by Naima Simone
“Your man did good, didn’t he?” Her cousin, Janelle, nudged Gabriella’s arm, nearly knocking her beer out of her hand. The tipsy blonde’s Long Island Iced Tea fared just fine, though.
“He’s not my man,” Gabriella murmured, not bothering to pretend she didn’t know to whom her cousin referred. For two years, he had been the axis her world revolved on. There wasn’t any point in denying it now. “And yes,” she added, switching her bottle to the opposite hand and out of Janelle’s reach. “This is nice.”
And wasn’t that the understatement of the millennia? Lick… Lick was nothing short of amazing. She surveyed the walls of exposed brick with its sensual, framed black-and-white photographs, the two glass and chrome bars with their impressive stocks of top-shelf alcohol. She’d worked as a bartender in one of the trendiest and hottest clubs in Los Angeles before returning home and recognized the cost of the premium alcohol they offered. But from the sheer number of people jockeying for rare space around the bars, gyrating on the dance floors, and crowding every available table, chair, and red and blue couch, she supposed the club could afford every luxury item she’d glimpsed. From the liquor, to the DJ she recognized as one of the most talented and in-demand in the country, to the cordoned-off VIP lounges with their crimson drapes and celebrity faces.
Pride burst inside her like a bright, colorful firework. Jamie Hughes, head of the Irish mob’s notorious O’Bannon gang, had only seen Killian as a pair of fists to torture those poor souls who’d been stupid enough to fall on the mob boss’s bad side by not paying up on loans or gambling debts. But Killian—big, brooding, quiet—had been so much more. Loyal, insightful, incisive, and brilliant. It’d been that man she’d fallen so hard in love with, even though he’d been a mob enforcer when she’d first met him. No, that part of his life had scared her—she’d hated it—but for the man she adored, she’d been willing to love him out of it, offer him a glimpse of a future with her, marriage…a family. She’d accepted that there’d been this anger that had always simmered just under his skin. Given his rough childhood and history, she’d understood. She’d also acknowledged that he could be volatile and so stubborn…which had led to the decision that had shattered them forever.
But still…this place.
Yeah, Killian had definitely “done good.”
What she’d always hoped and desired for him.
“Nice? That’s all you got is nice?” Even in her inebriated state, Janelle seemed to read Gabriella’s mind. “Gabby, I think the west coast might have jaded you. This right here,” she flung an arm wide, the expansive gesture including the interior of the club, “is the shish,” she slurred.
“Right,” Gabriella drawled. “The shish.” Goddamn it, if Janelle couldn’t even pronounce “shit”, Gabriella was going to be pouring her cousin into her car. She gave the two women another half hour, tops. Then she was dragging them out the front door, even if it had to be by their hair. Hell, it wouldn’t be the first time.
Besides, she glanced down at her watch, it was already 11:45, and she hadn’t caught a glimpse of Killian. Maybe he wasn’t here tonight. And maybe she should just count her blessings and cut her losses… She wasn’t even certain what her plan or goal had been coming here tonight. Get a peek at him, then make a break for the door, not returning for another five years? Seek him out, say “hi,” and hope he wouldn’t have her ass kicked out of the club? Either option ended up with her leaving skid marks on the sidewalk.
Yep, cutting her losses was sounding better and better.
She remained planted on the barstool.
“And who are you looking for?” Janelle sing-songed, poking Gabriella in the arm, giggling.
“Oh, you already know the answer to that question,” her sister-in-law, Wendy, piped up from the other side of her cousin. “You don’t really think she came out here just for us, do you?” She smirked, arching an eyebrow high. Damn. Gabriella should’ve remembered her sister-in-law always released the reins on her inner mean girl when drunk. Wendy snickered. “If you knew what your man’s been up to, I don’t think you’d be so gung ho to see him.”
Ignoring the urge to shout “He’s not my man!” and give the women more ammunition, she instead focused on the last part of the comment. “What are you talking about, what he’s been up to?” A sliver of unease slipped between her ribs. Didn’t this club mean Killian had gone legit? Was out of the mob?
