Twisted Bitch (Sick and Twisted Book 2)

by Jaci J

  ~~~~~

  I’m lying on my couch, going through work e-mails when it occurs to me that between Dante and I lately, no real work is getting done. It’s quite pathetic, really. Dante doesn’t work well with others and I’m in over my head when it comes to his type of business practices.

  A little lost and confused never stopped me, though. I’ll figure this out and get shit up-to-date. I have to. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. I refuse to give in and let Dante win.

  Shutting off the TV and closing all the windows, I get down to business. Dante may be ahead and smarter than me when it comes to the hands-on work and business meetings, but not for long. I will work my ass off and run him out of my company.

  ~~~~~

  A few hours later, my phone rings, just like it has been for the past two hours, every ten minutes. Peeking down at it, I see Dante’s name scroll across the screen and I sigh yet again. Yes, I want to hear his harsh, rough voice, but no, I’m not going to answer it because just like Dante likes to say, I do enjoy torturing him.

  He’ll call again, he’ll text, and he’ll probably call some more. Maybe after a few more hours of no response from me, he’ll show up and beat down my door. Why put him through this? It’s the effort, right?

  Being a couch potato lasts another hour. Work done, TV watched, magazines read, and laundry folded, I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m off the couch, putting my jacket and shoes on. I’m in the elevator and walking out the front doors of my building before I get the chance to second-guess myself.

  I find myself standing outside Dante’s door twenty minutes later. My fist meets the wood and instantly the door is flung open wide. “What’s wrong?” Dante asks, looking over my shoulder and down the hall. His eyes are wide and weary when sweeping the area behind me.

  “Nothing.”

  “Why are you here?” That’s a good question. It’s very possible I missed him, or it could be that I’m just extremely stupid.

  “I don’t know.” I tell him truthfully.

  Snaking an arm out, he pulls me inside. Face to chest, he curls his arms around me. “Are you sure you’re all right? I’ve been trying to get ahold of you.”

  “I know.”

  “She knows,” he mutters against the top of my head, “yet she never answers her fucking phone. Come on, I’m working.” He says, tugging me down the hall after him.

  Sitting in an overstuffed chair, I watch him work feverishly away at his computer. Dante is beautiful. Sitting at his desk, head down, eyebrows drawn down, and a little scowl on his lips, he looks determined.

  Ushered into his home office and into a chair, I watch him work. “Dante?”

  “What?” He doesn’t look up. Pounding on his keyboard with deft fingers, he bashes away, ignoring me.

  “Dante?”

  “London?” He grunts back, still not bothering to look at me.

  “You’re handsome.” I tell him. That gets his attention.

  Dante

  I can feel London watching me, staring a hole right through me, just like I so often do to her. I keep my mouth shut and my eyes on my work. I try to ignore her, but it’s pointless. I can’t keep my fucking eyes off of her, either.

  But like an asshole, I pretend like I could give a fuck. I’m mad at her; fucking irritated. London’s playing her little games, and I’m not a fan of them. She knows it, yet she ignores me for days and I shouldn’t be rewarding her for it, but I am. I just can’t help myself.

  “You’re handsome,” she says when I won’t look at her.

  I’m only handsome in her eyes. London makes me better, makes me handsome. Love will do that to you. It’ll make people see only the good, only the beautiful in the other person. London may complain about me, bitch and moan about all the shit I do that she hates, but deep down inside of that sweet heart, she loves me for me.

  “I think you’re mistaken,” I tell her, finally looking up from the spreadsheet on my computer. Sitting in a chair, her legs are tucked up under her ass, but she looks comfortable and content.

  “No, you are, but you’re also a bastard.” That’s true.

  “A handsome bastard to you,” I mutter back.

  That right there is what makes me handsome in her eyes. The way I see her, the way I look at her. She draws out all this beauty she thinks she sees in me, when really it’s her. I smile because she’s smiling. I laugh when she laughs. I love because she’s easy to love. London is beautiful. I’m just genuinely happy because I have her.

