by Naima Simone
In seconds, he had her zipper opened, her pants shoved down her hips, and his hand inside a pair of surprisingly plain and sexy as fuck black panties. Slick, hot, and so wet, he slid through her folds with ease, arrowing straight for the heart of her. He should’ve slowed, should’ve gentled her into receiving him. But for the first time since fucking the prostitute Rion’s father had hired for his son, Killian, and Sasha, on Rion’s fifteenth birthday, Sasha was impatient, anxious to touch a woman’s flesh.
Once more, he lowered his head to her chest, swirling his tongue around the beaded tip and drawing it deep into his mouth as he thrust a finger inside her. His eyes damn near rolled to the back of his head as her sex clamped around him like a greedy mouth.
Her hips bucked, and she twisted, her arms yanking at the belt as if trying to free herself. The sight of her pulling and struggling against the temporary restraint hardened his dick into a steel beam. He wanted her naked, hanging from a suspension bar, helpless, completely under his control. Dancing to the erotic tune he set.
Easing his finger out of her, he pressed the heel of his palm against her clit, circled it slow and hard. She whimpered, lifting her hips into his hand.
“Oh God.” She shuddered, another of those soft, kitten sounds escaping her lips. “More.” She gasped as he ground his palm against her. “More.”
“Are you asking or telling me, lisichka?” he whispered in her ear, pulling back his hand and teasing her flesh with light, wide sweeps.
She stilled, her lashes lifting. Her eyes, hazy with arousal, met his. She studied him for a long moment, her gaze sharpening, something dark and intense entering it and sending a bolt of electricity through him.
“Telling you,” she ordered, voice soft but with an underlying thread of steel running through it. “Give me more.”
Christ. Shock slammed the breath from his lungs. Not just from her reply. But at the lust that blasted him like a blowtorch set on incinerate. He wasn’t a submissive; in all his sexual—relationships was pushing it too far—encounters, he wielded the control. He’d never bowed down for, bent over for, or blown anyone. But like moments ago, the wish, the need to comply welled inside him. An illicit, exciting thrill shot through his veins at her command. Another thing he hadn’t felt in years with sex…excitement. This kind of thrill filled him when he pulled off a job, but not during sex. Fucking was good—sometimes hot and nasty as hell. It was a physical release, but never a rush that lit his insides up like a goddamn Star Wars lightsaber.
And courtesy of a mob princess who wore innocence like one of the couture dresses she probably owned by the dozens but whose pretty eyes dared him—no, demanded he corrupt her.
“What do you want from me?” he asked, his finger pausing over her clit. He wanted the words, the instruction. Wanted to see how far she would go…see how far she would take them. Even in the dim light of the alley, he caught the twin flags of color staining her cheeks. Her lips parted, moved, but nothing emerged. As if an internal battle between good girl and vixen waged inside her. That was okay. He wanted her to struggle, too.
“Rub my clit,” she whispered. When he obeyed, circling her flesh in a soft, almost gentle caress, she rolled her hips. “Harder,” she said, that hint of iron entering her voice again. “Do it harder.”
Lust barreled through him, transforming the air in his lungs to steam. Holding her bright stare, he stroked the engorged nub, bringing his entire finger into play. He didn’t hold back—played with it, plucked it, pinched it, until her clit vibrated under his touch, and her body trembled with the onset of orgasm.
“Fuck me.” She moaned. “Put your fingers inside me. I need…” Her head tipped back between her stretched arms. “Make me explode.”
A snarl ripped from his throat, and before she finished her demand, he buried two fingers deep and high inside her. She screamed, rising onto the toes of her boots.
“Goddamn.” Her tight sex sucked him deep, spasmed around him. His cock, so swollen, so hard, damn near hurt with the need to replace his hand. To feel all her silken, slick heat squeeze it in the most erotic embrace. “How are you even taking this much, baby?” He slowly withdrew, leaving only his fingertips inside her clenching entrance. Without warning, he thrust back inside, and flesh quivered, rippling against him, gripping him as if refusing to let him go again. “Goddamn,” he repeated, planting an openmouthed, wet kiss under her jaw. “You are two sizes too small and utterly fucking perfect.”
