The Enigma: Unlawful Men Book 2

by Malpas, Jodi Ellen

  I slam the door behind me and take in valuable oxygen, gasping, blinking the fog of fury away. The door quickly swings open behind me. “Beau,” Lawrence says, stepping out and pulling it closed.

  “Do not try to reason with me, Lawrence,” I warn. “He was only here for his own gain. Let’s tell him to take you to the lovely Italian to meet Frazer Cartwright.”

  He looks down, and I immediately feel awful. My father’s approval isn’t something Lawrence should want but somehow needs.

  “I’m sorry,” I sigh, pushing my fingertips into my forehead. Once again, darkness and grief eclipse my soul, every shitty emotion returning full-force and putting me back endless steps. But did I ever truly make progress?

  I need one thing, and one thing only.

  Escape.

  The doors of James’s building are locked when I arrive, and I’m taken aback by it. The calming feeling that was settling as I drove over starts to subside, stress beginning to build. Locked. He’s not here?

  I swallow, tugging on the handles again, pushing back my panic. What will I do? Breathe, Beau. I turn, leaning against the door, feeling at my throat. It’s clogged. Panic. It’s coming. Just breathe.

  I jump a mile when the glass bangs behind me, and I turn, finding Goldie on the other side. Relief. Jesus, it’s overwhelming. She unlocks the door and pushes it open for me, and I walk slowly and quietly past her, not fazed by her steel expression.

  “Not at the opera tonight?” I ask as I come to a stop at the elevator, unable to hold back. I get nothing from her as she taps in the code, no look, no words.

  The doors open, and I step inside, not for the first time wondering what the hell I’m doing. And not for the first time, I laugh at my own stupid question. That threatening panic attack was very real.

  I ride up, pulling myself back together, settling, and when the doors open onto James’s glass box, I scan the space, searching for him. No James. I glance up the stairs, and the faint sounds of music reach my ears.

  London Grammar. What a Way to Lose Your Head.

  I swallow, the irony making my head spin, and drop my purse, taking the stairs, feeling every stress and woe lift from my shoulders the closer I get to him. I follow the music to his bedroom. The door is open, the sound of the shower spray dulled by the beats of the track. I approach slowly, the tiniest part of my brain ordering me to turn and run away from this madness. But the biggest part is willing me on, yelling at me, telling me the only madness in this world is outside of this glass box.

  I stop at the door.

  James is a blur beyond the foggy shower screen. But crystal clear. And the music is louder. I glance up and see speakers dotted across the ceiling, nestled in between the spotlights, which are dim. Moody.

  Calming.

  His hands sweep through his hair, his back rolling, the scars undetectable through the misty glass. He is a perfect way to lose my head. Lose everything. It’s unhealthy. To bury my head in the sand, it has to be unhealthy, because outside of this glass box, the world still exists. It’s still filled with a father who abandoned me, grief for a mom who I lost far too soon, and a crazed agony that sent me to a psychiatric facility at the lowest point of my life. But, while I’m here, while I’m in James’s orbit, I’m not that bereaved woman.

  I’m free. It’s addictive . . . dangerous.

  I’m at its mercy.

  James stills, and then he turns slowly, his head lifting as he does, reaching for the screen and sweeping a hand across it, clearing part of the glass of condensation. His face. Just the sight of him. He radiates power. His persona screams hazard. But beyond every masculine, strong, capable piece of him is a gentleness that’s grown since we met. He knows who I am, what I need, without even knowing.

  Fireworks explode inside of me, my bottom lip trembling. I’m at his mercy.

  He jerks his head, a silent instruction for me to go to him, so I step forward, my hands lifting to the buttons of my shirt, and when I make it to the edge of the enclosure, he reaches out and pulls me in fully clothed. One swift move has me turned, my back up against the tile. He breathes down on me, his eyes roaming every inch of my face. “Is your friend okay?” he asks quietly, nuzzling into my face. My head drops back, giving him access to my neck, and I nod as best I can, instantly out of my mind. He knows damn well there is no friend with man troubles. “Speak soon?” he asks, and I swallow, clenching my eyes closed. “Do you want to speak now?”

