Bad

by LP Lovell

  I snatch the glass of brandy from the sideboard, and pick the phone up from the floor, disconnecting the call on my way back to the sofa. I make a point not to acknowledge Camilla when I grab the smoldering cigar from the ashtray and take a long puff, smoke swirling around my face. The news carries on, going over terrorist attacks, murders, all the things that instill fear within the public. And after a few moments, I catch Camilla's reflection on the TV screen as she walks behind the sofa. Her warm fingers skirt over the nape of my neck and goosebumps rush over my arm. There's a slight pause, as though she's waiting for me to react. And although my cock is straining against my pants, I stare at the screen, dismissing her with silence. She leaves the room and with her goes the crackling tension of a building fire. One I fear shall consume me eventually.

  Chapter 15

  Camilla

  “Itch”- Nothing But Thieves

  My heart pounds as I hurry back to my room, my pussy throbbing for that Russian prick. I can still feel his lips on my neck. Hear his deep voice commanding me to touch myself. And I did, because never is a woman weaker than when she is at the mercy of a powerful man. Yes, Ronan Cole is powerful in more ways than one.

  I close my eyes and picture the way he walked through that room, people screaming, chaos ensuing all around him—his chaos. His assassination—and me at his side. He was drunk on the sheer havoc of it all, on the violence and the blood. It's that ruthless, effortless hold over someone's life that pulls me helplessly to him even as I wish to be free of him. I want to fuck him almost as much as I want to kill him... perhaps both at the same time? I bite my lip as I imagine riding Ronan, dragging a knife across his throat while he flashes that arrogant smile, no doubt laying waste to me as he bleeds out. I slam my bedroom door and press my back to it, inhaling several deep breaths. The sexual tension between us is so cloying, so all-consuming that, at times, it's hard to see through the thick fog he induces. I can never forget that he is the enemy because the second I do he will remind me of it.

  A low buzz sounds somewhere in the room, and I narrow my eyes. There's nothing for a second, and then it sounds again. Is that something... vibrating? I walk around the room, listening before I stop in front of the dresser. Buzz. Buzz. I stare at the clutch I had at dinner. Buzz. Buzz. I snatch it from the dresser and glance inside before instantly snapping it shut. Shit. I throw the balcony doors open and step outside. The cold wind forces a violent shiver over my body as I check to make sure there are no cameras out here. I open the clutch, peer inside, and frown at the sight of the burner phone and charging cable tucked amongst my lipstick and compact. I think back to the party. My clutch was with me the whole time, but… Ronan was right next to me. He could have slipped it in here. What if it's a test? Give me a phone and see what I do to betray him.

  Sighing, I take the phone out and flip it open to a find a blinking envelope in the corner of the screen. When I tap over it, a text message pops up: The enemy of my enemy is my friend. I will be in touch soon. We will destroy Ronan Cole. I close the phone and blow a breath through my lips.

  Now, is this a trap set by Ronan? Maybe, but until this mysterious friend makes it known what they want, I can't truly know. If it's a trap, well... All captives have a purpose: collateral. And collateral has an expiration date, at which point, said collateral gets a bullet. I ran a cartel; I know the drill. So, really, I have nothing to lose.

  If this friend can help me fuck Ronan up, I'll die with a smile on my face.

  ______

  Twenty-four hours.

  I've been locked in this room for twenty-four hours with no word from Ronan. So much for his so-called freedom. Perhaps he's decided it's safer for him if I'm locked away.

  I lie on my back, stroking my fingers over the expensive, satin sheets. I picture Ronan sucking the taste of my pussy from my fingers as he so desperately tried to cling to his rigid control. The bedroom door flies open, cracking against the wall, and I jump when Igor steps in holding another of those damn dress bags. "Boss wants you dressed in thirty minutes."

  God, Ronan is such a dick. I snatch the dress bag from Igor, waiting for him to leave the room. I hate that I'm arm candy at Ronan's disposal, but I like the opportunity to make him weak in any way. Ronan Cole likes beautiful things and beauty is always a woman's strength. I've seen the want flickering in his eyes in those moments he's so close to losing control. And I want to watch him break, even if my own control is equally threatened. Dancing to his tune is my best shot of getting close, so I'll play his arm candy—for now.

