Twisted Bitch (Sick and Twisted Book 2)

by Jaci J

  “You have?” But I’ve been right here the whole time.

  “Come on,” Dante grumbles, tugging me down the sidewalk beside him. Whoever that guy was, he’s gone now and most likely on Dante’s payroll … I hope.

  ~~~~~

  Seated in Dante’s car, I stare stone-faced at the irrational man in front of me. Waving his hands around, ranting about this and raving about that, Dante carries on even though he’s getting no argument from me. I fight the confusion that I’m sure is evident on my face.

  “I thought your work was done.”

  “With you, it’s never fucking done.”

  “Yeah, I can see that, you crazy fuck.” I mutter, turning towards the window.

  “London,” Dante shouts, pulling my full attention back to him. “You can’t just go on a fucking date,” he tells me.

  “I can’t?” I counter. I’m pretty sure I can do whatever I’d like, whenever I’d like. I hadn’t realized I was on some sort of restriction.

  “No, you fucking can’t,” he growls, slamming a fist down on his steering wheel. The leather bows under his curled fist. The abuse of his lovely car really isn’t necessary. I get it, he’s mad.

  “You’re going to dent your pretty car,” I mutter sarcastically under my breath. Honestly, he could put his head through it and I’d be okay with it.

  “Fuck my goddamn car.” Oh, he’s in a mood. “Jesus, London. I just had you naked and in my bed.”

  “And?” I counter.

  “And you are mine. No one can have you but me,” he snarls and slaps at his chest. Wow. He may as well stomp his feet too.

  “I don’t fucking get you, Dante.” Whipping his head around, he looks down at me.

  “I could say the same shit about you.”

  “One minute it’s all fine and fucking dandy when men look and touch me, and then it’s not. Today was just a date with no touching involved. Leo didn’t touch me. Hell, he was barely looking at me.

  “It’s fine when I can supervise,” he says as if it should be obvious.

  “You must be fucking drunk or high.” I surmise.

  “Yeah, London. I’m drunk out of my mind and high as a fucking kite.”

  Grabbing on to the door handle, I try to pop it open without any success.

  “Open the door,” I warn him. If he doesn’t, I’m going to put his head through the window.

  “Not until you stop with the bullshit and admit it to yourself that you are mine, and no one else’s.” I was his completely, up until he strangled my heart to death with all his lies and backstabbing.

  “Open it.” Pursing his lips, he shakes his head slowly, reveling in his complete control. Every time I unlock the door, he immediately locks it again like a fucking child.

  “Not going to happen.” He smiles proudly. He knows he has me at a disadvantage. I’m not quick enough to unlock the door and open it.

  “I’m getting out,” I growl with finality. He can creep around and he can follow me, but he can’t kidnap me. Jerking violently on the door, I shake the shit out of the door handle and the car, trying desperately to get out and away from him.

  “You’re not.” His words are smug and final.

  “Jesus Christ, Dante.” I slap at the window, so beyond frustrated with him. What on earth did I do to end up dealing with this man? It must be punishment for something awful I did in a past life because this is some torturous sentence I’m enduring with this challenging man. “What the hell do you want from me?” I scream at him with tears ready to fall from my eyes.

  “I want you to let me love you.” He frowns, instantly turning on the sorry. By the grace of God, he stops fighting me and unlocks the door. “I’m sorry,” he says, giving up the fight. The air in the car shifts and my heart tightens in my chest with the sadness in his broken voice. Looking over at Dante, he’s staring at me like he’s lost his puppy. His eyes are glassy and unfocused, “Please, come home with me, London,” he pleads nervously.

  My heart dies a thousand deaths looking at him like this, pleading with me. He turns me inside out and I don’t know how to keep fighting him.

  This love I feel for him is painful, confusing, and it’s all-consuming. He pushes me, and when that doesn’t work, he guilt’s me. It works because all I want is for us to be us again. I want to forget all his lies and deceit and act like none of it ever happened, but I can’t figure out how. It’s not even close to being the same, but I imagine it’s like a husband cheating on his wife, and as much as the wife wants to stay and work it out, she just can’t look at him the same way. He betrayed a trust and that’s not easily forgotten. I feel like I need to make him pay for how he made me feel. I want him to know what he’s turned me into; a scorned, vengeful woman, but I don’t think he’ll ever see anything from my point of view, so I give in. It’s just his nature to love passionately but still maintain his superiority.

  “Fine.” I just want to forget. Sometimes I just want my sweet, loving Dante. “But then you’re taking me to my place.”

  Dante

  Before London, I'd fucked my fair share of women. They were nothing worth repeating and nothing worth talking about―used and abused at my leisure―whenever I wanted and however I wanted it.

  Not so with London. I can spend days kissing and licking her body and staying inside her pussy. It could be the way she grips the fuck out of my cock, or how fucking wet she is for me anytime I touch her. That’s a big turn-on for me. Or it could be how fucking sickly obsessed I am with her. Either way, fucking London is my own personal heaven.

  Grabbing her around her waist, I pick her up, flip her around, and grab two big fucking handfuls of ass. Grinding back, she wiggles her ass against me, making my dick hard to the point of pain. If she keeps it up, this is going to end a lot fucking sooner than I intended. "Stop moving." My hand connects to soft flesh with a loud slap. It does nothing because she keeps grinding on me.

  "Fuck me then." She's a demanding little monster this evening.

  "Hold the fuck still then." I smack her ass again because Lord knows I can’t fucking strangle her like I’d like to. "I’m going fuck you so goddamn hard you'll be seeing stars, London. Now shut the fuck up."

  Getting a good steady hold on those hips, I slam into her, shutting her up. My cock bottoms out inside of her and it feels amazing. "Oh fuck," she screams out as her pussy clenches tightly around my cock and her back arches with her ass in the air. It’s such a fuckworthy sight.

  My control is shot to shit. I fuck her like I haven’t fucked in years. “Fuck, you feel so fucking good.” I pull out and flip her to her back, spread her legs up and out and pump back into her. She grabs my ass and slams her pussy against me while pulling me inside, going deep as her nails painfully sink into me. I bite down on her nipple and suck while she looks down at me. I know how much she loves it when I suck on her tits and within seconds, she’s coming around my cock and her enticing green eyes roll into the back of her head.

  I can never let her go. I can’t imagine ever getting tired of fucking her perfect body and watching that beautiful face in the throes of her orgasms. No fucking way.

  I just want to love her. I don’t want to share her, argue with her, stalk her, or fight with her. Sometimes I just want to hold her and take what I can get, whenever and however I can get it.