  “Come here.” I have had about all the distance I can take. Her punishment is starting to turn into mine. It’s been a few days since I’ve touched her and that desperation that lives inside of me when I’m away from her is starting to claw at my chest.

  “Am I indulging?” she quips with a soft smile.

  “Yes, now get your ass over here. Let me touch you.”

  “No thank you.” Those green eyes meet the back of her head when she rolls them at my request. Her defiance is laughable. Anything she can do to fight me, she’ll do it.

  But I have no fucking patience left. She’s strung me along and played games with me for the past few days, and I’ve had enough.

  “Now, I said.” I point to the empty space next to me that should be filled with her body.

  “No thank you. You know you’re extremely pushy and it only seems to be getting worse with your old age.”

  Making a b-line for her, she jumps up out of her seat when I’m a few feet away. “Stop.” She holds up a hand like it’s going to stop me from getting to her. Steel and bullets couldn’t stop me. I scoff at her outstretched hand, shoving it out of my way. “Dante,” she wails when I bend down and fling her over my shoulder. I gave her a couple of chances.

  “You’re ridiculous.”

  “And you don’t fucking listen.”

  Her ass lands on my desk with a thud and her eyes pop open. “What the―”

  “Don’t,” I warn her before she lets loose with her foul fucking words. A slow, salacious smile spreads across her plump lips and her tongue peeks out, sweeping her lips.

  Fuck.

  She drawls it out slowly. The little fucking monster is teasing me. Sitting on my desk with her legs wrapped around my waist, she smile up at me. Fiddling with my watch, she mumbles, “I’m wrinkling your paperwork.” Shifting her ass around from side to side she laughs, “See?”

  “I’m not really concerned with the paperwork, London.”

  “What are you concerned with then?”

  “Getting you naked.”

  It’s hard to fathom her constant need to run away from me when she’s sitting here in front of me, staring up at me like I fucking invented water. The wonder, the awe, the fucking love I see in those green eyes is staggering. I don’t understand the point of fighting me when she willingly shows up here and eagerly crawls into my bed, and right into my arms.

  When I touch her, she melts at my goddamn feet. I know she wants me to touch her, to fuck her. Her flushed skin, red lips, and her fidgeting body tells me all I need to know, so why does there always have to be a fight? Is it fun? I just know that I’m growing tired of it.

  I’m positive I’ll never fully understand her. She’s the most complicated woman that has ever graced me with her presence, but she’s my woman and she’s worth it. She’s here and she’s willing. Who am I to complain?

  Pulling her shirt over her head, I’m rewarded with a perfect set of tits and miles of smooth skin for the taking. My mouth starts to water.

  “Perfect.” Every fucking inch of her.

  “Yo Boss, where are you?” I’m revoking keys and changing key codes I think the moment that voice interrupts my plans. Scooping London up, I tug her to me, hiding her body. Why does this shit always happen?

  “Stay in the hall!” I here a groan and a few snickers from outside the door.

  “Whatcha doin’ in there, Boss?” Pete jokes.

  “Loading my gun
, now go sit your asses in the living room. I’ll be out there in a second.” Not only am I fighting London for her time, I’m also fighting the guys. Never a dull moment in my life.

  Eleven

  Miss Escapee

  London

  He’s huddling me against his body like he’s protecting me from harm. “You’re something special,” I mumble under my breath.

  “Thank you.” He smiles. Jesus, that was not a compliment.

  Taking a step away from me, he stares at my tits and licking his lips. “Get dressed,” he sighs, regretfully jerking a pile of papers out from under my ass.

  “Do I have to?” I tease. His head snaps up and his eyes narrow. Is his eye twitching? Oh good God, he’s about to give himself a stroke.

  “Relax, I was just joking.”