  I brush my hair and put on the dress, smoothing out the material before I glance in the mirror. The dress clings perfectly to my curves. The black lace tailored so delicately over the bright, crimson red satin does make quite the statement, and I must admit; he has good taste.

  Taking one last look at my reflection, I grab my clutch and step into the hallway, swearing under my breath as I make my way to the top of the stairwell. From here, I can see Ronan standing by the door. The way his suit clings perfectly to him accentuates the look of power constantly oozing from him. When I reach the bottom step, he turns, his gaze lazily dragging over me. "You are so pretty in red." He smiles before checking his watch.

  A servant opens the front door. Dear god, can the man not open a door for himself? —and we step into the frigid air and head to the waiting limo, the constant barrage of snow swirling around me. The door is opened for us and we climb in, the car promptly pulling away. Ronan’s running his hand over his expensive suit, smug as ever when I glance at him. "So," I say, "Free roam of your house?"

  His eyes gleam. "Does it make you angry when I lock you up?"

  I feign a smile even though I want to stab him. "Oh, Russian, you haven't seen me angry." It's a lie. He's seen me plenty angry, but I don't like the bastard thinking he has power over me.

  Curiosity flickers over his face.

  Anger bubbles beneath my skin as I turn my gaze out the window. With Ronan, it's easy to forget what I'm doing. This back and forth is time consuming, and each time I seem to get close, he just pushes me back. I kill his enemies, then he locks me up. I partake in his little assassination, then he offers me some freedom. He watches me touch myself, and locks me up again. Round and round we go, getting caught in the danger and bloodlust of it all only for him to catch himself. There’s a sense of impending catastrophe, like a clock just ticking away over my head. And Ronan Cole is the one holding it.

  After a short drive, the limo pulls to a stop outside a gothic cathedral.

  "Where are we?" I ask.

  "The late Prime Minister's funeral." Ronan frowns, but I can tell he’s fighting a grin. Sick fuck. "I do so enjoy a funeral." Now, he full on smiles.

  "You know, even by my standards, this is warped." I glance through the window at the funeral attendees somberly filing to the front of the cathedral. "Pretty sure there's a special place in hell for people who attend a funeral to watch the sobbing family of the guy they had shot in the face... I'm still upset about that dress by the way."

  "It was the back of the head," he says.

  "Oh,” I turn around, “so instead of the neat entry wound being in his face, he got his face blown off." I nod my head. "I didn't see, what with him being face down in a pool of blood. Closed casket it is then."

  The slightest of grins tugs at his lips before the car door is, of course, opened for us. Ronan steps out, offering me his hand and pulling me from the car. Government security lines the black carpet leading to the steps of the cathedral. Beyond them, groups of photographers and press lift their cameras in the hopes of getting a shot of the funeral attendees. I drop my chin and school my expression into one I hope resembles grief. Ronan wraps his arm around my waist, his hand rubbing circles across my back as if he's consoling me. The irony is practically choking me.

  He whisks us inside the cathedral, and the commotion from outside is replaced by a solemn organ tune echoing from the tall, stone ceiling. People greet Ronan and he respectfully n
ods at them as we make our way to the front of the church. We stop next to an empty row. I unfasten the buttons of the black fur coat I'm wearing, and Ronan slides the coat off my shoulders. I hear the slight gasp from the women sitting a row over. Of course, wearing a bright red dress to a funeral there's no way I could go unnoticed. Which I’m sure is exactly what he wanted. He's such a bastard.

  He shrugs out of his coat and places his hand on the small of my back, guiding me into a pew and taking a seat. His arm comes around my shoulders and he pulls me to his side. The distinct scent of his cologne and lingering cigar smoke surrounds me, and I find myself breathing it in as we settle into the seat. People whisper amongst themselves. Some make their way to the closed casket with heads hung and tissues dabbing at their eyes. I catch a blonde woman a few rows up glaring in my direction. It's the skinny blonde who was at Ronan’s house, the one he got into the car with. I can't help the slight smirk that pulls at my lips. Ronan's fingers gently run through my hair, and her eyes burn with hatred. I know without a doubt that this woman wants Ronan more than her next breath. A man’s arm wraps around her shoulders, and she blinks. He whispers something into her ear. She kisses his cheek, and so the plot thickens. I wouldn’t expect anything less than for Ronan to chase a taken woman.

