by Renee Rose
More, please.
“You want to get out of your pickle with the Tacones, you need to fucking work with me. You sure as hell don’t try to trick me, because, sweetheart, it will not go well for you.” Two more perfectly placed slaps, right over my clit. My pussy squeezes on air and I hold my breath, desperate for a little more. Desperate to reach my peak.
“Fuck.” He slaps my ass again, then releases my hands. He spins me around, picks me up by the waist and plunks my burning butt down on the counter.
I’m dazed. Desperate. Disappointed. I stare up at him, my disheveled hair falling in my face.
He reaches for a bottle of water, cracks it open and hands it to me. “Drink this. Go upstairs to your suite. Go to bed.” His hands drop to my thighs. Slide up a couple inches. Stop. He rubs light circles over my inner thighs with his thumbs.
I bite my lips to keep in a whimper.
Please?
“And don’t touch yourself.” His voice is suddenly gravelly, the authority still present, but the harshness gone. “That spanking was for my pleasure, not yours.”
Flutters spin and twist in my belly, heat swirls through my pelvis.
He’s just going to leave me like this? And walk away?
I lean forward. “I’m sorry.” The words are nothing more than a squeak.
“Don’t.” He puts his thumb over my lips. “No talking, songbird.” He traces my lower lip.
I suck his digit into my mouth and watch his pupils blow, the snap of his hips between my legs.
A low growl issues from his throat. “Go straight to bed,” he warns. He drags his wet thumb down my throat, between my bare breasts, and over my fluttering belly. When he rotates his hand and hooks his thumb between my legs, I jerk and thrust into the touch. He holds my gaze as he strokes once, twice. A third time. “No touching,” he warns, raising a brow.
I’m trembling, ripe. Ready.
But he just backs away, adjusting his bulging cock in his finely tailored trousers.
He walks to the door, then turns and points to me. “You’ll hear from me tomorrow.”
I let out a shaky moan, nearly ready to cry with need.
He steps through the door, only opening it as much as his body requires, like he’s making sure to block any view of me from beyond.
As soon as the door shuts, I cup my mons with my hand. I don’t usually masturbate. In fact, my limited sexual experience made me think I might be asexual, at best. But I’m dying to get off right now.
Except as I stroke between my legs, Tony Brando’s face rises up before me.
No touching.
Fuck if I don’t want to obey him. He wanted me to suffer this way; he knew exactly what he was doing.
I stop the undulation of my fingers between my legs.
Okay, fine. I’ll try it his way. Only because I have a feeling he understands something I haven’t quite grasped.
Something about me and what turns me on.
Something I didn’t know existed.
Tony
I need a cold shower. And three shots of Gray Goose.
Pepper Heart is killing me. I didn’t mean to go in there and spank her ass red. I make a point of not manhandling women. I’ve never mistreated one in my life.
But I just can’t stomach actually intimidating her—employing the kinds of threats that will get a quick and terrified response. Her asshole manager, that’s different case. He’s going to suffer my wrath.
He’s the one I should’ve taken this cluster fuck up with from the beginning.
Trouble is, I can’t seem to stay away from Pepper Heart.
And I have to say, she gave a good show despite it all. I probably wouldn’t have noticed if I weren’t already so fascinated by her. Hell, yesterday I hadn’t even planned on attending the concert. But once I met Pepper, all bets were off.
And that spanking? It was the fucking hottest thing in the history of sex. Too bad I couldn’t let myself enjoy it in the moment. But the sight of Pepper Heart’s perky little breasts, her slender body bent over for my punishment? That’s gonna stay in my spank bank forever.
In fact, I can’t wait to rub one out tonight thinking about how much she liked it. The way she spread her legs for me to slap her pussy. The flush on her cheeks, her parted lips.
Fuck.
I need to get my head out from between her thighs and back in this game. I had figured on Pepper earning fifty grand a night to pay off her debt, which would give her about a month at the Bellissimo, if all the shows are full—which they’re not. I was hoping publicity from these first sold out shows would translate into selling out the rest of the tickets, but if the press gets wind of her little ventriloquist act, we’re all fucked. Myself included. Because if push comes to shove, and Junior Tacone calls me to the mat for this, I’m not sure I’d be able to do what needs to be done.
Yeah, violence is in my nature. It’s in my genes. It was woven into my childhood and became the steel in my backbone the night I begged Don Tacone to take me into La Famiglia. Doing their dirty work hasn’t wrecked my soul because I lost it long before I was made. But it’s been easier this last decade in Vegas. We don’t break the law—much. Nico runs a legit operation here. I haven’t shot a gun in years, except at the range to practice. I’m able to make my threats real through the power of my size, the way I speak, and the reputation of the family I stand with.