  “No,” I reply, my voice thick with need.

  He slips a hand onto my nape and directs my head back down. His eyes harbor a million strands of knowing. “Me neither.”

  His mouth is on mine fast.

  My shirt is ripped open.

  My jeans are wrestled down my legs.

  My panties ripped away.

  And he slams into me with a force so hard, I’m unsure how the tiles don’t crack behind me.

  I scream.

  And it drowns out every other thought plaguing me.

  Just as I planned.

  46

  JAMES

  The relief I feel that she’s here is spilling out of me in the form of anger. I can’t stop it. And by the feel of her nails in my shoulders, she doesn’t want me to, which leaves me wondering what went down at her uncle’s place. Goldie reported Beau’s father was there. She said Beau stormed out. And now she’s here, seeming as stressed as I am.

  And I need to do everything I can to make sure she doesn’t walk away again. I need to ensure she knows that being here, being with me, is her only option. Not only because she’s in danger out there.

  We’re going at each other like animals, our mouths dueling chaotically, our hands grabbing and scratching at each other, my growls primal, hers equally so.

  I spin her and push her front forward into the tile with my body, kicking her feet apart. She cries out, and I bite her wet shoulder. “James,” she yells.

  “No fucking talking, Beau,” I warn, taking my cock and tracing down her arse. “You said no talking.”

  I don’t want this to be rough and hard. I need to give her more of a reason to stay, more than the crazy fucking. Let’s just fuck.

  No.

  I slow the pace and ease into her gently, and she moans to the ceiling. “Hard,” she orders, and I still, submerged, my body shaking with the effort it’s taking not to thrust.

  “What?” I pant, and she rolls her forehead on the tile, her fist balling and pushing into the wall, as if she’s angry with herself.

  “Not soft. I don’t need you being all soft and gentle with me. Not now.”

  Not now? Or not ever? “Why?” I’m trying to locate a harder tone. I’m trying to hold back the fear in me. Yet I can’t avoid the need.

  She doesn’t answer. Because she doesn’t know.

  All I can think about in this moment was our first encounter. The encounter that set the wheels in motion for us. She wants that. And it pisses me off.

  I withdraw, and Beau hits the wall with her fist. “Come with me,” I order, taking her wrist and pulling her out of the shower. The cold air shocks my skin, and with both of us dripping wet, I pull her into my bedroom.

  “What are you doing?” she asks, trying to remove herself from my grip. “James!”

  I stop by the wall and position her by the wooden frame. “Do you want me to stop?” I ask, dipping and taking her nipple in my mouth, rolling my tongue around the solid pebble, her skin chilly.

  “Yes,” she grates, and I pull away, stepping back.

  “You want hard emotionless fucking, do you, Beau?” I ask, wrapping my hand around my dick, working myself back up, my fury intensifying.

  Her eyes drop to my groin. “Yes.” The anger in her clear eyes is satisfying. It mirrors mine.

  “So we have some issues to vent?”

  “Fuck. You.”

  My jaw tightens, and I move in, taking slow, even strides until I’m pushed up against her front. “Do you want me?” I ask quietly, reaching forward and tak
ing a nipple between my thumb and forefinger, squeezing hard. She inhales quickly, her jaw rolling. “Do. You. Want. Me?” I ask again, every word punctuated.

  “Yes.”

  “What for, Beau?”

  “This,” she says as I lower my face, my eyes on hers, and suck her nipple into my mouth. I bite down, and her torso concaves, her arms shooting up to my shoulders.

  “I’m going to drive you insane,” I whisper, pulling a belt off one of the rails. “Lift your hands to the bar.” I sound brusque, impatient. Just how she wants me to be. “I get your point. I understand. So lift your fucking arms.”

  She glares at me. “What’s my point, James?”

  “Need. Except you’re forgetting something, Beau.” I grab her hand and direct it to my dick, making her hold me. And she squeezes. Massages me. I swallow, at her mercy. And isn’t that my fucking point? Her thumb circles the slippery wet, pulsing crown, and my body starts to fold. “You’re not the only one here in need.”

