The Lick Series Boxed Set

by Naima Simone

  “No,” she breathed. “It’s my way of convincing you to let me stay.” She paused, her heart pounding out a hard bass rhythm. “With you.”

  He went still behind her, and she stiffened as well, bracing herself for his rejection. And when his hands disappeared from her body, a punch of disappointment almost wilted her. Almost convinced her this fool’s errand was just that—foolish. But as fast as the sense of defeat appeared, she slammed the door on it. No, she wasn’t giving up that easily.

  “Look—”

  “Quiet,” he bit out, before he reached around her, plucked her drink from her hand, and firmly set it on the bar top. “That’s on me,” he informed the bartender, who didn’t even pretend not to be an avid spectator.

  With a palm to the small of her back, he guided her away from the bar and cut a path through the thick crowd with an ease that resulted from respect, power, or fear—probably all three in his case. He strode alongside her, his big body providing a barrier of sorts between her and everyone else. That small act of chivalry, even as he probably planned on throwing her ass out of the club, had her stomach fluttering.

  He led her to the other side of the club and around the second bar to an unmarked door. After opening it, he waved her into the room, and as she brushed past him, her shoulder grazed his hard chest. Good Lord. If just that simple touch had a maelstrom of sparks dancing over her skin, she would be reduced to ashes by the end of the night…if he agreed to her plan. No, when, when he agreed.

  He flipped the light switch next to her head, and a quick glance revealed that they stood in an office. She scanned the large desk, big armchairs, and filing cabinets before settling back on the Russian who waited patiently for her to refocus on him. Well, she amended, meeting his narrowed gaze, maybe not so patiently.

  “I don’t know what—” he snarled.

  “What’s your name?” she blurted.

  “What?”

  “What’s your name?” she repeated. “I’m tired of calling you the Russian or Ragnar in my head, so I just wanted to know…” Oh shit. She sounded like a babbling idiot, but damn it, with him, she couldn’t find her off button.

  He stared at her, his shuttered expression and inscrutable scrutiny concealing none of his thoughts. “Ragnar isn’t Russian,” he said flatly.

  “Yeah, I know, but well, you’re big like him. Blond. Then there are the eyes, and the—”

  “Sasha,” he ground out, interrupting what would’ve been a humiliating tangent about the similarities between him and the legendary Viking. “Sasha Merchant.”

  Sasha. She mentally rolled the name around on her tongue. It fit him. Exotic. Strong. Sensual. Especially when spoken in that dark, rumbling voice with the faint accent. She hadn’t been able to shake that sex-and-ice voice from her head last night; it’d whispered in her ear when she’d finally managed to sleep, repeating every dirty, hot thing he’d uttered to her.

  Do you want me to play with your pussy?

  Do I suck you off, or do I finger-fuck you?

  That voice was a temptation. It was sin. A weapon lethal to every woman between the ages of sixteen and dead.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Sasha,” she murmured, stretching her hand toward him. When he aimed a pointed glance down at her extended arm, she dropped it, rubbing her palms against her leather-clad thighs. “Right. We met already.” Holy Mary, mother of God, when did she transform into one of the dimwitted bimbos that, according to one of the papers, her father “kept” in his downtown condo?

  “What are you doing here, and what does the wig have to do with it?” He sneered at the word “wig” as if it offended him.

  She surreptitiously patted the hair piece, making sure it was on straight. “Last night you told me I was too recognizable.” Actually, he’d said she was naïve to think she wouldn’t be recognized. And he’d followed that up with her being a liability to the club he couldn’t afford. God, that had stung. “So I figured wearing this”—again she touched the platinum strands—“would be the solution to that problem.”

  “Not when the problem is you being here in the first place. And you really believe changing your hair color is enough to conceal your identity?” He edged closer, his wolf gaze hooded, the corner of his hard but carnal mouth lifting into a half smile that held no trace of amusement. “Yes, lisichka, your hair is distinctive, but you can’t hide those tits or that ass. Any man with a dick and eyes would recognize them. And I’ve touched both.” He reached out, smoothed the pad of his thumb over her eyebrow, her cheekbone, the line of her jaw. “Did you really think I wouldn’t know you?” he asked, his hand falling away.