  ~~~~~

  London must have become quite fucking sneaky. I don’t know how she managed to slip out from under me and out of my bed without me knowing. It’s either that or she drugged me, which I would not put past her. Now, she’s currently ignoring me.

  “You look sad, cousin,” Cam says pitifully. I can think of a handful of other words to describe what I’m feeling right now, and sad just doesn’t make that list.

  “Shut up, Cam,” I tell him over my shoulder. Unlocking my front door, I walk in with Cam on my heels.

  “Hey, man, just pointing out the obvious.”

  “I’m not sad,” I remind him, setting my shit down on the table.
r />   “Could’ve fooled me.”

  Walking into the foyer, I hear Betty puttering around my kitchen. I have no idea what she’s doing here, nor do I care enough to go in there and find out. She comes over to cook up shit on occasion for me, but it’s usually when I’m home, so this is different.

  What I’m assuming is a pot, clatters loudly to the ground. Both Cam and I stare at each other. “What the fuck is she doing in there?” Thinking about it, I don’t remember her mentioning the fact that she was planning a little visit. “Fuck if I know.”

  The banging and clanging keeps up until I yell, “Betty?” Silence. Everything stops. Cam’s eyes narrow on the doorway to the kitchen.

  “Someone looking for something?” He whispers, motioning to the kitchen. Looking for what, my pots and pans?

  From the doorway, I do a quick sweep of the living room. Nothing looks out of place. Nodding down at my waist, Cam signals for my gun. He wants to go Rambo. “No.” If someone is going to shoot someone in my house, it’s going to be me.

