The Lick Series Boxed Set

by Naima Simone

  “I know I did, baby.” A moan rumbled between them as his other hand lifted and cradled her face. “I have no right to ask you to take a chance. I’ve already been an epic failure in that department. But I need you, lisichka. Punish me, hit me, yell at me, make me pay. But please, don’t walk away from me again. I don’t know if I can let you go. I won’t let you go. I’ll follow.” His pleading transformed into a fiercely uttered vow. “Let me prove to you that you can give me your trust. Your heart. Let me be Ragnar for you,” he whispered.

  “Ragnar isn’t Russian,” she breathed.

  “For you, he can be,” he promised.

  Damn. She felt the moment her heart waved bye-bye and flew into his keeping. She was leaping. God help her, she was leaping out on faith, on trust…on love. Because that emotion she’d refused to label had a big red one slapped across it now. Love. For a man who had turned her world inside out, reshaped it, shattered it, then fused it back together again.

  The weight that had been bearing down on her chest for the past four days disappeared, leaving behind a joy that cleansed her. Buoyed her. Strengthened her.

  “I guess I should go ahead and give in since my father already knows about you,” she said.

  He didn’t back away, didn’t flinch at the mention of Carmine Salvaggi. If possible, she fell even a little more in love with him.

  “Yeah?” he asked, shifting closer to her, his thighs bracketing hers.

  “Yes. I saw him yesterday to ask him to make you and the club off-limits to the family. He didn’t go into it, but he’s probably wondering why I would go to bat for a man I’ve never introduced him to.” She smiled. “Be prepared for a phone call.”

  “You did that for me, lisichka?” He lowered his head, gently stroked his lips across hers. “Why? You didn’t have to.”

  “Yes, I did. And I’ll do it again.” She curled her fingers around the lapels of his coat, fisting the material and dragging him closer. “You can protect me, but I’m protecting you right back.”

  “Only you, lisichka.” Sasha pressed his mouth to hers in a hard kiss. “There’s only you for me.”

  “Prove it,” she murmured against his lips.

  “Anything. Just ask.”

  “Well…” She grinned. “There’s a broom closet down the hall…”

  “Come on.” He backed up, grabbed her hand, and was dragging her down the hall before she could finish her sentence.

  She laughed, running to keep up with his long stride.

  Life, wherever it would take them and for however long, would never be boring with her Russian.

  And she couldn’t wait.

  Acknowledgments

  To my heavenly Father. Thank you for your bottomless well of creativity that You so unselfishly pour into me. Not one book would be possible without you, and I love you for never leaving me dry.

  To Gary. Thank you for taking that leap of faith that allowed me to pursue a dream. Every hero has a piece of you in them—your strength, generosity, integrity, and of course, awe-inspiring love.

  To Debra Glass. First, thank you for never flinching at any question I ask you. LOL!! And second, thank you for being such an awesome friend, critique partner, mentor, and sounding board.

  To Jessica Lee and Dahlia Rose. Without you two keeping me on track and encouraging me, this book would’ve taken twice as long to write! LOL! Between the writing challenges, LOTR references, GIFs, and cookies, I foresee more books in our future.

  To Liz, Heather, Brenda, Curtis, and Debbie for your support and hard work for the Scorched line, and me, personally. I’m truly humbled by your dedication to all of your authors and our books. You guys are simply ah-mazing!

  To Tracy Montoya. I never admitted this, but when I first saw your name in my inbox as my possible editor, I had a serious fan-girl moment. Like an “Oh my God, Tracy Montoya might actually be my editor!!” moment. Because I’d read—and loved—all of your books. And now, my fan-girling hasn’t stopped. As a matter-of-fact, I might be even more of one. Thank you for pushing me to think and write outside of the box. For being my advocate and cheerleader while still never letting me get lazy. My mom is still working on your cape and leotard… :)

  To the Saints and Sinners. Thanks for always giving me a hilarious, fun, crazy place to land. Every day is an adventure with you guys, and I love y’all!

  Only for You

  Chapter One

  Grunts. The wet suction of metal slamming into flesh and jerking free. The dark crimson splash of blood. The tangy, wet-penny scent of it heavy in the air.