But this situation calls for follow-through. Hugh deserves a beat-down for pulling this shit on me, for sure. The trouble is, when I think about bloodying his face, all I see is Pepper Heart’s fury. Her anger with me. Her indignation.
Shit! Am I really considering going easy on a guy who deserves all the shit I can give him because I want a girl to like me?
That’s asinine.
Since when do I care about women, other than protecting the ones who work here and satisfying the sexual itch now and then?
I don’t do relationships.
I can’t.
Not with my history. Not with my childhood. All I have to do is remember the way my mom looked at me the night everything changed, and I know no woman could ever accept me. No woman should ever accept me.
I’m a monster without a soul.
No one close to me would ever be safe.
Chapter 4
Pepper
I wake up feeling humiliated as hell about what happened between me and Tony Brando.
If he had actually gotten me off, that would’ve been one thing. But he left me hot and bothered. As it turns out, sexual frustration is an excellent energy source. I should remember that next time I’m dragging my ass before a performance. I couldn’t fall asleep for hours because my tingling ass kept my lady parts needy. I finally resorted to masturbation, but even still, I didn’t get the relief I craved.
Hugh texted me last night asking what Tony Brando wanted.
As if he didn’t know.
As if he wasn’t hiding from the enforcer last night, leaving me to take the fall.
I didn’t answer his texts because I figured he deserved to sweat. He knows I survived the encounter. The rest I’ll let him guess at.
A knock comes on my door at 10 a.m. Room service has already come, so I don’t know who it is. Anton’s room is next door, though, and I hear his door open to check on the visitor.
“What is it?” he grinds out in his deep voice.
“I have a message for Ms. Pepper from Mr. Brando.”
I open the door to face the concierge in the hall. “Yes?”
“Mr. Brando asked that you be ready in thirty minutes to fly to Los Angeles. He booked you an appointment with the top laryngologist there this afternoon.”
It’s probably my smarting ego that makes me stubborn. Or maybe because, after last night, I’m not as afraid of Brando as I probably should be. But I’ve been on the road for months. I just rolled into town yesterday afternoon and performed last night. I’m sick, my body is exhausted and the last thing I want to do is get on an airplane—ev
en if it is to see a specialist.
I fold my arms across my chest. I have to clear my throat twice before any sound comes out. “Tell Mr. Brando I’m not up for traveling today. I’m going to rest so I can give a good show tonight.”
The concierge inclines his head. “I will let him know, Ms. Heart.”
Anton flicks his brows and shrugs at me. I'm guessing he already knows the score because he, too, was conspicuously absent yesterday when Brando showed up.
Ten minutes later, my door opens without a knock.
I was sitting on the patio with my earbuds in my ears, but I shoot up the minute I see the large figure enter.
My pussy instantly clenches, like it recognizes that this man—and apparently only this man—is the one who can satisfy the ache still there. My stomach is also aflutter because, I realize now, I purposely goaded him into showing up.
I open my mouth to speak, but he holds up a hand. “Not a word. Not a goddamn word.” He shoves a notebook and pen in my hands. “If you have something to say, you’re gonna write it. If I hear you trying to talk, I’m going to turn your ass red again.”
I glare at him as heat rushes to pool between my legs.
“Put your shoes on and get your I.D. You’re going to L.A. to see that doctor. Now you find out what happens when you tell me no.”
I stand there, staring at him. Tragically, my body wants very much to find out. My nipples burn as they tighten up.
He raises his eyebrows, as if to say what are you looking at?
I flip open the notebook and scribble, What happens?
He picks up my Doc Martens and hands them to me. “You get me for a chaperone. Move it.”
Disappointment. Was I hoping for another spanking? I am more fucked up than I ever imagined. Still, the prospect of flying to L.A. with this man, has my body celebrating, little trills of enthusiasm zipping through my veins.
It’s odd, considering how dead I’ve felt for the last months. Years. This is the first time I’ve felt anything but utter fatigue in ages.
And about more travel, no less.
I pull on the boots and pick up my courier’s bag which is my purse/carry-all. I stow the notebook Tony gave me in it and give him a well, what are you waiting for? look. I have to say—it’s a relief not to have to talk.
I should’ve lost my voice long ago.
You did, whispers a long-absent voice. My inner muse—the poet. She’s been gone so long, I thought she’d died. I thought she only showed up for angsty teens ready to catapult into superstardom with their first alternative album.
But I don’t have time for her melancholy right now. Not with the mob enforcer filling up my suite with his broad shoulders and devil’s jaw.