  “I’ve never denied that,” she says quietly.

  “But I’m not the one always walking the fuck away from this, am I? I’m here. Always here.”

  “And yet still an enigma,” she whispers, scanning my eyes. Then she drops my weeping cock and lifts her arms to the suspension rail. “I’m here now. So make the fucking most of it.”

  I wrap her wrists in the belt blindly as I watch her silently goading me. “Don’t fight the bond,” I whisper, and her nostrils flare as I look over her naked, suspended body, casually deciding where to start. She’ll get no respite this evening. There will be no breaks between her orgasms. My eyes fall to the apex of her thighs, and I rest a palm on her skin and start stroking my way up until I’m cupping her. She pulls in a long breath and holds it.

  “No sleep tonight,” I say on a whisper, thrusting a finger into her. She bucks, her face pained, and I glance up to see her strain against the belt as I fuck her gently with two fingers, sweeping wide, stretching her. She’s biting down on her lip, her gaze pure fire. “Everything that happens will happen because I allow it.” I withdraw and wipe my fingers across her lips, spreading her condition across her face before leaning in, getting as close as possible. “It’ll hurt.”

  She absorbs my hard stare and hard words, and slowly lowers her eyes to my lips. Then she leans forward, trying to capture them. I pull away, shaking my head, and she whimpers. She’s regretting it.

  Good.

  I dip and sink my teeth into her breast and my fingers into her pussy, and she screams, bucking and wriggling. She’s felt nothing yet. And unlucky for Beau, she’s only made me angrier with her fucked-up intention of making this work for her. I have no choice but to make it work for me too.

  I take her behind her thighs and lift, and like a man possessed, I pound into her on a guttural bark, impaling her to the hilt, no easing in, no soft approach. I roar, and Beau screams in shock at my ruthless move, her legs dangling lifelessly around my hips. I don’t allow her time to adjust. To accept me. I lift her and yank her back down, over and over, showing her no mercy. Unforgiving. Hard and brutal.

  “James,” she yelps, wrenching and pulling her wrists as I pound on savagely, taking her aggressively. She knows exactly what I’m doing. And she asked me to do it.

  I reach down and take her other boob in my mouth, biting. Marking.

  She comes undone, screaming her way through an orgasm that takes us both by surprise. And the moment she goes limp, I start all over again. “It’s going to be a long night, Beau.” I strain the words, and her drowsy eyes drag open.

  “Stop talking,” she murmurs.

  And I smile. Because even without words, we speak.

  And what we’re saying to each other in this moment is significant.

  Hours. I go for hours, over and over, orgasm after orgasm, my anger fueling my adrenalin. I only stop when she submits. When she asks me to.

  She’s nestled into my shoulder, her teeth sunken into my flesh, virtually asleep. I unravel the bonds with one hand, and then carry her to my bed, laying her exhausted body down gently. I’m beat.

  But I have shit to do.

  Dropping a kiss on her forehead, I cover her naked body and leave the room, stopping in my dressing room to slip on some boxers and grab a black bin bag of clothes, before passing my office to get a phone. When I get downstairs, I dump the sack by the elevator and drop onto the couch, dialing Spittle.

  His hello is tired. Wary. “Tough day?” I ask.

  “They’re still dragging Russians and Serbs out of the cove three years later. I’ve been pulled in to try and identify some of the bodies.”

  “The Marina massacre,” I say thoughtfully.

  “Yeah, Danny Black likes to leave his mark.”

  Likes. I hum as if in agreement, but my head is quickly whirling for other reasons. Reasons I don’t have time for. “Do you have anything for me?”

  “Nothing. All the files on Jaz Hayley’s death have been archived and I can’t access them.”

  “Under lock and key,” I muse. “Convenient.”

  “No, just archived. I’d have to get someone to sign them out, and forgive me, but your interest is making me reluctant.”

  “So you’ve not even tried?”

  “I need more information if I’m going to knowingly expose myself.”

  “Are you forgetting about our dead friend?”

  He laughs, and it gets right under my skin. “How could I? I just heard Wallace is being dragged out of the sea.”