Again, Wendy laughed, the edge to it a clear warning Gabriella wasn’t going to appreciate the other woman’s answer. “Aside from tearing up the underground fighting scene, rumor has it that Killian Vincent has been”—she paused, grinned—“tearing up the sheets, too. Like, hard.”
Pain stabbed Gabriella like a hot poker straight to the heart. It’d been five years since they’d been together—of course he hadn’t been a monk. He didn’t owe her any loyalty. She had firsthand knowledge to how “hard” in the bedroom—or in the kitchen, or the living room, or a dark corner in the storeroom of her uncle’s bar—Killian could be. He’d introduced Gabriella to an eroticism she’d never experienced…and hadn’t since him. He’d been the first to push her sexual limits, teach her how the bite of pain could intensify pleasure, heighten it. Been the first to take her ass and make her love it. Crave it.
The first…and the last.
“Wendy,” Janelle hissed. “Shut up.”
“What?” Wendy held up the hand not holding a drink, widening her eyes. “If she sticks around long enough, she’ll hear the gossip, too. Besides, we’re family, so she should hear it from us.”
Janelle shoved her face into Wendy’s, their noses almost bumping. “It’s none of our bus—”
“Be right back. Bathroom.” Gabriella launched off her stool before either woman could object or offer to come along. Space, she needed some space. From the cattiness. From the memories of her and Killian. From the images of Killian and other, faceless women.
As if the hounds of hell snapped at her heels—including one wearing Wendy’s features and containing a knowing, leering gleam in its glowing, red eyes—Gabriella weaved a path through the crush of bodies toward the back of the club and the restrooms. She checked the urge to pull a Hulk, smash! and, gritting her teeth, steadily continued forward, her focus centered on the Exit sign at the rear of the warehouse. As she skated across the dance floor, someone bumped into her shoulder, almost knocking her over.
“Damn,” she mumbled, quickly righting herself before turning and glaring a fist-sized hole into the back of the offender’s head. Not that the guy seemed to care or notice that he’d almost made her ass meet the floor. “What a jerk…”
Her voice trailed off as a door on the far wall opened, and a tall, wide figure stepped out. Shadows and distance obscured his face, but that didn’t stop a low hum of electricity from entering her body. That current hadn’t sizzled in her blood in five years. She waited, feet rooted to the floor. A stampede of people could come crashing toward her, but she wasn’t moving. Not until she saw his face. Not until she knew for certain…
Oh God.
Killian.
Her heart pummeled her chest, like a beast trying to fight its way free of its cage. Thunder crashed and roared in her ears, deafening her to everything but the harsh rasp of her breath.
She should’ve been prepared—she’d come here hoping to catch a glimpse of him. But God, had she been naive. Nothing could’ve equipped her for this moment, this first look at this man who had claimed her at the age of nineteen with his particular brand of lust and love. He’d branded her, had seared Mine onto her soul, and time and distance couldn’t change that fact.
It also couldn’t change her body’s ingrained reaction to just the hint of him. The hope of him. The impact of him.
Desire thickened and slid through her veins like hot, delicious molasses, swelling her breasts, tightening her nipples, before winding south and pooling between her legs. Her chest rose and fell, her breaths already deepening. When was the last time she’d experi
enced that painful but sweet ache? No, she hadn’t been celibate in the years since she’d left Boston, but no man but him had ever incited this throb that rode the razor-sharp edge of pain and bliss. No other man could have her body readying to be stroked, penetrated, and pleasured with just a look.
No man but Killian.
Greedily, she devoured him. The big body that seemed to hum with a vitality and barely leashed frenetic energy—an energy that reached out to her even halfway across a packed warehouse, as illogical as that sounded. The wide shoulders and chest that would’ve had Bill Belichick selling his soul to have on the Patriots’ offensive line. The narrow, taut waist that her fingers had dug into, her thighs had embraced. The thick, muscled legs that reminded her of powerful, marble columns charged with supporting massive structures.