  She couldn’t speak—not at first. Lust had vaporized her voice like fire evaporated water into steam. No one had ever spoken to her so…so frankly. And definitely not so sexually. A man didn’t dare stare too long at Carmine Salvaggi’s daughter, much less comment on her “tits and ass.” It should’ve been offensive… But, God help her, it wasn’t. Instead of stirring disdain or disgust, he—his boldness, his stunning sexuality, even the hardness that hinted at the capability of cruelty—ignited an unfamiliar heat so deep inside her, her sex clenched around the phantom ache. And then there had been the tenderness of his touch that had belied the carnality of his words. The man had her reeling. Confused. And so turned-on she ached.

  “I wasn’t trying to hide from you,” she explained, flattening her palms on the wall behind her. “I wanted to find you.”

  He stilled, and the sharp angles and lines of his face could’ve been carved from the ice of his homeland. “What game are you playing?”

  He pressed closer, like last night, placing his hands on either side of her head, caging her between the wall and his big body. His scent reached out to her, and she inhaled, humming. If he were a scratch ’n’ sniff picture, he would be a cold winter morning in the woods with the sun spilling through naked branches. Earthy. Crisp. Fresh. And damn if it didn’t make her hungry.

  He pinched her chin, tilted her head back to meet his piercing stare. “Why. Are. You. Here?”

  Impatience clipped each of those words, and she ordered herself to focus on his demand and not on how his firm hold had her swallowing back a moan. Because she suspected her time for explanations was running out.

  “Last night,” she breathed. “I want more of what you gave me last night.”

  Slowly, he straightened. Took a step back. Away from her.

  A stab of panic speared her, and she almost moved forward to reclaim the distance he’d placed between them. But caution, instinct—or that burst of embarrassment that pulsed through her at his rejection—glued her back to the wall.

  “That was a mistake, and I already explained why you shouldn’t be here.”

  “Because I’m bad for business. Got that,” she said, unable to prevent her bitterness from creeping in. “Having the daughter of a crime boss as a patron really taints the image of your sex club.”

  “What do you want me to say? That it doesn’t? You bring attention and possibly a crowd that we don’t need.” His cold, matter-of-fact tone felt like a jab to the chest. “You can’t change who you are.”

  “I’m Corrine,” she said, a surge of desperation rushing through her. Regardless of who her father had been revealed to be, she was the same person—her own person. Yes, she was a daughter, but she was also a sports fanatic, a best friend, a woman who hungered for more out of life than preparing big family dinners and being somebody’s wife and mother. She was a woman who not only wanted to live but had a right to be free of predestined boxes and condemnation. She feared people would forget that…feared she would forget. So she pushed off the wall, closing the space between her and Sasha, not stopping until the toes of her boots nudged his shoes. She tilted her head back and met that glacial stare. Lowered her voice, ordering, “Say it.”

  Something dark, fierce, and breath-snatching flared in his wolf eyes. Something a wiser person would’ve heeded and backed away from. But it didn’t frighten her; it raz
ed her inhibitions to the ground. Emboldened her. Empowered her. Even when his jaw clenched and a tiny muscle ticked along the sharp line like a warning, she stood her ground, held his gaze.

  “Corrine,” he growled, sending shivers tumbling head over ass down her spine. Triumph and satisfaction weaved through her veins. This must be what a lion tamer experienced when one of those great cats obeyed him. Like he’d harnessed a power and strength that could turn on him and ravage him at any second. But for the moment, the predator—the hunter—was hers to control.

  And this beautiful, wild, dangerous wolf was hers.

  “Be careful, lisichka,” he softly cautioned, as if reading her mind.

  But the warning only goaded her. Swaying forward, she brushed against him—Christ, was all that…? Moisture fled from her mouth as lust twisted in her sex.

