling beneath my foot and bleeding.

  “Tell me,” Malcolm asks.

  “The idiot is obsessed with Mrs. Bennett and doesn’t hide his reactions well. I noticed his body language when they got in the car; hard breathing, glaring, and when Kyle kissed her cheek, his hand flexed over the gun at his waist.”

  “How can he keep him on his payroll? Why didn’t he see this?” Mariah’s talking, but her hand with the gun shakes, and without a second thought, I leave the idiot on the ground and make my way to her. I take the Glock and lay it on the table, squeezing her fingers with mine.

  Her reaction isn’t what I expect from her. Not from someone accustomed to our way of life.

  Shit happens, but you never waver or lose composure. What’s wrong, Muñeca?

  “You okay there, cousin?”

  “I am.” Voice a little stronger—steadier, she pulls her hand from mine, eyes avoiding. “This just makes no sense.”

  “Kyle will get his chance to explain tonight. Have
this idiot taken downstairs and keep two guards in the room at all times.”

  “Done.” With a final glance in her direction, I walk out and call the team working in the cells below the bank. The phone rings twice before someone picks up and silently waits. “You have a pick-up and delivery.”

  “Yes, sir,” the guard answers, and the dial tone follows. It takes them four minutes to reach this floor and another three to remove the semi-conscious man, now with a bag covering his head. They take a private elevator, the one used only by those who work security or the Ashers themselves, and disappear as if they’ve never been here.

  Behind me, in the room, I can hear mutterings and a few hissed whispers, but I pay the two cousins no mind and move toward my own office beside Malcolm’s. It’s a decent-sized room, the view behind my chair fantastic, but it feels complete a few minutes later when an angry Mariah storms into the room.

  Her chest rises and falls fast. Her lips are thinned and the looks she’s giving me are cold.

  “How can I help you, Ms. Asher? Is there something you need?”

  “You could’ve been shot,” she spits out, hands clenching at her sides.

  “Why do you care?” I challenge, standing to match her heated stare and lean over with two hands atop my desk. Not one to back down, Mariah does the same and puts her face a few inches from mine, nostrils flaring and always challenging.

  “It was reckless of you to knock him down like that, forcing his arm toward your body, while the gun was in his hand.” Each word is coated with venom and is gritted out through clenched teeth. Her anger is palpable, but clearer to see is that she cares about my safety. “We don’t need that kind of shitstorm. If word gets out about what happened here…”

  “I know how to do my job.”

  “You’re an egotistical idiot.”

  “Why do you care if I get shot?”

  “I-I don’t.”

  “Liar.”

  “Fuck—” she doesn’t get to finish her insult as I grab the back of her neck and quickly press my lips to hers. She’s poison and fire, and I want nothing more than to be consumed by her. The kiss is fast and heated—decadent in a sweetness uniquely hers, but I don’t let her melt into me after a moan slips from her mouth to mine.

  Instead, I pull back and watch her even though every cell of my DNA demands I retake those swollen lips and devour. Instead, I breathe in her intoxicating scent and lick my lips, savoring the last hint of her taste while Mariah flushes and her red lips part.

  There’s shock in her eyes. There’s a hunger that matches mine, too.

  Mariah knows I want her. Just like I know she wants me.

  But more than that, there has to be a level of respect—trust—for this to work. I’m not a punching bag, and she isn’t a toy. In our world, stupid reactions can be costly.

  So I stand upright and level her with a blank expression. “Next time, please knock.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “No. I’m not.” Walking around my desk, I stride to the door and pause just within the threshold. “I don’t take kindly to being questioned on both my common sense and professionalism. Don’t make that mistake again.”

  Mariah saunters over, hand on her hip and face close to mine. Her heels giving her the height needed to reach my chin. “Or what?”

  Always challenging. Always pushing.

  Leaning down enough that my lips graze her ear, I exhale roughly. She shivers, and I bite back a smile. “Or I’ll put you over my knee and give you the spanking you need. I’m going to enjoy reddening those sweet cheeks, Muñeca.”

  8

  I WANT TO kill him.

  I want another kiss and the feelings his lips on mine evoke.

  I want what I shouldn’t—the path I refuse to travel—and walk out without another word. Without another glance in his direction, no matter how much my body craves it. Craves him.

  It’s late enough in the morning that I stride to my desk and grab my purse, heading for the elevator without letting Malcolm know that I’m stepping out. Screw it. I’ll deal with every missed call later, and push the down button, opening the doors. I’m thankful no one is inside and without being stopped, I make it out of the building within minutes, walking down the sidewalk and merging with the passing crowd.

  I have no destination in mind, but the further I walk from the Asher building, the more my mind wanders down dangerous roads brought to the forefront by Javier’s actions.

  What if he got shot? What if I lost him?

  Those thoughts have been plaguing me since the scuffle and for some reason, it throws me head first into my past. Down a rabbit hole that leads to a memory I’ve fought hard to bury even though the two men couldn’t be further apart.