Lowering his head, he raked the edge of his teeth over her nipple, then drew it deep, pulling hard as he once more plunged into her, wringing another cry from her. With every stroke, his fist bumped her soaked folds, driving her toward the orgasm she’d demanded he give her. He didn’t hold back, every thrust, every stroke stretching her, shaking her. She danced for him like a marionette, but she was pulling the strings.
“Now.” She lifted her head, eyes gleaming, her lovely face strained in a mask of pure lust. “Now, damn it.”
Again, that thrill careened through him, as did the need to obey. Without removing his gaze from hers, he caught her nipple between his teeth, lashed it with his tongue and surged deep into her, hooking his fingers. Pressing hard against a smooth patch of skin she’d probably heard existed but hadn’t touched herself.
She stiffened a second before a long, keening cry erupted from her lips. Her slick walls clamped down on his fingers, rippling in an orgasm that shook her entire body. Fuck, she was gorgeous in release. Eyes glazed in lust, skin glistening under the weak light, her breasts quivering, and her sex… It drenched him, milked him. One stroke of his erection. Just one, and he would shoot off like a fucking schoolboy at his first glance of a tit. That’s how hard, how on edge she had him.
Gradually, her shudders faded, and her flesh eased its tight clasp. Gently, he withdrew, but as he did, every recrimination that lust had held off rushed in. As if just waiting for the opportunity to flood his head with every What the fuck? and Are you out of your goddamn mind? that being with Corrine had smothered.
What the hell am I doing? Thinking? he berated himself as he dragged her pants back up her legs and rearranged her top so she was fully covered. After contemplating his belt for several seconds, he reached into his pocket, removed the switchblade he usually carried, and cut her free. Still calling himself all kinds of idiotic.
Phones or cameras weren’t allowed in the club because of just what he’d been doing with Corrine, but that didn’t mean people didn’t find ways to sneak them in. Though he’d had the presence of mind to exit the hallway, anyone could’ve snapped a photo of them together before then. Or even of her getting finger-fucked by him in the alley. Could’ve caught her coming around his hand, her beautiful face tight with her orgasm. Vulnerable in pleasure. The alley had been empty, but definitely not secure. What kind of asshole did that make him? It wasn’t the audience; one of his vices was taking a woman with others watching, observing how she submitted her body into his care. Witnessing her twist and burn in ecstasy and knowing it was his to give or hold back as he saw fit. No, the voyeurism wasn’t the problem.
But there was a specific place for that, and the bathroom hallway or the alley behind the club wasn’t it. In the secure, private sanctuary of The Loft, they indulged in whatever kinks and desires they wanted. He had no business touching her here, out in public.
And though she’d burned like the most beautiful flame for him, had caused him to damn near come in his pants, she was still naïve to his world. Hunger had burned in her eyes, but he had no doubt she didn’t usually indulge in what they’d just done.
Plus, there still remained the issue of putting not just her at risk from exposure, but the club—his best friends.
When his family had first moved to the predominantly Irish-American neighborhood of South Boston, Sasha had been a skinny runt with a thick accent that made the very little English he possessed hard to understand. For two years, he’d had his ass kicked daily. Not that he’d just laid down and take
n the beatings, but no one had stepped in to help the Russian kid with the chip on his shoulder that was only outsized by his mouth. Not until four kids cornered him in the bathroom one afternoon, and two boys from his third-grade class had waded into the fight, throwing fists for Sasha instead of at him. From that day forward, Rion Ward and Killian Vincent had owned his loyalty.
It didn’t matter if he had a more difficult time settling into this new domain of the businessman than Rion and even Killian did. Sasha would sacrifice his life for them. And he’d protect their new one.
Even from himself.
Becoming a salacious headline for some tabloid wasn’t protecting them but throwing everything they’d worked for to the damn wolves. Seeing CLUB OWNER SEXES MOB PRINCESS as the top story on a gossip rag or website wouldn’t instill confidence in a membership that depended on their discretion. It would threaten what the three of them had built.