  “You want me,” she said, repeating the caress, harder this time, telling him with her body that she already knew the answer. She shifted closer, allowing her breasts to touch him, and biting back a whimper at the contact. Her nipples tightened just short of the point of pain, and the flesh between her legs spasmed, hungry to be filled. Now or never. Closing her eyes, because newfound courage only went so far, she rose on her tiptoes and grazed his chin with her lips. “This is your fault,” she whispered. “Before I walked in here last night, sex was something I could take or leave. It was okay, not a big deal. Then you interfered and turned it into something I can’t stop thinking of. Something I’m so hungry for, I ache. You tied me up, put your hands on me, inside me. Put your mouth on my nipples, sucked me.” She paused, squeezed her eyes shut tighter. “Fucked me,” she continued, her voice a hoarse rendition of itself. “You did more with your fingers, brought me more pleasure, left me aching and throbbing even hours later, than any other man has with his cock. I’ve never screamed during sex. Ever. But you made me. Over and over.” A shudder rippled through her, and she clutched the band of his slacks like a lifeline. “Don’t you want to see if you can make me scream again?”

  Her harsh pants reverberated in the small room like mini blasts. God, she’d turned herself on—or up. She’d ratcheted the dial on her need from greedy to ravenous.

  “Open those gorgeous eyes,” Sasha rasped. “Look at me when you say things guaranteed to get my dick in your mouth.”

  She complied—unable not to—and damn, why didn’t second-degree burns cover her skin from the unholy flames lighting his eyes? More than ever, he reminded her of the Russian animal renowned for bringing down its quarry with stealth and speed. Except, she wasn’t running. She wanted, needed, to be taken down.

  “You don’t even know what you’re asking for.” He cupped the back of her neck, keeping her on her toes, his awe-inspiring strength supporting her. For a second, doubt slithered through her. Did she know what she asked for, inviting him to unleash all that power on her? “Do you make a habit of offering yourself to men you know nothing about? You have no idea what I’m capable of. Where I would lead you. What I would do to this pretty body. Last night, I tied you up. Tonight, maybe I would push you to your knees, fuck those beautiful breasts and make you suck my cock at the end of every stroke. Or maybe I’ll eat you while you swallow me… Maybe I would let people watch while you took me. That’s the kind of sex I have, Corrine. Are you ready for that?”

  “I’ve heard…” She paused, hesitant to flip on Tara. “Rumors. About a separate club upstairs. I’m not afraid. As long as it’s you.”

  “You don’t know me,” he ground out the reminder.

  “I trust you.” At his growl, she shook her head—well, shook it as best as she could, considering he still gripped her neck. “I do. I can’t really explain why, but I do. Possibly because you’re trying to convince me to walk away from this club, from you, when any other man would’ve probably had me stripped and spread wide already.” She huffed out a breath and dropped her gaze from his, settling on his chin. “Then again, it could be because I believed the way you made me feel was a myth. Like the Loch Ness Monster, Bigfoot…masked vigilantes dressed like bats.”

  Inside, she cringed. Even now, he could make her babble nonsense. But she’d meant every word. No man had ever made her feel that if she didn’t have her hands on him in zero-point-five seconds, she would lose her mind as well as her panties. Until he’d uttered those filthy words in her ear and wrapped his belt around her wrists, she hadn’t even been aware she could burn.

  Several moments passed, the only sound the throbbing of heavy bass seeping into the room from the club. The silence, especially after her confession, grated over her skin like fingernails against her emotional chalkboard.

  “Batman isn’t a myth,” he pointed out in that logical way he had.

  “He’s make-believe,” she countered.

  “If I let you stay, you follow my rules,” he stated, and the lightning-fast switch in subject had her mentally hurrying to catch up. “You’re my guest, and you’re safe, but if I tell you to jump, you do it. Don’t even stop to ask how high. And this remains a secret. However you came here tonight, find another way. No one can know you’re here. Not your friends, not the press, and definitely not your family. The moment anyone does, this ends. Understand?”

  “Yes,” she breathed, triumph rushing through her with the strength of a flash flood. Triumph and relief. She was okay with his terms—more than okay. This thing had “temporary” stamped all over it, with an expiration date penciled in right under it. With everything happening in her life, all she had room for was “temporary.”

