Wild Card

by Renee Rose

  Crap! Who am I going to steal the money from? Especially if I’m sure to get caught, it seems like I ought to have an agenda for it. Like the Tacones killed my dad. I don’t have any other huge personal vendettas, but maybe I could invent one.

  I certainly hate Dr. Alden, my graduate advisor.

  But he wouldn’t have two hundred grand available to steal. Maybe I could frame him for the crime, though.

  But it needs to be a large corporation. Maybe it’s best to stick with Las Vegas casinos. They’re raping their customers anyway, right? So which one?

  I pull up a map of the strip and stare at it, but my thoughts whirl around Trevor. How to keep him safe. If there’s any way out of this for me.

  Not arriving at any plan that doesn't leave us dead or hunted for the rest of our lives, I swallow down the bile and choose a large casino at random. The Luxor will work. I start the tedious job of hacking in through their security walls.

  Three hours later, I'm stiff and restless. I crack my knuckles and shake my hands out. I beat my fists on my deadened thighs. I need some heavy exercise to bring me back into my body. I should be on my bike right now, riding between the classes I'm missing.

  I look over at my captor, who sits on the couch reading the newspaper. Babysitting me. I wonder if he'd let me out for a run? Put me on a leash like a dog—

  Now I'm turned on.

  I remember all the things he did to me last night. The glorious whipping. The way he stuffed his cock in my mouth. Even the anal. They all made the top of my list of sexual experiences. And my list was fairly long to begin with. Starting with the ones I never want to remember.

  I want to hate my hitman. Not for the things we did but for threatening my brother. And I do.

  Especially because he could be the guy who killed my dad.

  Was he a thief like you?

  Those words hit too close to home. My dad was always putting the hustle on someone. He probably did steal from the Tacones. He might have deserved what he got.

  Does that make me hate them any less?

  No. Not the faceless Tacone family. But the man across the room?

  Sort of.

  I like you, Caitlin. It’d be pretty impossible not to.

  Well, fuck him. I wasn’t looking for him to like me. I definitely don’t like him.

  Except that’s a lie. I’m attracted to this guy like a super magnet. And even though this has been traumatic, it’s also sort of addictive. I feel more alive. Awakened. Present.

  I steal a glance at him. Still sexy as hell. He has this brutal ruggedness to his energy and face that doesn’t match the thousand dollar suit and shiny shoes. Not that he doesn’t wear them well—he does. But I could just as easily see him in the cheap suit and gold chains with a pair of brass knuckles over his fingers.

  And none of that does anything to lessen my attraction to him.

  Which is nuts.

  I don't even know which Tacone he is. I should at least know that much.

  I shake my fingers out again and pull up a new screen. It would be much more fun to hack the Chicago Police database.

  Paolo

  The little hacker's been at it all morning, fingers flying over the keys, glasses pushed up on her nose.

  She's damn cute. I still regret threatening her. I liked things better before she went pale and pissed. Before I brought her brother into things.

  But it had to be done. I can’t let her get away with stealing from us just because she makes me smile and gives good head.

  Still, I find myself already wanting to make it up to her. Once she pays me back, that is.

  Figuring out if there’s any favor I might do for her. Because she certainly didn’t have to offer up that sweet little body of hers the second she saw me sitting in her apartment.

  Fuck, does she do that often?

  The thought sends unease crawling over my skin. Not jealousy, although I do strangely feel that. But I’m suddenly worried for her well-being. If she just surrenders to any and every guy who shows up wanting something from her, she could get hurt—badly.

  Hell, she’s already been hurt badly.

  That much is obvious. The girl wasn’t born this twisted. Something—or more likely someone—made her this way. And I suddenly have the urge to beat that someone to a bloody pulp.

  Nobody lays a hand on this girl without her wanting it.

  Trouble is, she may always want it.

  I sit back and drink her in. She’s still in nothing but my t-shirt, sitting right where I put her, working away. Her long, pale legs are curled under the chair, one foot twitching against the other. Her fingers have slowed down on the frantic typing. I peer to see the screen.