  “That’s not funny … not funny at all.” No, it was kind of funny, he’s just too much of a tight ass to see it.

  ~~~~~

  Dante left me to go handle business, as usual, somewhere in the house. I came here to see him, not wait forever in his office. I could be at home, sleeping or reading, or doing anything else that isn’t waiting for Dante to do whatever mob sort of thing he’s got to do. I mean, he’s been known to take hours.

  With my shirt back on, I make my great escape. Sneaking to the front door, I slip out and onto the elevator. Breath held, I wait for the doors to close before slumping against the railing and dragging a mouthful of air into my lungs.

  I knew Dante wouldn’t willingly let me go and the longer I sat alone, waiting, the dumber I felt about showing up at his house for no better reason than loneliness. My self-respect is shot to shit. I have no idea what I’m doing anymore. One minute I miss him, and the next I want to wring his neck. Nevertheless, I came anyways. Apparently, I just can’t get enough of all the crazy.

  ~~~~~

  I make the mad dash from the heat of the car to my apartment building. Snow is starting to drift down from the dark sky as I make the run. Flurries of white powder collect on the ground around my feet as I shuffle through it. It’s bitterly fucking cold outside. My coat is no match for the weather.

  My apartment is dark and lonely when I walk inside. The lights are off and not a single sound besides the slight city noise filters through the space. It’s desolate. It’s sad. Flinging my purse onto the nearest surface, I head straight for the heater. My shoes meet a similar fate as I fling them across the room, scrambling to get to the thermostat.

  Digging through a drawer, I find my winter PJ’s stuffed in the back of the drawer; flannel, long- sleeved top and long bottoms. Throwing them on, I dive into bed, the heater kicking on the moment my head hits the pillow. I burrow down deep, throwing the blanket over my head and wonder why the hell I left Dante’s warm penthouse for my cold, empty one.

  Hours later, I feel arms slide under my legs and back, gripping me for dear life and up I go, my body hovering over my bed.

  “What are you doing?” I mumble, turning my face into a familiar chest. The distinct smell of Dante hits my nostrils when I rub my cheek against his soft shirt.

  “You robbed me of my time with you. I don’t like that shit, London.” Of course he doesn’t like it. It wasn’t his idea, thus rendering it my bad idea.

  “So you’re kidnapping me.” Protective hands squeeze me a little in agreement. Holding me closer to his body, he carries me comfortably.

  “Yes,” he growls, the rumble of his words vibrate against my cheek as he takes monstrous steps towards the door, determined to take me home with him.

  Wrapped up in my comforter, Dante carries me like a baby out of my apartment and down the elevator. He continues to hold me until he slides me into his idling car, where he sits me gingerly in the front seat. I know he’s having a hard time letting me go because he hesitates before leaning in and placing rough lips against my forehead, “Don’t you even think of fucking moving,” he strongly advises against my skin before shutting me inside his deliciously warm car. I wouldn’t dream of running off again.

  None of Dante’s usual aggressive driving shows in the blocks from my front door to his; he’s cautious and slow. I’m not sure if it’s the snow or because he has me in the car, but he’s treating me with kid gloves so I think it’s for me.

  I’m carried from the car, wrapped up in my comforter, up to Dante’s where I’m placed on the bed like I might break. “What’s going on? Why are you being so careful with me?”

  “Maybe if I’m more careful, you won’t leave me again.” I hate when he says things like that. I hate when the cracks and tears in his steel armor show. Leaning up, I kiss him.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him as I snuggle into his bed, stealing his pillow.

  “No you’re not,” he sighs, sitting down at the edge of the bed. But he’s wrong. I am sorry, just not sorry enough not to do it again. “But I don’t blame you for doing it.”

  Dante

  Chasing London is tiring. It’s a draining and irritating business. The last time I did it I told myself it was the last time. Clearly, I’m lying to myself because the moment I came back into the room and found her spot empty, I didn’t hesitate or think before I had my hand on the elevator call button, ready to drag her back home by her goddamn hair.

  I put her ass to bed where surprisingly she has stayed. I didn’t have to resort to tying her down or physically holding her there. She willingly crawled under the covers and fell asleep. I’m not sure if I’m thankful or suspicious.

  It’s an uncontrollable reaction to crawl in there after her. I can’t fucking help myself. Depriving me of her makes me fucking crazy. I want whatever I can get.