  The funeral starts and it's every bit as boring as any funeral, only this time, I don't understand a word they're saying. I'm falling asleep, my head almost touching Ronan's shoulder when he clears his throat. "Do try to look like you aren't bored to death," he says.

  I groan. "When does the drinking start?"

  His eyes twinkle when he looks at me. "A man just died..." His face is so close I can practically taste the cigar smoke tinging his breath.

  "So moral, Mr. Cole."

  He hides his smile by pressing his lips to my forehead. "Bad company ruins good morals."

  I know this is all for public show, but still, my heartrate skitters a little. "That it does."

  He trails a finger underneath my chin, lifting for me to look at him. His lips tip up as he skates his thumb across my bottom lip. "Get up."

  I blink before looking around only to find the church empty. Several men have the coffin propped on their shoulders, looking impatiently at us. How the hell did I not notice everyone leaving? Ronan cocks a brow and stands, holding my coat out for me. I slip my arms through the sleeves, and take his arm as he leads me out of the church. The second we’re outside, Ronan beelines straight for the blonde woman and the man standing beside her. She eyes me as we approach, her red lips pressing into a tight line.

  "My condolences," Ronan says as he holds out a hand. The man glares at him. Cameras flash and he hesitantly takes Ronan's hand. "Such a shame," Ronan continues. "Even men of power aren't safe these days." There's a slight smirk to his lips, and I wonder...I drop my chin to my chest, trying to hide my grin. I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy these little power plays. I want to loathe the Russian, and I do to an extent, but I also respect him. The two emotions make for a volatile existence.

  Ronan turns toward me, motioning with his hand. "President Derevichi, this is Camilla. A business associate of mine."

  I flash the President my most charming smile and he grins, staring at me for just a beat too long. He stumbles forward a step, taking my hand and brushing his lips across my knuckles. "Camilla, call me Nikoli," he says. The blonde clears her throat and he releases my hand before he motions toward her. “And this is my wife, Anastasia.”

  Oh, shit. Ronan's palm lands on my back. I work to keep the shock from my face as I turn to her. She paints a smile on her face, but I can see the hatred burning in her eyes. So, Ronan is fucking the President's wife. Why? I look her over. She's pretty in a somewhat regal way, but I know enough about Ronan to know this is too uncontrolled, too risky to be anything other than perfectly planned. Ronan’s hand glides to my hip and he pulls me tightly to his side. Her eyes flare. So, he wants to make her jealous... and he's using me to do it. Why does that annoy me? Not like I expected to be treated like anything other than one of his fucking pawns.

  Ronan and Nikoli discuss something in quick-fire Russian. Nikoli seems agitated. Ronan is...well, Ronan. And Anastasia glares at me as though I’m the devil. I shoot a condescending grin back at her, half hoping she'll try and hit me. I'd snap her skinny ass like a twig.

  "It was lovely to meet you, Camilla," Nikoli says, pulling my attention away from his whore of a wife.

  "And you." I make a slow show of stepping close to him and kissing his cheek. "You do know your wife is fucking Cole?" I whisper, still smiling. He stiffens and I move back. Nikoli’s cheeks redden, his jaw tics. Oh, he's beyond enraged. My stomach flits with excitement. I can't explain the rush that comes with screwing up Ronan's perfectly crafted plans.

  Ronan takes my arm and yanks me toward the street while Nikoli's security team whisk him and Anastasia to a waiting SUV. As soon as we're in the car, Ronan turns on me, his fingers wrapping possessively around my throat. His gaze bores into me as his free hand fumbles along the door pocket. I watch over his shoulder as he pulls a revolver. He cocks it and, without a word, presses it underneath my chin. I tilt my head back, staring into his unforgiving blue eyes as my heart leaps into a sprint. "You're going to shoot me?" I say, forcing my voice to remain level as I lift a brow.

  "Should I not?" His lips twitch in a smile.

  "Not like I have much say in the matter," I mumble. The cool barrel of the gun presses harder underneath my chin and I grit my teeth, refusing to break eye contact with him.

  "Why did you tell him?"

  I try to bite back my temper, I do, but it takes me by surprise, firing to the surface in a rush. "Because I fucking can. I’m not your lap dog to command and use and parade in front of your middle-aged whore, no matter how much you may think so." I exhale. "Maybe I just like fucking you in the ass, Russian. Any way I can."

