Book Read Free

The Cowboy's City Girl - An Enemies To Lovers Romance

Page 33

by Emerson Rose


  “Do you have a restroom nearby?” I ask.

  “Yes, out the door to the left, halfway down the hall, black door on your right,” he says, pointing absentmindedly toward the door.

  I follow his directions and push open the door, expecting a couple of stalls and a sink for the employees but, nope, that’s not Marcus’s style.

  This restroom is done up with sleek glossy black counters, raised sink bowls, white stone walls and the stalls are separated by black granite pillars.

  I enter a stall just as two women come through the door, unaware of my presence. I don’t make it a habit to listen in on other people’s conversations, but when I hear them say Marcus’s name, I can’t help but listen.

  “Did you see the car?” a woman says in a Spanish accent.

  “What? No. Whose car?” another woman with a scratchy smoker’s voice answers.

  “The beast is back. I saw the Maybach pull in a few minutes ago. I can’t believe he’s out of the hospital so soon. Megan died in that accident. I thought he was gonna be laid up for months,” the Hispanic woman says.

  “They let him out? I bet he woke up and just left,” Scratchy says.

  Wow, they know him well.

  “I thought he was in a coma. I won’t lie, I was relieved when they said he wasn’t waking up. It’s been nice around here with him gone,” Accent says.

  “Yeah, I haven’t had to iron my panties or scrub my hands with a Brillo pad for two weeks,” Scratchy says with a huff.

  I can’t let them know I’m in here. This is interesting. I want to hear more about the beast. Maybe I’ll learn something that will help me decipher his rude behavior.

  Slowly and quietly, I press my hands against the walls of my stall and lift my feet up onto the toilet seat. I hold my breath and perch on the edge of the seat while I continue to eavesdrop.

  I mentally thank my mom for twenty-two years of gymnastics. They’re finally coming in handy.

  “Eli isn’t much better, but at least he doesn’t time our breaks to the second and threaten us with death if we sneak out to smoke,” says Spanish Accent.

  “Or make you clean your area with a toothbrush for hours. Oh, wait, never mind, Eli made me do that last week; he’s a mini-beast,” Scratchy says.

  The women chuckle and enter the stalls on either side of me to take care of business. When they leave and stand at the sink washing their hands, they strike up again.

  “If the pay here wasn’t so damn good, I’d be out of here right now,” Scratchy says. Shit, is he really that bad?

  “Did you know Christen says he’s in the Italian mob? Do you ever notice that people he fires disappear? Nobody ever sees them around anywhere again. Ever,” Accent says.

  “Mob? Like you think he’s having them killed? Carmen, you’re crazy. He’s awful – horrible, even - but murder? I don’t think so.”

  Accent snorts, “You’re so naïve, Trina. In my country, people are killed for much less; life has no value in Columbia. You’re just a warm body and, if you’re lucky, you get to go home to your family at night.”

  Whoa, Carmen is full of information. Note to self, never fucking go to Columbia, and where have I heard that comment about a warm body before?

  “Well, that’s Columbia, not Washington. Nobody’s going to kill me if I get a new menu item wrong. I don’t believe it.”

  “Suit yourself, but if I ever disappear, you pack your bags and run far away, I’m telling you,” Carmen says.

  Trina doesn’t respond, and I imagine her mouth hanging open in shock at the thought of her co-worker being murdered.

  They spend an unusual amount of time washing their hands. When they’re done, they dry them with the air dryer.

  Either they’re stretching out a break or the beast has burned cleanliness into every fiber of their being. My legs are starting to become numb. When they exit, I lower myself down and pee while I try to make sense of this new information.

  The Mob. Maybe I’m biased, but I’m with Trina. No way is Marcus in any Mob. Is the Mob even real anymore? It would explain his extravagant home.

  No, no, no. His aunt left him money. Those women are just spreading crazy gossip. I believe Marcus’s story but at the same time I wonder where Aunt Angelica got her wealth.

  Eighteen

  I slip into Marcus’s office without another employee run-in along the way. I think they’re all busy in the kitchen and dining room getting ready to serve lunch.