  What the fuck?

  A mug shot of me is up. My literal mugshot. I got arrested once for aggravated assault after I gave a beatdown to a drug dealer who’d moved into the neighborhood twenty-some years ago. Of course, no charges were pressed and cops had to let me go.

  I stand up and walk up behind Caitlin to look closer. She’s reading my rap sheet. A couple misdemeanors. Nothing that ever stuck.

  I wrap my fist in her hair and tug her head back, leaning over to put my face beside hers. “What. The fuck. Are you doing, little girl?”

  “Figuring out which brother you are. You wouldn’t tell me.” She offers it up so innocently. Like it’s perfectly normal to hack into the Chicago Police files and retrieve people’s records to find out their first names. I guess it would’ve been easier for her if I did Facebook.

  I’m not a laugher. I don’t even smile much. But somewhere deep inside me, far from coming out, I’m laughing.

  This girl is such a nutjob.

  “So it’s Paolo, right?” She tries to turn her head, but my grip on her hair stops the movement. “Or do you go by Pauly?”

  I can’t hold back the snort. “It’s still Mr. Tacone to you, doll. And right now I’d better be hearing I’m so sorry, Mr. Tacone, because you are not on task, little hacker. I ought to whip your ass again for this.”

  I didn’t mean it. I don’t feel one shred of anger or violence toward her. I’m the kinda guy who’s used to making threats to get his point across. But she slides her gaze sideways to see my face and with the naughtiest expression possible says, “Please?”

  For one moment I go still, making sure I’m interpreting that correctly.

  Then I let out a puff of laughter. Just one puff, but it actually comes out of me.

  I pull her to her feet and bend her over that dining room table so fast she gasps. My cock is hard when I pin her wrists behind her back and hold them with one hand. With the other, I yank my belt out of the loops.

  She lets out a small warbling sound.

  I’m pretty sure it’s excitement.

  I don’t hold back. Last night I held back and she told me she could’ve taken more. This time I pull up the hem of her shirt to bare her ass and let my belt swing.

  She squeals and lifts one foot from the floor.

  I whip her again.

  This time she’s ready. She holds perfectly still. I let her have it, striping her ass with rapid, heavy strokes that make her dance and gasp. Welts rise across her pale cheeks. I keep going. Her whole ass turns a rosy red.

  When it looks painful enough, I stop.

  “More.” Her voice is small, almost like she doesn’t want to say it.

  I hesitate. I don’t really want to give her more. If I keep going, the pretty blush will turn into something purple and angry-looking and then it will stop being sexy and my conscience will have a hard time with what I’ve done.

  I drop the belt and smack her with my palm, instead.

  I swear she gives a blissful sigh and her upper body relaxes on the table. She pushes her ass out more.

  Spanking her with my hand is pleasurable. I like the feel of her soft flesh under my palm, the warmth and give of it. The slight sting I receive in return. More than that, though, I enjoy the whole act. Dominating her.

  It’s wha
t I do naturally—who I am. I am my father’s son, no doubt about that. I’m the guy in charge. Always. With women I keep it dialed way back, but they see it anyway. It makes them run for cover. But not this one. My aggression makes her hum. Turns her on.

  She widens her legs and gives me the full view of her gleaming pussy, dewy and plump.

  My cock tents my trousers, hard and thick. I’m dying to pound into her, especially when she’s showing me that pretty pussy and I can see her readiness.

  I stop spanking and pull her up, then force her to the carpet on her knees.

  She orients herself to my crotch and reaches for the button on my pants.

  “Good girl,” I praise. Because she really is. A very good bad girl. “But that wasn’t what I had in mind.” I drop to my knees, too and pull my t-shirt off her body, leaving her gloriously naked. She’s so beautiful, I could stare at her body for hours. It’s not perfect. One breast is larger than the other. Her belly has a little paunch to it despite how toned the rest of her is. And I love all of it. Everything that makes her unique and imperfect and real.

  “Turn around, doll.”