  The large, meaty fist crashed into Killian Vincent’s jaw, and his head snapped back. He welcomed the hot blaze of pain. Loved it.

  More.

  Another blow to his jaw. A red haze dropped over his vision.

  The clang of a steel door closing. The stygian darkness. The walls and ceiling inching closer…closer…sucking the air from his lungs. “I can’t breathe. I’m going to die…”

  He shot his arm out, the swing a bit wild, a lot desperate. But accurate. Bone connected with his knuckles, transmitting a jagged, almost pleasurable vibration up his arm, into his shoulder.

  Yes. More.

  His opponent, probably some frat boy slumming it for shits and giggles, grinned. “What’s the matter, bitch?” he sneered, flashing a cocky smile that had probably cost his parents thousands. “You look a little tired there. Not used to having your ass kicked?”

  Less talk. More punching. As long as flesh connected with flesh and pain white-washed thought, the memories didn’t choke him.

  He cranked his jaw from side to side, then ducked the fist flying toward his throat. Killian slammed his own into the preppy, wannabe badass’s kidney. The fresh meat doubled over, and Killian jacked up his knee, ramming it into the guy’s face. Blood spurted, splattering Killian’s skin and the dirty cement floor of the abandoned Boston warehouse. The crowd surrounding the makeshift ring roared, the sight of so much blood rousing them into a fury. But Killian backed off, balancing on the soles of his booted feet.

  C’mon, man. Fight, he silently urged the preppy. The demons in his head hadn’t quieted yet, though their noise had muted some since the fight began. But not completely.

  The guy stumbled backward, dropping his guard and clutching his bleeding nose. Growling, Killian advanced and let loose with a flurry of punches to the abdomen, chest, and finally, to the jaw. The other man dropped to the ground, his head bouncing hard off the crimson-spattered cement.

  Get up, damn it. He wasn’t ready to call it quits. This bout hadn’t lasted nearly long enough. The memories still lurked in his head, flickered in the shadows.

  When the preppy didn’t move after several long moments, Killian strode out of the makeshift ring in disgust. When the asshole eventually came to, it was going to be a long, painful ride back to Beacon Hill or whatever rich part of Boston he’d traveled from.

  The yells and shouts of the hyped-up crowd rose to a deafening din, bouncing off the bare walls of the warehouse. Men in business suits or jeans and T-shirts. Women in short, designer dresses or cutoffs and skimpy tops. Rich, poor, black, white, gay, straight. Watching one man beat the shit out of the other was equal opportunity entertainment.

  Killian ignored them all, pushing through the mob of bodies. They parted for him, but more than a few women grabbed at his arms or stroked a hand over his chest, grazing his nipple piercing. If he stopped, they would all issue the same invitation: Want to fuck? Some of the women came to these things specifically to ball a fighter. But none of them interested him.

  Not that he wasn’t down to screw.

  Fighting and fucking… They were the only things that quieted the incessant drone buzzing under his skin and the memories clawing at the inside of his skull.

  “Vincent.” The harsh, smoke-blackened voice halted him as he snatched up the T-shirt he’d dumped in the back corner before his fight.

  Glancing at Rick Lester, the organizer of these underground f
ights, Killian dragged his shirt over his head before answering. “Yeah.”

  “You keep knocking ’em out that quick, people get disgruntled about not getting their money’s worth. And it’s becoming hard to find someone to go up against you.”

  Killian shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re getting at. I’m not taking a dive for anyone. So get better opponents.”

  Even in the dark warehouse, Rick’s eyes gleamed like the sly ferret he resembled. “Tomorrow night. I can line you up with Ben Trainor. What’d you say? You up for it?”

  Ben Trainor. The man had a reputation for being brutal, merciless. Known for fighting dirty.

  Perfect.

  “Yeah. I’ll be here,” Killian growled.

  Half an hour later, a roll of cash in his pocket, he handed his keys to a valet and looked up at the huge, converted brick warehouse that dominated most of the block in Boston’s upscale Leather District.

  Lick.