Joy, sadness, and lust wrapped her in their freezing, paralytic embrace. She couldn’t move, could barely breathe as he stalked toward her. Even with his brows jacked down in a fierce, dark vee that sent shivers trampling over her skin, and his mouth firmed in a grim, straight line, she was frozen to the spot. He didn’t slow in his focused, intent stride; he moved forward as if he expected people to scamper out of the way for him…and they did.
God, if she possessed even an ounce of self-preservation, she would cut a path through the crowd and try to shake him before he reached her. But this was what she’d wanted, right? To see him? To maybe talk to him? Indecision swirled inside her, panic tickling the back of her throat. Yet something more eddied low in her belly, pulsed in her clit, heated her deep inside where no man but him had ever touched. Desire. Arousal. Need.
In a club bursting with people, she burned.
And shook. As he closed in on her, she shook like a shock victim. That face. How many nights had that hard, harshly sculpted, beautiful face haunted her? Like a man stumbling upon a banquet after being denied food for years, she hungrily traced the dark slashes of his eyebrows, the sharp thrust of his cheekbones, the lush curves of his mouth, the solid jut of his jawline. At one time, she’d had permission, the freedom to caress that face, to wake up to it. Now… Now, she had to force her hands to remain down by her sides because trying to touch him would be courting danger. Like sticking her hand into the cage of an angry beast.
Ten feet.
Run, fool.
Six feet.
Oh shit, this is not going to end well.
Three…
He didn’t stop. Didn’t pause or speak to her. His hard fingers wrapped around her bicep, his expression merciless, and he pulled her after him. Stunned, she followed him. Not that he was giving her much choice.
His broad shoulders filled her vision, blocking out everything and everyone else. Everything but the tight band of his fingers around her arm. Even through the cotton of her long-sleeved, blue shirt, her skin burned, the heat emanating from that one place to her breasts, nipples, her sex. He was touching her—for the first time in years, Killian was touching her again. Didn’t matter that it was a grip that radiated his disdain. Her body didn’t know the difference…or just didn’t give a damn.
Probably the latter.
Moments later, he stopped in front of a door, jabbed in a code on a mounted pad, and entered a room, tugging her behind him. Almost immediately, his hand dropped away from her as if he regretted even those few seconds of touching her. A click, and then a soft glow bathed the area, and she blinked against it, her eyes taking seconds to adjust after a couple of hours of LED lighting.
A dark brown, leather couch, two big, matching armchairs, and a glass coffee table formed an elegant but comfortable-looking sitting area. A dormant fireplace, wooden mantel, and huge, mounted television dominated the far wall. In the corner sat a cherrywood cabinet with several drawers. More of the photographs that hung in the club appeared in this room as well, the sensual, black-and-white prints adding to the intimate atmosphere.
It appeared to be some kind of private room, probably for the VIPs and celebrities when the upstairs booths weren’t…secluded…enough. She could just imagine what probably went on in here. Just as she could imagine what occupied those cabinet drawers. Top of the list: condoms.
“What is this?” She waved a hand toward the room, smothering the swell of jealousy surging inside her like Old Faithful. Too easily, she could imagine Killian’s big body covering another woman on that over-size couch. The taut muscles of his back and ass flexing as he pressed against her, drove his cock into her. Without any effort at all, she could envision him sprawled in one of those chairs, his hands buried in the hair of the woman kneeling before him, guiding her mouth up and down his dick. Once upon a time, that faceless woman would’ve been her—had been her. “You have a playroom in your nightclub? That walks the tenuous line between hot spot and stripper joint.”
“VIP room,” he corrected from behind her. Paused. “The playrooms are upstairs.”