  “All right.” He released her, his hand stroking down her spine before dropping away. “One last thing then.”

  His mouth slammed down over hers.

  Shock encased her in its icy grip, and for a second, she couldn’t do anything but gasp. But her lack of response didn’t deter him. He thrust his tongue between her parted lips and without the least bit of hesitation—as if this were their hundredth kiss instead of the first—tangled his with hers.

  God, heat. Such heat.

  It melted her paralysis, and with a groan, she melted. Opening her mouth wider, she met him stroke for stroke, lick for lick, pull for pull. Wet, hungry, and raw. A clash of tongues, lips, teeth, and moans. It was more battle than dance—a battle for dominance, for submission. He cocked his head to the side, delved deeper inside, demanding she hold nothing back from him. She didn’t. Couldn’t. And she commanded the same from him. Jesus. Not only did he stir an unprecedented lust in her but a wildness that she hadn’t known existed. A feminine strength she hadn’t realized she wanted.

  Power that was addictive.

  Sasha lifted his head, and his hooded gaze was damn near slumberous, his damp lips kiss-swollen. Because of her.

  Wow.

  “Follow me,” he said, and the hard inflection made a shiver of anticipation ripple through her. Anticipation and just a bit of trepidation.

  Because as she trailed behind him out of the office, she once again questioned if she knew what she doing…

  And the answer was a resounding no.

  Chapter Four

  What part of “you bring attention we don’t need” did his dick not understand? Sasha wondered as he strode through the packed club, his palm resting on the rounded hip of the woman he should’ve been escorting to the club’s exit.

  Not just attention from the press, although having their business linked with a crime boss currently on trial for murder and racketeering wasn’t the kind of publicity they were after. Not for Lick or The Loft. Their clientele counted on anonymity. But as annoying as reporters could be, the attention he feared most was from the family her father headed. All Sasha, Rion, and Killian needed was to land on the mob’s radar as another business to try and extort or horn in on. Corrine—and his association with her—would be the perfect inroad for them. And for Sasha, it would be the slippery slope into a world he had climbed and clawed his way out of.

  Yet, acknowledging this, he’d still given in to her. Was still leading h
er toward the entrance to The Loft. Was still imagining how many different ways he could make her scream. Fuck. Like so many men before him, he was allowing his Johnson to hijack his logic. And that shit had worked out so well for Anthony and Cleopatra, David and Bathsheba, Henry the VIII and Anne Boleyn…

  A secret. If he kept her presence at the club as well as his involvement with her on the down low, then he could have her.

  Let her have him.

  His cock jerked against his zipper, lust punching him in the gut. An innocence that had nothing to do with virginity emanated from her like a beacon; he should be afraid that the baba yaga, the Russian bogeywoman his mother warned him about as a child, would be after his ass for even contemplating corrupting Corrine. But under that purity beat the heart of a siren. Worse, a curious, trusting siren who was awakening and just starting to comprehend the power she wielded. A power that made him want to conquer and submit. Claim and surrender. Mark and be marked…

  Clenching his jaw, he nodded at one of their security personnel before rounding an L-shaped wall that separated a private section from the rest of the club. An ornate wall lamp provided a low glow, but he didn’t need its illumination. Glancing over his shoulder to ensure Corrine stood behind him, he pressed a hand to the keypad on the wall, and a click echoed in the space. A lock disengaged an instant before a door cracked with a pressurized hiss.

  “Jinkies,” she whispered. Jinkies? The jolt of amusement caught him off guard—but whether it was her nervous prattling, her honest, hushed confessions, or her bold propositions, most of what Corrine said caught him off guard. Turning in the doorway, he arched an eyebrow. And waited. Even in the dim lighting, he caught the color splashing across her high, elegant cheekbones. Her lips—lips that had damn near coaxed the cum from his cock with her kiss—curved into a small, trembling smile. “Scooby-Doo,” she explained. “Y’know, mysterious door in the wall of the spooky house. The only thing missing is a ghostly hand appearing and making a grab for us…”