  The club he and his best friends, Rion Ward and Sasha Merchant, owned together. The three of them had come from nothing—broken homes, screwed-up parents, the Irish mob. Through jail, getting shot…and worse…they’d survived and finally escaped a world that would’ve eventually left them dead or back in the hell also known as prison. Now they were legitimate businessmen, owners of Boston’s newest and most exclusive aphrodisiac club. They were their own men, their loyalty to no one but each other and the two new women in Rion and Sasha’s lives.

  Anger, bright and hot, flared inside him as he turned into the side alley bordering Lick. Women and loyalty. Not his strong suit. Being narced out to the cops by one didn’t foster trust.

  Unlocking a steel door, he stepped inside a tiny, dimly lit vestibule. Like every night, sweat popped out on his forehead, neck, and arms. His chest constricted, as if a vice grip slowly tightened and tightened, compressing the air out of his lungs. Gritting his teeth so hard, his jaw twinged in protest, he punched in a five-digit code on the lit pad next to the second door. As soon as the light flashed green, he pushed through, entering his office with a loud expulsion of breath, followed by a greedy gulp of air.

  He stood still on the other side of the entrance, eyes closed, hands curled into fists at his sides. In. Out. In. Out. He drew air in his nostrils, blew it out through his mouth until his body relaxed, and bit by bit, the panic eased its claws out of his psyche.

  The two doors with the coded entry were added security measures, but goddamn, every night, he suffered a measure of hell just to enter the building.

  Fucking claustrophobia.

  Opening his eyes, he rolled his shoulders back and cracked his knuckles. The blissed-out moments the fight had given him were already ebbing. Growling, he stalked to his office bathroom, showered quickly, and changed into a black, long-sleeved shirt and black pants. With efficient movements, he swiped a rubber band off his desk and gathered his dark, shoulder-length hair into a bun at the back of his head.

  A knock sounded at the door, and a glance at the bank of monitors on the far wall revealed who stood on the other side. He crossed the room and pressed a button on the underside of his desk, and the lock disengaged. Sasha Merchant entered the office, his blue-gray gaze locating Killian and scanning him from head to toe, pausing on the small bruise he felt darkening along his cheekbone. Wasn’t the first, wouldn’t be the last.

  “You should see the other guy,” Killian drawled. A cliché, but, in this case, definitely true.

  Sasha grunted, striding across the room. “You just getting in?”

  “Yeah.” Killian scrubbed a hand over his chin and jaw, hair bristling against his palms. He’d passed five o’clock shadow about twenty-four hours ago. Narrowing his eyes, he studied the other man. Noted the taut set of his shoulders, the grim set of his mouth. “Why? Is something wrong?”

  Rion and Sasha understood Killian’s need to fight, to release the tension, ease the noise. They didn’t give him shit the two or three nights he arrived at Lick after the doors had opened. In charge of security, Killian had hired a professional and skilled team, and they were more than capable of handling any issue that arose in his absence. Still, if Sasha was in Killian’s office—instead of out in the club or up in The Loft—wearing an expression that promised an ass-beating, then there was a problem.

  “What is it?” Killian asked again, bracing himself for anything from drug dealers in the club, to overzealous guests trying to snap pictures of celebrity guests in the VIP lounges, to reporters sneaking in and trying to sniff out rumors about a “sex club.”

  Not that the rumors were false, but they didn’t need the press hounding the clientele who paid obscenely for discretion and privacy. The second level of Lick—The Loft—offered a safe haven for certain members to indulge in and enjoy their particular desires and fetishes. And the last thing those members wanted—or Killian, Rion, and Sasha needed—were photographs and articles written in detail about the aphrodisiac club on the second floor of Lick.

  Sasha nodded toward the monitors behind them. “Pull up the camera behind bar two.”

  A sense of dread rose in his chest as he turned around and faced the console behind his desk. With a few taps on the keyboard, he brought up the live feed from the cameras behind one of the long, glass bars that dominated each side of the converted warehouse.

  “The one on the far end near the dance floor,” Sasha instructed.

  Another tap, and a view of one of their registers, Point Of Sale systems, and bartenders filled the screen. For several long seconds, he scrutinized the images. The bartender filled glasses and rang up drink orders. She didn’t pocket money or over-pour alcohol. So she wasn’t who or what Sasha needed him to see.