She should hate him for admitting they did have them. If what Wendy claimed was true, he took full advantage of them. And if he hadn’t delivered the explanation in that low, deep, coarse voice, she might have dwelled on that resentment. But God, the texture of it—gritty, like a road that had been churned up for repair and had just barely been smoothed over—slid over her skin in an almost rough caress. Yet, something was…off…
“Did something happen to your voice?” she asked. Although years had passed since the last time she’d seen his stunning face, inhaled his rich, dark scent, or stroked his hard, sculpted body, she hadn’t forgotten one thing about him. Not the scar that bisected his eyebrow or the mole on his left hip bone, and certainly not his voice. Before it’d been just as deep, as shiver-inducing, as smooth as bourbon—just not so…serrated.
She couldn’t see him, but she didn’t need her eyes to sense him. The same body heat that had blanketed her in bed in his shithole of an apartment reached out to her now, urging her to lean back against him. To let it cover her once more. But she remained straight, because that warmth was no longer hers to indulge in. The body—the man—no longer hers to claim.
“Jail happened to my voice,” he murmured in her ear, the undercurrents of rage swirling in his voice. “Solitary confinement happened to my voice. Any more questions?”
Jail…solitary confinement. Grief and horror at what he must’ve suffered bombarded her with relentless fists. Her fault. Guilt was bitter in her mouth. The accusation radiated from his words; he didn’t need to say it.
“Killian,” she whispered.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he growled, finally circling her and coming to a halt in front of her several feet away. As if he couldn’t stand being too close to her.
“In Boston? Or the club?” she hedged. What the hell had she been thinking coming here? That he would open his arms for her to run into? That he would say all was forgiven and welcome her home? Had she believed time would cool his anger? A part of her had. That whimsical, fanciful, the-glass-shoe-is-a-perfect-fit side that time and the pain of loss hadn’t completely beaten into submission yet.
Staring into his fierce hazel eyes, at the flat line of his mouth, and the tiny tic of a muscle along his jaw, she called herself ten different kinds of idiot for even harboring that small hope. He hated her.
“Either. Both.” He crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze slowly roaming over her. Flames licked everywhere his scrutiny touched. Her mouth, shoulders, breasts, hips, legs. She couldn’t prevent the spike of arousal that lit her up like a flare gun.
“My uncle’s eightieth birthday. The family’s throwing him a party since he’s selling the bar. He asked me to come home for it.” She hadn’t been able to refuse the request of the man who had shown her the only kindness she’d known as a child, even though she was in the middle of the biggest negotiation of her life. In three weeks, she would be opening her own bar after years of tending someone else’s.
But she couldn’t forget all her uncle had done for her, what he’d been to her. When her mother would’ve drafted her into the
world’s oldest profession at eighteen, Uncle Garrett had given her a job in his pub, even though she hadn’t been twenty-one and legally old enough to serve drinks. Still, he’d granted her independence and freedom. With dementia slowly but steadily pilfering his memories, she couldn’t resist coming home. Especially when this might be one of the few times left that he would recognize her.
“My cousin and sister-in-law brought me here tonight.”
Again, that deliberate perusal with those hooded hazel eyes. A tingle of apprehension joined the desire. “And when you agreed to walk in this club, did you know I owned it?”
Lie. A sense of self-preservation screamed at her to lie. Handing him the knowledge that she’d purposefully sought him out would be tantamount to an animal exposing its vulnerable neck to a voracious predator…
“Yes,” she confessed. “I knew.”
“Did you lose your mind in the last five years?” he murmured, cocking his head to the side. “You’d have to be a goddamn fool to return to Boston, much less here, after what you did. And you were a lot of things, Gabriella, but never a fool.”
Gabriella. Not Gabby. She’d never be Gabby for him again.
Gabby had been the woman he’d curled his big body around and held through the night. Gabby had been the woman he’d introduced to the dark ecstasy of dirty, mind-shattering sex. Gabby had been the woman he’d protected, pleasured…loved.
But Gabriella was the woman who’d ratted him out to cops. Had left him with a broken voice and a stone heart… If there was one there at all. For her, at least.