  She gets it. She quickly reorients herself away from me, on her hands and knees.

  I grip her waist. “Drop those tits down to the floor.” I’m not usually this disrespectful with women. She brings it out in me, I guess. She showed me her freak flag and I’m showing my stronzo.

  A match made in hell, for sure.

  I free my raging erection and roll on a condom. Somehow I have control enough to take a mental picture of what’s in front of me. Her submissive pose and spanked red ass do something to me. Turn me inside out. Upside down. Make me feel like a king.

  This woman is… I don’t know, a unicorn. Some mythical creature no one believes exists.

  Except there are men who know she exists, men who came before me and I’m just fucking positive they didn’t appreciate what she is. If they had, they never would’ve let her go.

  And that pisses me off.

  I give my head a shake.

  Cristo.

  When is the last time I’ve thought this much about any woman?

  Never.

  This beautiful trainwreck is wrecking me.

  I slap her ass a few more times before I bring the head of my cock to her entrance and rub. She opens for me and I slide right in. The angle is perfect. I’m balls deep looking down the slope of her slender back to her face pressed into my carpet. Her eyes are closed, lips parted. She’s already in ecstasy.

  Unicorn.

  I fuck her slowly at first, savoring every sweet stroke of my cock inside her, the way her internal muscles contract and release like she’s teasing me. Like she remembered I like it.

  “That’s it, bella. You squeeze that tight pussy around my cock. Make me feel like a real man.” She squeezes harder. I groan. Loud. “Good girl. That’s so good.”

  I’m already losing my cool. That’s how incredible her pussy feels. The aggression in me grows. I grip her hips and slide most of the way out, then slam home with a force that wrings a sound from her. I repeat. Then pick up my speed.

  She starts to moan and mewl, her cries both needy and encouraging. I stay put and use my hold on her hips to move her in and out, on my dick and away. Her dark mane ripples on the carpet with the movement, she’s panting, spreading her knees wider, taking me ever-so-deep. My balls draw up tight.

  “That’s it, doll. Take it,” I growl. I don’t want to come, but it’s too urgent now. It feels so fucking good. I thrust in and out, pulling her body back to meet mine.

  “Oh my God!” she cries.

  “That’s right,” I taunt, like I’m the God and not just some asshole taking advantage of the sweetest offering he’s ever encountered.

  I come.

  She doesn’t.

  Dammit.

  I reach around and find her clit piercing and rub but she still doesn’t go off. Feeling an urgency to bring her to completion, I pull out the second I stop shooting my load and yank her ass back on my lap. I spread her legs over my knees and start spanking her pussy.

  Over and over again I spank, quick stinging spanks right over her clit until she screams and arches those uneven tits in the air and yanks my hand over her mons. I sink a couple fingers into her to feel the squeezing of her channel while I grip that whole pussy tight.

  Like it belongs to me.

  Like I’m never gonna let it go.

  Even when she’s done coming, I still don’t let it go.

  Not until her exhaled breaths become shaky and broken. Not until I realize she’s crying.

  “Aw fuck, doll,” I murmur, releasing her pussy and pulling her tighter into my lap. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

  “No.” To my surprise, she doesn’t pull away, but instead tucks her face into my neck, wetting my skin with her tears. I pick her up and carry her to the couch, where I sit down with her in my lap.

  I stroke my palm down her leg and realize she has a killer set of rug burns on her knees. I circle each one with my index finger. “I’m sorry,” I murmur.

  I’m not one to apologize. Ever. I’m the dick who’d rather cut off his own finger than apologize, but I say it. And I mean it.

  I don’t ever want to hurt her in a way she doesn’t like.

  That’s the sweet truth of La Madonna.

  I grip the back of her head and pull it away from my neck to see her face.

  Oh fuck.

  I run my thumb over the bright patch of skin on her cheek.

  “Do I have rug burn?”

  “Yeah, doll.”

  A fresh round of tears start up.

  I don’t freak. She said she wasn’t hurt. She isn’t pulling away. She’s a quirky girl. She laughs when she should run. Surrenders when she should fight. Maybe she cries when she feels good. What do I know?