  Killian shifted his attention to the people filling every available space around the bar. Guy with too much gel and obviously too little game chatting up a woman who wore a frown that practically screamed “kill me now.” Two women sipping cocktails and giggling together. Hmm. They appeared a little on the young side. He needed to have their IDs double-checked to ensure they were actually twenty-one. Another group of women gathered in a tight semi-circle. One, a blonde who seemed vaguely familiar, tipped her head back, laughing. The dark-haired woman on the right lifted her head, smiling directly into the camera…

  Holy. Fuck.

  The hair was longer, the makeup more understated than he remembered. But those lips. Goddamn, those lips. They hadn’t changed, and he could still easily recall how they were slow to smile, but when they did, the sight had filled him like helium in a balloon, lifting him higher and higher. How they opened so willingly for his tongue, for his kiss.

  And the eyes. Christ. Those deep, heavily lashed, purple eyes had glittered in anger, shined in laughter, darkened with lust, and gleamed with love.

  Or so he’d thought. The love had been a lie. A cruel, fucked-up lie.

  No, regardless of the different length of hair and amount of makeup, he knew that face.

  It was the face of the woman who’d once owned every piece of his heart.

  The woman who had betrayed him, sent him to hell, and damn near destroyed him.

  Chapter Two

  Sometimes hanging with the girls for a night out was just the thing needed to lift a person’s spirits.

  Gabriella James tipped her bottle of Sam Adams to her mouth and drank deeply, throwing a glance at her cackling, tipsy cousins. She swallowed a sigh along with another gulp of beer.

  Then sometimes a person just wanted to sit at home with a bowl of M&M’s and the latest season of Game of Thrones playing on DVD. Alone. Well, except for her beloved Tyrion. Between him and The Hobbit’s Thorin Oakenshield, she’d so be the filling in that dwarf sandwich.

  But after being away from home for almost five years, she would’ve been a Debbie Downer to reject her cousin and sister-in-law’s invitation to treat her to a few celebratory drinks. Gabrielle snorted. These bitches had passed “a few” about three tequila shots and a raunchy twirl on the dance floor ago. They were well on their
way to fucked up—which left Gabriella, with her two beers, the designated driver.

  Fuuuun.

  Still, she couldn’t completely blame a guilt trip on her reason for being in the packed converted warehouse. Curiosity and masochism comprised the other 75 percent.

  Curiosity about the seemingly popular club that hadn’t existed when she’d left Boston all those years ago.

  And masochism because she’d come here hoping to catch a glimpse of its owner.

  One of its owners anyway.

  She should’ve known nothing—not less-than-stellar beginnings, jail, or the Irish mob—would’ve separated Rion Ward, Sasha Merchant, or Killian Vincent.

  Killian.

  The familiar ache in her chest pulsed a bright, neon red at just the mental whisper of his name. The man she’d loved from the first time she’d laid eyes on him at nineteen years old, when he’d stalked into her uncle’s bar on her first night—illegally—serving drinks. The man she’d never stopped loving.

  The man who hated her.

  Not that she blamed him. After all, she’d ratted him out to the police. He’d been arrested. Had ended up going to jail.

  Yeah, Killian despised her for betraying him.

  Didn’t matter that she’d committed the unforgivable sin to save his life.

  She lifted the bottle to her mouth and sipped the beer without tasting it. The mundane actions offered her something else to concentrate on rather than an ill-fated love, but did nothing for the nerves twisting in her belly. She huffed out a silent, humorless chuckle. Pathetic. She was apparently pathetic and stupid as well as into emotional self-flagellation.

  One would think she’d learned her lesson about dreams coated in the glitter of gullibility and youthful, foolish optimism. Blissful couples with their happily ever afters belonged in places like Chestnut Hill and Newton with their gorgeous mansions, obscenely large salaries, and carefully manicured lawns and lives. They definitely didn’t apply to dive bar waitresses, sometimes bartenders, and their mobbed-up boyfriends from South Boston who barely earned enough to cover rent for a cramped one-bedroom apartment. Hell, her mother, with her many boyfriends and rare moments of happiness, had proven that. Why had Gabriella believed she would be any different?