  I’m exhausted by the time I wrap an arm around her and haul her to me. I don’t sleep well when she’s not here with me and lately, it’s a rarity. I’ve gone from not sleeping when she’s with me to not sleeping when she’s away from me. All this not sleeping is making me an angry motherfucker.

  Pulling her against me she rolls, turns, and smothers her face against my chest. Sometimes I wonder if she realizes she’s doing it, or if it’s an unconscious thing. I hope she does it because she wants to.

  ~~~~~

  I’m not well versed in the kitchen, despite Betty’s numerous attempts at teaching me, but I do know the basics; boiling water, reheating, and toaster operation. I’m hopeless in the kitchen and it’s a pity considering I’m fucking brilliant at just about everything else in life. I guess we all have our downfalls.

  I’ve already burnt a pan of bacon, which is now resting in the sink. Timers are no help and I can’t work a recipe to save my fucking life.

  I’ve rummaged through the freezer in hopes of finding the delicacy that are those frozen confections in the bright yellow box known as waffles. I’m out of fucking luck, which brings me to now, Googling Homemade waffles, while digging for supplies.

  Staring at the cupboard, something starts to smell like smoke and I know I’ve now fucked up a second pan of bacon. Jesus Christ, I run a fucking empire and I can’t manage a goddamn pan of bacon.

  “Having an issue?” Looking over my shoulder, London is standing by the breakfast bar, wrapped up in a blanket with a smile cracking those delicious lips.

  “Absolutely not,” I lie, looking into her eyes. I’m sure it’s obvious I’m having a fucking issue. I’ve damn near burnt down my place and her nakedness is not helping me now.

  “I would laugh, but I assume you’re cooking for me, and I’d rather not have rat poison added to my pancakes.”

  “Waffles,” I correct her, holding up a bag of flour. Taking in the kitchen, London’s eyes widen and that smile lifts the corners of her mouth when she sees the mess I’ve made. She’s trying not to laugh at me. The little shit is holding in a laugh at my expense.

  “You find this funny?” This mess is her fault. I’m trying to do something nice for her, but instead I’ve demolished my kitchen.

  “Cute,” she corrects me as she laughs. I stand corrected. I’m not funny, I’m cute.

&nbs
p; “I’m many things, but cute is not one of them.”

  Walking up to me, London drops her blanket on the floor, the soft material pooling at her feet. Wearing nothing but a bra and panties, she demands the bag of flour. Taking it from me, she sets it on the counter and turns back to me.

  “What?”

  “Shirt.” She motions to my shirt.

  “You want my shirt?”

  “Well, do you want me to get burnt?” I relent and peel my shirt off, handing it to her.

  “You’re welcome.” Rolling her eyes, she smiles and takes over cooking duties while I watch, appreciating all of her.

  She took over my mess. Apparently, she couldn’t handle my attempts at cooking because she dismissed me to the barstool. I’m not arguing. She’s happy right this very moment.

  Laughing and humming along, she sits two plates on the bar. I dig in because all that cooking was fucking tiring.

  “I cooked and I didn’t burn a single thing.” London declares proudly, setting down her fork.

  “Yeah? Would you like an award?” She might be a superb cook, but she is the messiest cook alive and that has to loose some sort of points on the best cook scale.

  “I would.” Propping her chin on her hand, she licks her lips and smiles. Teasing me will get her ass in trouble. I don’t appreciate her games of hot and cold. I can touch and then I can’t, and she knows no one can tell me what to do and not to do, so right now would be the wrong time to play her game.

  “If you want it, baby, you’re gonna have to come and get it.”

  I’m a little shocked when she takes off her bra and panties and lays herself out on the island, and I feast on her like a starved man. I consume her from head to toe, leaving no inch untouched.

  She lets me have my way and I take full advantage of her. We fuck for hours, and I don’t stop until I’m sure she loves me. I take what I want because I’m a bastard that way, but she can’t deny it, she fucking loves it.

  ~~~~~

  My tolerance for pain is extraordinarily high. Bullets, knives, bats, I can handle them all. I’ve been interrogated within an inch of my sanity, held against my will. I’ve buried my mother, friends, family, and none of it compares to what London puts me through every goddamn day.