Corrine had to go. Before he did something they would both regret. Like replace his fingers with his dick and damn the consequences.
“Go home.” He shifted back, ignoring the flinch she couldn’t completely hide. She didn’t even realize he was doing her a favor. “It’s naïve to think you won’t be recognized here. And we don’t need that kind of publicity. You’re a liability. One we can’t afford.”
He deliberately said “we,” reminding himself that he wasn’t the only one at risk. After issuing the warning, he pivoted sharply, stalking away from her. Escaping, a snide voice whispered across his skull. He’d already taken several steps when her soft “Wait” stopped him. It shouldn’t have reached him over the loud music that seeped outside through the back door…and if every one of his senses wasn’t attuned to her, that orgasm-roughened voice probably wouldn’t have. But it did, and he stopped. Even knowing he should’ve kept going.
“What does it mean?” she called out. “L-li-lisichka?”
Her fumbling over the foreign pronunciation shouldn’t have been endearing. Shouldn’t have made him want to turn around, return to her, and taste the sound of his homeland on her lips. He curled his fingers into tight fists and pressed them against his thighs, clenching his jaw until it throbbed in objection.
Don’t answer. Walk. The fuck. Away.
“Little fox,” he murmured. Unable to not look at her, he glanced over his shoulder, his gaze settling on the fire of her hair. Her lips parted, those gorgeous green eyes slightly widening. “It means little fox,” he repeated before jerking the door open and waiting for her to enter the building. Once she slid past him, he strode into hallway, and without a backward glance, into the crowd. Away from her.
Away from the temptation of that mouth he could too easily imagine sliding over his cock. Away from the beautiful breasts he’d wanted to introduce to his dick since his mouth had made their acquaintance. Away from the too-tight pussy that had damn near bruised his fingers with its slick, quivering walls.
And if he forced his arm to remain by his side so he wouldn’t lift his hand to inhale the sultry, sweet scent she’d coated him in, well, shit.
His will was stronger than he’d given it credit for.
Chapter Three
Either the press was losing its skills, or Corrine was upping her escape game.
Of course, they’d been following a redhead in a Lexus to the movie theater. So when a blonde walked right past them and climbed into a waiting black Escalade, they hadn’t paid her the slightest bit of attention. Smiling, she stroked a palm down the platinum hair falling over her shoulder. The wig, leather pants, white halter top, boots, and the Escalade were all courtesy of Tara, her new partner in crime. And though Corrine preferred not to dwell too long on why her friend had a wig available for the asking, she appreciated the disguise and the ride. The last thing she needed was an annoying, greedy photographer catching a picture of her entering Lick… Or worse.
“Worse” would’ve been last night. She’d gone through all the efforts of shaking the press only to end up in an alley bound to a fire escape with a Viking driving her to orgasm. Not giving a damn about anything but exploding around his fingers. How stupid could she be? Thank God nothing had shown up in the tabloids or online about her, uh…indiscretion. She snorted. Indiscretion, hell. It was an instant of cray-cray.
But that lapse in judgment hadn’t prevented her from returning. It just made her come up with a plan and disguise that would keep her from being tagged by the media and turned away at the club door. Because after last night, she wondered if Ragnar had put her on the permanently banned list.
Ragnar. That’s what she’d been calling him in her head since last night because she didn’t know his name. She’d allowed a man to cuff her with his belt, kiss her breasts, and screw her with his fingers, and she didn’t even know. His. Name.
God, it was embarrassing. Shocking.
And hot as hell.
Striding to the bar, she exhaled a heavy, long breath. And yeah, it did nothing to calm her racing pulse or alleviate the kamikaze butterflies performing death-defying dives in her stomach as she reentered the club on a Friday night, with its deafening music, shadowy alcoves, and semi-erotic photographs hanging on the exposed brick walls.
Still, the woman who’d ordered a man to make her come “now, damn it” hadn’t been able to wait to get back.