  Pulling it out, I take a couple steps towards the kitchen and I damn near break my fucking neck when I step on a pair of heels laying randomly on my living room floor, in front of the kitchen door. My step falters and my heart skips at the sight of the woman standing in my kitchen.

  London’s back is to me. Her dark hair is a mess on her head and she’s wearing nothing but a tiny pair of plaid shorts, with an even smaller white tank top, and a pair of my socks. “London?” What the fuck is happening here? Looking over her shoulder, she smiles softly and says, “I made meatballs.” Yes she did. My disastrous kitchen can attest.

  “You made meatballs?” I repeat stupidly. London is here, in my kitchen, making meatballs?

  “She made meatballs,” Cam mutters from behind me.

  “For who?” I’m so confused. A big smile and bright green eyes turn towards me.

  “For you.” She made me dinner, but why? What did she do? Who did she kill? Who do I have to kill?

  ~~~~~

  Sitting at the table, I stare across at London. A piece of bread hovers at her lips when she brings her eyes up to mine. “What?”

  “I love to watch you eat.” Sitting here at my dining room table covered in white linen, silver, and fine china, I fight the urge to throw it all off and pull London up on the table and fuck her stupid. Watching her eat does terrible things to me. When she eats, it looks sensual to me.

  “Oh yeah?” she challenges.

  “Yeah, baby.” Taking a hardy bite, teeth tearing into the bread, she stares back, smiling wildly at me over her hand. Little monster.

  “Vicious.” London is demented and I think I love her more for it.

  “It’s what I want to do to your heart.” That doesn’t surprise me in the least. If London had it her way, she would reach into my chest and rip my heart out, slap it between to pieces of French loaf and eat it with a nice glass of wine. She’s perfect.

  “I do love you.” Picking up my whiskey, I shoot it back, waiting for her response, which I’m sure won’t be an, ‘I love you’ back.

  “Yeah, I doubt that,” she snorts, shaking her head. Picking up her fork, she shoves a forkful of pasta into her mouth. I could tell her I love her until I’m blue in the face and she wouldn’t believe me.

  “I love you, London … love you to death, ‘Until your face turns blue and your heart stops’ kind of love you.” Its extreme, but I’ve learned nothing is simply said between her and I.

  Throwing her head back, she laughs until she’s breathless and gasping for air. “Now that I believe. You love me like a serial killer loves his victims.” That analogy works for me, just as long as she knows I mean it when I fucking say it.

  “Now eat your food, London, so I can fuck you for dessert.”

  “Not happening.” Oh, she can bet her sweet ass it is.

  Ten

  Miss Indulgent

  London

  “Indulge me, London,” Dante mumbles against my neck. The scruff on his chin scratches the skin on my shoulder when he speaks against my ear. Indulge him? That’s all I seem to do; bent over backwards, or standing upside down on my fucking hands, I indulge him. Whatever Dante wants, right?

  On the couch, tucked between his knees, Dante’s arms are wrapped around my shoulder, hands rested on my chest. His fingers are laced and locked around mine, holding me as close to him as possible. I’m indulging.

  I fed Dante with the intention of leaving after the last bite was finished. My dinner was an apology of sorts. A sorry, or a white flag gesture, or I can be honest with myself and admit I’m a sucker and can’t stay away from the bastard.

  We sat at the breakfast bar eating. Dante chatted and I listened. I had made a move for the front door as soon as his plate was clear and I failed miserably.

  Now I’m stuck. I should have known that the moment he got his hands on me, it was over. There was no chance of me escaping. Right now, not even a crowbar could pry his body off of mine.

  “You’re smothering me.” Figuratively and literally. Tipping my head back, I look up at him when I speak, staring at his unconventionally handsome face that makes me weak in the knees and fluttery in my stomach. Bringing his eyes down, he looks at me sideways. He considers his words a moment before he smirks at me.

  “Good,” he grunts. Good?

  “How is that good?” Sometimes I wonder if he literally loves me to death … a murder-suicide kind of love.

  “It’s good because it means you’re not going anywhere.” No, apparently I’m not. If I dig deep inside, I know I don’t want Dante to let me go. Buried under pounds of hate, I love him and all of his infuriating personalities, but it doesn’t mean I won’t leave him.

  “I have to pee.”

  “Too bad,” he whispers back, kissing my hair. Figures. Settling in, he pulls me deeper, cuddling me closer. Sighing, he rests back against the couch. I lean into him, giving in. My white flag. If I stay, I may as well enjoy it.