  Marcus is on the phone. I find a spot on the couch and look around his office. It’s big, of course, that’s a given. There are no windows, all of the light comes from floor and table lamps scattered throughout the room.

  There is a gas fireplace in the corner that pales in comparison to the one in Marcus’s living room. Mahogany built-ins line the wall behind Marcus’s desk. There is not one personal item on those shelves. There are no books for pleasure reading, no photos or knick-knacks, nothing but business manuals and training information.

  He finishes his call and announces that he’s ready to give me a tour. I stand and make my way to his side to help him with his leg.

  “Let’s go have a look around. Elijah better have things in order.”

  “Or what?” I ask. I’m serious; I want to know, but he thinks I’m teasing.

  “Or I’ll fire him, along with everybody else. Then I will burn this place to the ground with all of them in it.”

  My hands stop moving, and I slowly lift my wide eyes to his. He reaches out and hooks his knuckle under my chin to close my gaping mouth.

  “Joking, Imani, I’m joking,” he says, dipping his head to look me straight in the eyes.

  If I hadn’t just overheard Carmen and Trina discussing his involvement with the Mafia, I would have laughed that comment off for what it was, a joke.

  He keeps his eyes trained on me as I help him up. He’s getting the hang of the crutches quickly. He doesn’t need much from me other than to open the door.

  He pauses outside his office and points to the right. We walk together down a hall that opens onto a balcony overlooking the dining room.

  It’s a white-crystal winter fairyland, and it’s stunning. Everything is white. White linen tablecloths, white carpet, white chairs and walls. The only color comes from a small arrangement of lavender roses in the center of each round table.

  I lay my hand on my chest and gawk at a chandelier that spans the length of the entire room. Tiny shimmering crystals are arranged to look like raindrops falling from the sky. It’s intimate, romantic, and breathtaking.

  There are a few tables that are already occupied, and another couple is being seated.

  “Oh, Marcus, it’s incredible.”

  His eyes sparkle with pride as he watches me take it all in. Smiling, and satisfied with my reaction, he juts his chin in the direction he wants to go.

  “I normally enter the dining room from these stairs, but I don’t think I’m that good with the crutches yet.” The balcony curves around the room and a spiral staircase leads down into the center of the dining room. Anyone descending the stairs would have all eyes on them.

  “Do you have an elevator?”

  “Yes, this way.” We turn and go back the way we came and down the hall to an elevator that lowers us into the busy kitchen.

  The men and women cooking go about their business, not noticing us, but the rest of the staff is timid and anxious. A hush falls over the room, and I feel the tension thick in the air. When the initial shock of seeing the boss wears off, everyone goes back to work. Waitresses glide gracefully in and out of the kitchen.

  A beautiful woman approaches us clutching her hands together in front of her chest like she’s hiding a surprise.

  She’s dressed in a well-tailored winter white pantsuit that looks gorgeous against her brown skin. Her silky black hair is gathered into a loose chignon and topping it all off is a killer white smile.

  “Mr. Castillo, I’m so relieved to see you back so soon. How are you feeling? Can
I get you anything? Would you like to look over the reservations for this afternoon and this evening? I’m sure everything is in perfect order.” Her words are rushed, but she seems used to anticipating his wants and needs.

  “Tasha, I’m fine, just a broken leg and, yes, I’d like to see everything that’s going on today and tonight.”

  She stumbles back a step as if she’s been slapped. Her eyes are wide and she stumbles over her words when she replies.

  “Okay then, let’s, uh, let’s go out front.”

  What is her problem? His tone wasn’t threatening, he responded appropriately, didn’t he? Maybe that’s it… from what I heard in the restroom, he’s usually an intolerable ass. Is the Marcus I’ve come to know so different than the one they are used to?

  He’s irritating and rude at times, but I’ve never been intimidated or frightened of him. We really need to get that taken care of so we know what’s going on. I wonder if he’s had some sort of personality change since the accident; from the reactions I just witnessed, reasonable and agreeable are not normal traits of his.