  One is successful, determined, and proud.

  The other was spoiled, unworthy, and unfit to run the family business.

  It’s late when I make it home, much later than I expected I’d be when I left this morning. With Thiago Rivera arrested and the scandal over confirmed family ties to both the mob and cocaine traffickers, we’ve been moving information and money all day.

  Moving to offshore accounts. Clearing all bank records. Wiping every server with information that can be traced back to them and Asher Holdings.

  We made sure that anything unclean is no longer accessible, and not even the best hacker in the FBI can find a speck of dirt on our client.

  And while I’m tired and hungry, I gladly do my part as a shareholder and family member.

  Slipping my heels off, I relish the feel of the cool hardwood flooring beneath my feet before tossing my keys in a bowl atop an entry table. My purse sits beside it.

  “Guess he went out,” I mutter under my breath, undoing the top few buttons of my blouse while making my way to the kitchen. Food would be amazing, but a glass of wine will hit the spot, along with a bath.

  However, the second I grab a glass and a bottle of Malbec from the wine cooler, the lights flicker on. “What the hell!” I scream, whirling around with a hand on my chest. I’m gasping, narrowing my eyes at Lane. “You scared the bejesus out of me.”

  “Where were you?” His tone is eerily calm, his body language tense.

  Nothing new in that department as of late. He’s changed in the last few months—demanding and possessive, but not in a way most women find sexy. This isn’t an I love you and want to keep you by my side while cherishing you sort of way.

  No. Not one bit.

  After giving him my virginity, it’s been a never-ending battle of wills, and I’m growing tired.

  Fighting isn’t a turn-on. Explaining my every move isn’t foreplay.

  “Hey, babe.” I leave the unopened bottle and walk to him, winding my arms around his neck to placate him. It fails. My touch doesn’t calm him and the feel of him gives me no comfort in return. Maybe I should break it off already. Why am I even trying? “You didn’t need to wait up for me. Did you get my text earlier?”

  His hands snake around me, one hand on my hip while the other grips my hair. He’s smiling, eyes soft, and I think for a flash that he’ll make this bad feeling go away when a sharp hiss escapes me. With my hair wound tight around his fist, he yanks my head back so hard that tears gather, and fear settles over my limbs.

  Lane has never hurt me, but I’m not feeling safe anymore. I don’t trust him, and that dangerous edge he’s been teetering on between obsession and unhealthy sends chills down my spine.

  One day he’s sweet. The next, he treats me as though I’m an enemy.

  He’s nothing like the man I began seeing two years ago.

  “Where the fuck were you?”

  “You’re hurting me.” My voice is steady, eyes on his, unwavering. Because you don’t back down from an aggressor. You don’t show fear or weakness. “Let go, and get out.”

  A dark chuckle leaves him, his fingers tightening, and I feel as strands of hair are pulled from their follicles. His other hand leaves my hip and sweeps across my cheek in a caress. �
�You don’t know what pain is, princess.”

  That’s when the scent of alcohol greets me—when I notice the bloodshot eyes and rumpled clothing.

  “Get out and leave. Don’t force my hand,” I hiss out, heart beating fast while I walk us backward three steps. There’s an empty wine glass on the counter and a gun that I keep inside the entry table; if I could just get to—

  Blinding pain sears my right cheek and eye, the impact forcing my head to the side, but his hold only forces me back. His eyes are angry, not even a hint of the man I thought I knew and cared for.

  Another point of contention between us:

  He loves me, but I don’t reciprocate. Those words have never passed through my lips, and it angers him. More reason to call it quits. I should have never waited so long.

  “If I ask you again, you won’t like the outcome.”

  “At work.”

  “Do you think I’m stupid?”

  “It’s the truth.” I’m calm—almost chilling—as Lane lowers his face to mine, lips hovering. The stench of liquor is near nauseating, and his touch makes my skin crawl. “Ask Malcolm if you don’t believe me.”

  “Malcolm,” he spits out with so much venom, spittle flying over my lips and chin. “That son of a bitch would lie for his slutty little cousin. He’s as much of a bitch as you are.”

  Ignore the insult. I repeat this in my head a few times, remembering all the lessons drilled into my head since the age of ten by my uncle, even though my father, his brother, didn’t think it was necessary:

  Breathe.

  Don’t underestimate your aggressor.

  Kill without mercy.

  Taking in a steadying breath, I let it out slowly while keeping my eyes locked on his. “You knew we had to finalize everything for the Rivera De Leon family. Why are you being like this?”

  “Who is Ivan? Why is he sending you a gift basket?” Lane releases my hair, and I relax a bit—then choke. His fingers tighten around my throat, cutting off the air while my fingernails dig into his skin.

  He hisses but doesn’t let go. My vision gets a bit hazy behind my tears, but I don’t cave. I’ve been groomed all my life to defend myself when the time came, and it always would.