  ~~~~~

  Two days later and plenty of ignored phone calls, deleted texts, and dodged visits from Mr. Lurker, I throw myself onto Matt’s bed, completely frustrated.

  “Ugh,” I sigh pathetically.

  Twisting his neck, Matt gives me ‘the eyes’ over his shoulder. I would assume he’s as fed up with this mess as I am, but I know Matt, and I know how much he loves and thrives off the drama of other people’s lives. I also know Matt doesn’t need to ask what’s wrong.

  “What did you expect, London?” Matt asks me bluntly. Exactly what I’m getting. I’m starting to learn what his reactions will be to each of my actions. He’s become more predictable, even if he’s still fucking crazy.

  “For Dante to be reasonable,” I throw out the lie. Matt laughs. Yeah, that was absurdly funny.

  Watching Matt fold a pair of pants, I scrub at my face in utter exasperation. I don’t know what to do anymore. “That’s never going to happen, London. Dante is crazy and he’ll always be crazy. I mean, you are playing Duck, Duck, Bed, with the man,” Matt points out.

  “I am not.”

  “Yes, you are,” he counters.

  I am, it’s true. It’s the only control I have over Dante, like I’ve got some sort of special power, which makes me feel like I have some control over our situation. It’s the only way I can punish him. My time and my body are the only things I have to hold against him. Nothing I do shakes Dante, unless I take myself away from him, and with that, I have him by the balls.

  It’s mean, it’s cruel, and it’s wrong, but it is all I have left to work with. I don’t enjoy the coming and going. I don’t love the look on his face when I leave him. It hurts me too. I’m indecisive and wishy-washy. Do I stay and love him, or should I finally let him go?

  Matt starts rubbing at his chest dramatically. “All of this Dante shit is giving me a serious case of heartburn.” I laugh. I can’t help myself. The drama just pumps through his veins and seeps out of his pores.

  “Heartburn, Matt? Really?” />
  “Heart palpitations, or a heart murmur, maybe?”

  “Yeah, that’s the fried food we just ate, my friend.”

  I watch him with fascination, putter around his room, trying on, tearing off, and folding back up pairs of jeans. He’s stressing over a date, a date with a guy I’m sure he’ll never see again after this evening. I keep my mouth shut though, and smile when necessary.

  “These?” He asks, spinning around. Rubbing at his ass, he throws a look over his shoulder down at his butt. We’ve transitioned into slacks, since all of his jeans make his ass look fat―his words, not mine.

  “Those are nice.” Screwing up his lips, his eyebrows hit his hairline.

  “You’re so full of shit,” he accuses.

  “Jesus, those are nice. I like the charcoal gray on you.” Lord, he’s strung even tighter than usual today.

  “Are you having a bit of a meltdown, Matt? Being a moody brat isn’t going to get you laid tonight.”

  Tossing a pair of lavender trousers at me, purses his lips. “He’s just so hot.”

  “Who?”

  “My date. I’m freaking out here.”

  “Clearly. Lavender pants? That’s just bad.” I hold up the offensive piece of fashion. I don’t care how much they hug your ass, lavender, skinny legged trousers are not okay.

  “They’re nice,” he says, defending his pants. Yeah, they’re something all right.

  I talk Matt back down off his proverbial fashion ledge. I compliment and I dote. He’s such a man sometimes. “Your date will be great. I have a feeling this guy is the one.”

  “The one to what?”

  “To sweep you off your feet.” Dense, just like Dante.

  “Honey, I just want some dinner and the big ‘D.’” Rolling my eyes, I kiss his cheek. Whatever makes him happy. “Whatever, just have fun.”

  “Oh, you know I will.” With an air kiss, he saunters his saucy self out of his room and disappears through the front door. Men.