  I smile, knowing I’ll be receiving a call from The Bear very soon. “What is he paying you for?”

  “I . . .” Spittle fades off, and I silently will him to be wise. Be wise or die. “Information.”

  I roll my eyes and shift in my chair, feeling every muscle tug painfully. “On who?”

  He stalls, and I wait patiently for an answer, my mind replaying his earlier fuck-up. Likes. Not liked. Present tense, not past. “Vince Roake.”

  “The Alligator,” I muse.

  “You know him?”

  You could say that. I just killed the bent judge taking his case. “I know everyone.”

  “But no one knows you.”

  It’s time to put him out of his misery. “They know me. But they don’t know me.”

  He inhales and releases the air on two words. Two very fucking powerful words. “The Enigma.”

  “Well done, Agent.” I smile to myself. “Sorry, ex agent.”

  “Jesus.”

  I can see him in my mind’s eye. Sweating. Pacing. Wondering what the fuck he’s got himself into. “Get me that fucking file, Spittle.”

  “Okay,” he breathes. “I’ll try. Is that it? Just the file?”

  “No. I’m going to give you a name and you’re going to find him.”

  “The name?”

  “Brendon Brunelli.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Inmate for two years in London.” I refuse to die until I find that motherfucker. Refuse.

  “London?”

  “You have contacts, I assume.”

  “Fuck me, my life, retirement, was supposed to be easier with The Brit gone.”

  “Sorry to disappoint. I’ll call you.” I hang up and dial Sandy immediately.

  “You played me,” he says in answer. “Well done.”

  “Thanks.” I slide the remote control from my desk and turn on the screens. Sandy’s face greets me. “Looking forward to dying?”

  He laughs. “I was going to ask you the same question.”

  I blink slowly, ending the call, falling into thought. It’s beginning to feel like the underbelly of Miami is resurrecting, and it’s going to be a fuck-load worse than when Danny Black ruled it.

  47

  BEAU

  I come round to the sounds of clatters and clangs, my sleepy brain struggling to gather my bearings. I tense my stomach to sit up, and every muscle I possess screams in protest. I wince and hiss, so sore between my thighs. It’s no surprise. I was given no resp
ite throughout the night. No time to take a breather. Not a moment to recover from one orgasm before he instigated another.

  I get myself to the edge of the bed with some effort, my legs hanging over the side, and glance at my naked breasts. Bite marks and a collection of small round bruises decorate each one. I turn my wrists over, scanning the welts. Uninhibited. Carnal.

  Necessary.

  Another clatter sounds, and I inch my ass off the edge of the bed, taking a moment to stretch, trying to loosen myself up. My body is tight, my brain foggy.

  I find my shirt on the floor, still sopping wet. No buttons. My panties lie in a pile of ripped material next to it. I snatch a T-shirt off the back of a chair, pulling it on as I stand before the wooden frame by the wall, wondering how many women have been tied to it. Strangers. I step forward and run my hand over the glossy, highly polished wood, my touch meeting a few divots as I go. On closer inspection, I see dents, pieces of the wood damaged, the wood stain worn off. From friction. From fighting.

  Don’t fight the bond.

  I look over my shoulder to the door when I hear more sounds. “Don’t fight it,” I whisper to myself, following the sounds until I’m standing at the top of the stairs. James is moving around in the kitchen space, cupboard doors and drawers opening and closing, utensils hitting the countertops. I would ask what he’s doing down there, if my mind wasn’t elsewhere in this moment. I back up and peek into his office. Every screen is alive with various news channels from across the globe, his enormous desk is busy with paperwork, and tucked away in the corner are all my painting tools and paints. God, it feels like months ago that he asked me to paint his office. I still need to finish it too.

  I back out, pacing past the glass bathroom, and quietly open the next door onto another bedroom. It’s stark, basic, white furniture and bedsheets on white walls. And glass. Endless glass. Not at all child friendly. I bite my lip and close the door, trying the next door. Another bedroom. Another stark space. The final room I enter is a gym, all the equipment set at the foot of the glass spanning two sides. A workout with a view. A steam room. A sauna.