  There’s a pause, a moment where his jaw sets. Suddenly, a slow laugh rumbles from his chest. "You're more my lap dog than you think. I was hoping you would antagonize him, and you danced just like a puppet on my strings." He lowers the gun, sweeping a piece of hair from my face before he grabs the hem of my dress. He yanks it up my legs and shoves the gun between my thighs, staring at me. Waiting. Watching. My pulse thrums against my ears and a sweet adrenaline courses through my veins. Lust and rage swirl and blend together until I'm burning up, an inferno of want and hate in equal measure. I part my thighs and his lips tip up.

  "Whatever shall I do with you, little kitty?" He slips the barrel underneath the lace of my underwear, trailing the cold metal over my pussy. I suck in a sharp breath and my hand flies to his jacket, my fingers gripping the material. He nudges the gun against me until it threatens to slip inside me. My heartbeat ratchets higher and higher, the pounding rhythm all I can hear. It's the danger, the thrill, the absolute knowledge of being on the very edge. One slip of his finger and this could end so very badly, but that's what makes it so exciting, so fucking intoxicating. This is what Ronan is, what he does. He owns fear, creates it and controls it until I'm left craving his brand of peril.

  My free hand trails over his forearm, and I grab his wrist, pulling it toward me while rolling my hips. The barrel of the gun slides inside me, the cool metal meeting hot flesh. I bite my lip and tip my head back. A low growl rumbles through Ronan's chest and the sound of that tiny loss of control makes me hotter, wetter. This deadly dance—it's like nothing else. I may hate Ronan Cole, but he turns me on in ways that no man ever has or will. He has a power over me. We both know it, and yet I will deny it until the day he undoubtedly tires of me and puts a bullet in my head.

  Chapter 16

  Ronan

  “Desperado” – Rihanna

  The tip of the loaded gun disappears inside her. My pulse hammers in my chest. My cock begs for me to fuck her. Swallowing, I tear my gaze away from that breathtaking sight and look at her. Her head is tossed back, her eyes closed and her bottom lip is gripped between her teeth. She gr
inds against the gun still clutched in my hand as her legs fall farther apart. So very naughty.

  I war with myself, my skin heating to an unbearable level. The primitive male in me screams to be freed, and he wins. Without hesitation, I pull the gun away, grab her by the throat, and shove her to the floorboard of the limo, settling between her spread thighs. The warmth of her pussy seeps through my slacks as I press against her. My fingers tighten around her throat, twitching as I skim my nose along the side of her neck. Sitting up, I trail the gun over her thigh, her side. Her throat is still in my grip when I move the gun along her cheek to those perfect red lips. She opens and sucks the wet barrel into her mouth with a slight moan.

  "How does it taste?" I whisper, my finger leisurely resting on the trigger. My eyes drop to the scab on her chest, and I can’t help but remember cutting her. Honestly, I’m barely able to restrain myself. This is foreplay. This is very hazardous foreplay. Things that anyone else would fear, she embraces, and it makes me drunk with lust and want and need. She's brimming with the most beautiful form of insanity, and I want to embrace it. I pull the tip of the gun from her mouth, watching as her tongue flicks over the open end of the barrel.

  "I want you," I say, leaning by her ear. "But, I'm not going to touch you."

  "I shouldn't want you," she whispers. And oh, how much those words sound like a desperate confession. What to do? What to do?

  I shove away from her before sliding up onto the seat. "Touch yourself," I say, aiming the gun at her. I don't need to have her at gunpoint, she'll do it regardless, but the added element of danger makes it all the more exciting.

  Her eyes flicker when she pulls the skirt of her dress around her waist. She slides her thong off, spreading her legs for me. The sight of such a volatile woman in such a vulnerable position makes my cock swell, and I'm certain she's enjoying this just as much as I am. Her hand dips between her legs and she slowly sweeps a finger over her clit on a moan. The man inside me wants nothing more than to defile her, but truly, reducing her to such a primal level of lust is so much better. She's spread out on the floor of a car on her way to a burial with her fingers inside herself, and all because I told her to do so. Because just as much as I want her, she very much wants me. And who is the sicker of the two? Captor or captive? Hunter or prey?