She should’ve been working on her column that was due soon, but instead she’d passed away the hours since the night before reliving every sexy, erotic moment in that dark alley. For the first time since the Feds had pounded on the front door of her house at six o’clock in the morning and arrested her father for crimes that made bile graze the back of her throat, her thoughts hadn’t been consumed with her strange, frightening present and even scarier future. No, she’d been too busy examining every second in freeze frames, trying to pinpoint the exact instant she’d transformed from Ms. Toeing-the-Line to Madame Whips-’n’-Chains.
Okay, so she wasn’t ready to bust out any floggers or feathers. But if someone had told her she would be doling out commands to a big, stunning, intimidating Russian who turned dirty talk into an art form, she would’ve asked them what hallucinogenic they were on. But even more astounding than her new persona was…he’d obeyed her.
God. A shiver worked its way through her body as an image of his blazing blue-gray eyes and his fierce expression wavered in front of her. Since she’d been a girl, all she’d heard from her father was, “We have scholars in this family, not slackers.” And, “Success is paved by hard work.” And because he wanted his daughter to be the first in the family to finish college and become a lawyer or doctor, he’d determined what schools she attended, what clothes she wore, who her friends were, where she lived… Now that she knew who he was and the people he dealt with, she understood his edicts had been for her protection.
But, God, they smacked of hypocrisy. He’d demanded she walk the straight and narrow, and all the while his path had been crooked and wide, and littered with all the lives he’d destroyed. She’d hidden her career as a sports columnist for an indie online newspaper from him while he’d been hiding a whole damn life of crime from her. Back then, she’d been concerned about disappointing him. Now, she feared he’d probably have the editor-in-chief fitted for cement boots if he didn’t fire her.
That was so bad. Did the mob even still do that? Had her father ever ordered that done? Jesus, she couldn’t think about it…
She glanced across the warehouse toward the far wall and glowing exit sign, and as if a switch were thrown, her mind flew to that darkened corridor, the alley beyond, and what had occurred there. Out there, she’d experienced being in control. It’d been empowering. Exhilarating. Intoxicating.
She wanted it again. Wanted more.
And there was only one man she wanted it from.
So here she was, back at the club she’d been ordered out of. It was bottom of the ninth, two outs, and two strikes, and she was running her Hail Mary play. Okay, so she was mixing sports metaphors, but bottom line: this was he
r last chance.
Running her damp palms down her thighs, she approached the bar and slid into a free space. Lifting a hand, she signaled the bartender. If she intended to go through with this plan, she needed all the liquid courage she could get.
She smiled a thanks at the Vin Diesel look-a-like who handed her the Seven and Seven she’d ordered. But as she lifted the glass to her lips, a tingle set up at the small of her back and sizzled up her spine. She didn’t need to scan the room for the source of the sensation that had every nerve ending standing at attention.
And as a large hand cupped her hip and the other loosely banded her throat, she didn’t need to turn around to see who held her in an embrace that should’ve been intimidating. Should’ve been. Instead, it twisted the lust dial inside her from simmering to Human Torch.
“I thought I told you to stay away from here,” a dark, velvety, slightly accented voice murmured in her ear.
Oh, Jesus. Before she could stop herself, she tilted her head back, offering him more of her, inviting a firmer touch. And he took full advantage, his fingers spreading wide, covering more of her skin. Seconds. Just seconds in his presence and already she was ready for a repeat of the night before.
“No, you told me to go home,” she countered, striving for and locating a nonchalance she was far from feeling. “You didn’t say anything about not coming back.”
For a moment, the grips both on her hip and throat tightened, and she barely managed to stifle the shudder that tried to ripple through her. Yes, she’d loved giving this man orders the night before, but his dominant hold had her nipples beading and her sex doing its own happy dance. Her lashes fluttered as she exhaled a shaky breath.
“This is a dangerous game you’re playing. One you’re not equipped to handle,” he cautioned, his lips grazing the top of her ear. “Is that what this”—he slid his hand from her neck and flicked the white-blond strands of the wig—“is about? You think you can fool me by coming in here with different hair?”