  I watch the two of them talking about endless celebrity reservations and wines that are on backorder until Marcus turns to me.

  “Ready?” He looks tired. I know he’ll never admit it, but we need to get to the hospital and back home before he comes up with an excuse not to go.

  “Umm, Mr. Castillo, there are some repair receipts that need your signature in the club; would you like me to get them for you?” Tasha asks. I get the sense she’s next in line after Elijah in the ranks of Dominus employees.

  “No, we can get them. It’ll give me a chance to show Imani around,” he replies. I feel Tasha’s tension easing, maybe I’m a buffer? Good, his employees sound like they need a break from the beast.

  “Alright, if you’re sure. I’ll get back to the dining room and I’ll keep you updated on every detail.”

  “Yes, Tasha, do that.” Maybe he doesn’t know the words ‘Thank’ and ‘You’?

  He directs me toward double doors off the main foyer of Dominus into the attached club. It’s dark but for the blue hue of water from a fish tank built into the wall behind the bar.

  Twenty or thirty small tables surround a stage where thick purple aerial silks hang from the ceiling. A theater-sized screen is behind the stage, and a giant bowl full of water large enough for a person to swim sits on stage. What on earth happens here, Cirque du Soleil?

  Soft music plays throughout the room, strange music, not club music. It sounds like we’re in a forest with rhythmic drums and a haunting woman’s voice singing in a foreign language. I look at Marcus with lifted eyebrows.

  “Jocelyn Pook, Goya’s Nightmare,” he says.

  “Oh. I’ve never heard music like this before,” I say, listening to the unfamiliar chants.

  “No, probably not.”

  “What kind of club is this?”

  “We provide an adult kind of Cirque du Soleil.”

  I knew it. Well, the Cirque du Soleil part, at least. I don’t know what he means by ‘adult;’ maybe their show includes strippers?

  We make our way to a tall desk in the club’s foyer where he scribbles his signature on half a dozen forms that have been arranged in neat piles for him.

  When he’s finished, he looks over at me. I’m standing next to the hostess desk with my ass propped on the edge. He reaches out to take my hand, and I step to him. The club is dark; the only light is the blue glow of the fish tank.

  Balancing on one foot with his crutches pressing into his armpits, he places his hands on either side of my face and quietly instructs me to close my eyes.

  “Why?”

  “Just do as I ask, Imani.”

  With my eyes closed, I feel him lean in against my neck. He inhales deeply through his nose, breathing me in and exhaling with a contented sigh.

  “Can you feel it? The way the music flows through you? Without your sight your other senses become heightened.”

  I reach up to touch his face and he leans his cheek into my hand. The music’s timbre is dark and eerie, but the rhythm is contagious, and erotic.

  That magnetic connection is stronger than ever as I take a step closer. Eyes closed, I touch his face slowly, tracing his cheekbone, the corner of his mouth, and the edge of his eye, brushing the pad of my thumb over his long, thick lashes.

  I feel his pulse quicken when I skim over his neck and rest my hands on his chiseled chest. He accepts my exploring touch, and when I move closer, he envelops me in his arms, holding me around the waist.

  Without warning, Marcus lifts me onto the tall stone desk at my back. He lifts me, balancing on one foot and propped on his crutches.

  “Marcus,” I gasp and protest simultaneously, but he is shaking his head back and forth, moving between my legs. His sexy as hell smirk has returned, and it’s over for me.

  I’m completely helpless, I can’t move or speak or even breathe as he slides his hands down my neck and over my breasts, which are pebbling under my thin sweater.

  I arch into his touch, and he lowers his mouth over mine to kiss me deeply, penetrating my mouth with a desire that mimics the music around us. I slide my fingers up the back of his neck and into his hair. The music picks up tempo and our mouths respond equally.

  Marcus starts to unbutton the front of my sweater slowly, never breaking contact with my mouth. A tiny voice in the back of my mind reminds me that we’re in a public place where anyone could walk in.