  I grab a blanket off the back of the couch. It’s one of those soft chenille things, in red. I never use it, but the decorator bought it when she furnished the home. I wrap it around her and lean back to hold her.

  “Did I break you, or is this part of the Wylde West?”

  She lets out a watery laugh. “It’s just the release. Maybe the start of sub drop, I don’t know.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s the endorphin crash after an adrenaline rush. It can happen after a particularly big scene.”

  A scene. That’s a new way to look at sex. I trace the outline of her face, staying away from the rug burn. Burrow my fingers in her hair behind her head and pull her face up to mine.

  Her eyes widen in shock. Of all the things I’ve done to her, a kiss is what surprises her most. I’m gentle tasting her lips, gliding mine across hers. She remains still at first, although I swear I sense her heart pounding. Like it’s this act of intimacy that spikes her adrenaline most of all.

  Sweet little unicorn.

  I deepen the kiss.

  She draws in a shuddery breath and then wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me back. Full package kiss—tongue, lips, beaded nipples turning to my chest.

  I drop one hand to cup her breast, rubbing my thumb over the taut nipple. When we break the kiss, I say, “Jesus, you’re sweet.”

  “Sweet but psycho,” she says, like that’s her theme song. She pushes off my lap and stands up. “But you don’t seem to mind.” She cups her red ass and gives her hair a toss as she sashays out of the living room, into my bedroom. I hear the bathroom door close.

  I should keep closer tabs on her.

  Follow her in there to make sure she doesn’t arm herself.

  Except I’m certain she’d never win a fight with me. Maybe with the help of a gun, but that’s still a big maybe. I have plenty of practice disarming would-be heroes. So I leave her be.

  She deserves some privacy and a break after the way I just gave it to her.

  And I don’t have it in me to be any more of an asshole to her than I’ve already been.

  Caitlin

  Wow. Just wo
w. That’s all.

  I feel incredible. The sub drop lifted. Maybe it wasn’t sub drop—maybe it was just one of those orgasms that makes you cry—is that the same thing? I don’t know.

  All I know is that I feel great now.

  Starving, but great.

  Every cell in my body is alive. Tingling. My body is sated, but I still feel sexy as hell. Beautiful, even.

  I blink at myself in the mirror. The rug burn on my cheek is going to turn into a bright raspberry. That’s too bad. But no biggie. I don’t mind wearing sex badges as proof of my accomplishments. If only they made those Girl Scout patches—I’d be all over collecting them.

  I cup my breasts and gaze back at my reflection. My skin is flushed, my eyes are bright.

  I look… happy.

  Hell, I feel happy.

  Which I know is wrong. I have problems that can’t by fixed by good sex.

  I’m going to go to jail.

  It’s either that or my brother gets hurt by the man I took as a lover.

  Except I’m finding it hard to believe he would hurt me. Or my brother. Oh, I’m sure he’s quite capable of it. I’m sure he does such things on a regular basis. But he just let me cry on his neck without blinking an eye. Without getting weird and pushing me away. Without judging me.

  And now that I think about it, that might be the source of my current buoyancy.

  It’s like I’ve been received—crazy and all—for the first time in my life. I’ve had doms provide aftercare during sub-drop before, but they still kept a distance. Or they were overly tender.

  Paolo just accepted it. Didn’t make it a big deal.

  And then he kissed me.

  I look for a brush, but all Paolo has is a comb. I’ll never get it through the tangled mess that is my hair right now.

  The door opens. As if Paolo read my mind, he plops my giant satchel purse on the counter. “I grabbed your toothbrush and shit from your place,” he says. “It’s all in there.”

  I tip my head to the side. “Because this is just a big sleepover?”

  His lips twitch. I seriously want to figure out how to make the guy smile. He catches my wrists and pulls me up against his hard body. My breath goes out with a whoosh. My knees go weak. “You know what you have to do, little hacker. Get me my money. Then I’ll take you home. Just like that.”