  He pushes my sweater off of my shoulders and trails his fingers down my arms and around to my bare back where he skillfully unhooks the bra he had Maria pick out for me.

  He removes my hands from his neck to slip my sweater all the way off.

  I peek to see that his eyes are still closed, and they are, but he doesn’t need his sight. His hands know their way around my body as if it’s been his forever.

  He leans back and trails soft warm kisses from my neck to my breast. A hitch of breath escapes my lips as he ravishes one and then the other. Every part of my body reacts to him in its own unique way.

  The light scratch of the scruff along his jaw against my breasts brings goosebumps to my skin. My back arches with every kiss he presses on my body. My belly hollows when he traces a circle around my navel with his tongue. He travels down my belly nipping and kissing until he hovers over my apex.

  His hands suddenly disappear, and I’m startled by the loud sound of scraping against the floor. I snap my eyes open and see that he moved the hostess’s chair directly in front of me where he’s been standing.

  My heart skips a beat, maybe two, when he sits down and his face is level with my belly. Oh God, can I do this? Do I want to? Yes.

  He knows my eyes are open and feathers his fingers down my face, closing my eyes as he goes. My other senses sharpen, the music in the room hangs like a thick exotic mist pulsing slowly with a different rhythm. This one is softer, slower, more sultry.

  He traces the skin at the top of my jeans with his fingertips and begins to unfasten my jeans. He stops his advance, and I open my eyes to see what’s wrong.

  “Are you sure this is ok?” he asks, his voice laden with worry.

  “Yes, please,” I nearly beg. I’m not as practiced in self-control as Marcus, not even close. I don’t want him to stop, but if he suspects otherwise, I have no doubt he will dress me and take me home, no pressure, no guilt, no problem… for him at least.

  “Lift,” he instructs as he unbuttons my jeans. I place my palms flat on the desk and lift my hips as he peels them off, panties included. With all of my clothes on the floor, I wiggle my feet out of my shoes until they drop to the floor with a light clatter.

  “The door is locked, no one can come in,” he assures me.

  I recognize the core of his voice, but when he speaks his words are so thick with sex and need he sounds like a different man.

  I am spread out naked on a desk, open and vulnerable, at his mercy, and I have no inhibitions, none. It’s as if he singlehan
dedly healed the emotional wounds of my past and made me whole and unafraid again.

  I watch his hands caress the curves of my body, smoothing along my waist to my hips, down my thighs where he pauses with his hands on my knees.

  He spreads my legs wide and begins kissing the sensitive skin on the inside of my thighs lazily from my knee to my core. He teases my outer folds with the faintest of kisses but he stops short of ecstasy every time. This torture continues over and over until I’m dizzy, breathless, soaking wet, and desperate for release.

  “You’re so wet for me, Imani,” he says, sliding two fingers into my desperate, primed sex. I gasp, and he uses his free hand to pull me to the edge of the desk roughly. “Ah, Marcus…,” I whimper. I can no longer sit up this close to the edge of the desk so I lie back and support my upper body with my elbows.

  A vision of myself - naked and standing on the edge of a cliff looking down into the foamy surf during a storm with my hair billowing out behind me, my eyes closed and ready to surrender my life to him - flashes through my mind just before he bows his head between my legs.

  His tongue electrifies every nerve ending below my waist, licking and circling my clit until he blesses me with a move that I know I’ll crave from now until the end of time.

  His hands slide under my ass and my hips are tilted up, giving him full access to my slit. He buries his face between my legs and drags his tongue along my entire slit, back to front all the way forward to my clit with one sweep.

  Lightheaded and gasping, all of my blood rushes to where Marcus performs his magic again. My hands fly out and grip the edges of the desk, and instinctively I clamp my legs on either side of his head.

  He squeezes my hips in a gesture that clearly says don’t move. I white-knuckle the edges of the desk as he alternates circling my clit and licking my outer folds with his skilled tongue.

  I find leverage with one foot on his good knee and thrust my hips forward, offering more of myself to him. My orgasm is building quickly with every electrifying movement of his tongue.

 

‹ Prev