Tony gives me an up and down sweep of his eyes. I’m wearing one of my usual babydoll dresses—a halter this time—with the boots for a sort of punk Lolita look. I don’t dare look down, but I sense my nips chafing against the inside of the dress. It seems to be their default response to Brando’s presence.
“Put on a bra,” he grunts. “I can’t be held responsible for what I’d do to all the fuckers in the airport looking at your breasts.”
I shouldn’t be turned on by his threat of violence to my would-be admirers. I drop my bag. I can’t very well put on a bra with a halter top. Okay, big guy. I’ll have to change.
And yeah, I’m definitely testing Tony when I hold his gaze and pull the dress off over the top of my head. I stand there in nothing but my panties and Doc Martens.
A muscle tics in Tony’s jaw. I turn on my heel and pull open the dresser drawer to grab a bra. It’s the first time in ages that I’ve even had time to unpack. I guess that’s one silver lining to this crazy fucked up ending to my tour.
I pick a hot pink one and put it on as I stand in front of the closet to pick a new dress. I already have the boots on, so it has to be something feminine. I find another mini dress and pull it on.
Tony mutters something in Italian that sounds like a curse while staring at my bare legs.
“Better?” I mouth.
“No.”
I smirk and walk past him to the door, but he catches me around the waist and pulls me back against him. The guy is twice my size and built like a linebacker. I stare down at the corded muscles of his forearm and attempt to quiet my breath.
“You keep up the cock tease, you’re going to find yourself in a world of trouble, songbird.”
I twist my face back to see him, which has the unfortunate effect of bringing my lips right up to his, centimeters away. Too late, I mouth.
His eyes darken and he eases his hold on me so I can turn around and face him. “Too late? Yeah, I guess it is.”
He loosens his tie.
Good, I have him hot around his collar again.
When he opens my door, we find Anton standing there. Tony shakes his head at my bodyguard. “Nope. You had your chance to accompany her. It could’ve been so easy. Now she’s going with me.”
“It’s my job to go where she goes,” Anton intones respectfully. He’s definitely been warned not to tangle with Brando.
“Too bad.” Brando places his hand on my lower back and guides me to the elevators.
Anton takes a few steps after us, then stops.
Great. It’s good to know if things go south with the enforcer, I’ll be totally on my own. But I was a fool to ever believe differently. I think on some level I knew all along that Hugh and maybe even my parents didn’t have my best interests in mind. Or maybe they did at one time and then dollar signs led them to the dark side.
I steal a glance at my captor-slash-chaperone, the dark side’s gladiator. I can hardly reconcile the effect he has on my body. If I knew how to dial down the attraction between us, I would take it to a quick zero, because I know getting kinky with the enemy is a dangerous game.
Tony
I lead Pepper out the front door where I have a hired limo waiting to take us to the airport. I lift my chin at the driver, who scrambles to open the passenger door for Pepper while I walk around to the other side.
Once we’re seated, Pepper pulls out the notebook I brought her. What time will we be back? she writes in neat, boxy letters.
“We’re booked back on the 4 p.m. flight, which will have us back to the hotel by 5:30.”
She nibbles her lip, then writes. Does Hugh know?
I scowl at the mention of her manager. “I don’t babysit Hugh.” The testa di cazzo could’ve called me last night to discuss the problem I had with the show, but he chose not to. Today he’s gonna find out what happens when you fuck over the Tacones.
She nods and pulls out her phone, thumbing over the screen to text Hugh.
I shoot off a few texts of my own and answer a call from one of the security guys at the casino. I’m still talking when we get to the airport, but I hang up as soon as we enter. Pepper is my charge, which means I have to act as her bodyguard when we’re in public places. I stay alert, watching for threats from every direction.
We get checked in—I bought us first class tickets, of course—and queue up to go through security. The TSA guy looks at her license and ticket, and a broad grin spreads across his face. Her last name isn’t Heart, it’s Hartman, but apparently he figures it out.
“Heeyy, Pepper.”
I hold my hand out for the documents. “She can’t talk; she’s saving her voice for the show tonight.”
“Oh, yeah,” the guy says. “The Bellissimo, right? I’ll have to get tickets.” He reluctantly hands our I.D.s and plane tickets back.
“You do that.”
Pepper gives him a smile he definitely doesn’t deserve, but I resist the urge to take her elbow and tug her along the way her manager does.
“Do you want anything from Starbucks, songbird?” I ask when we pass the coffee shop. “Hot tea with honey for your throat?”
She shrugs, then nods.
I get in line. “What kind?”
She cranes her neck to look at their tea offerings, then
mouths the word mint.
I try to tear my eyes away from her mouth. Any more lipreading and I’m going to sprout a chub. I can’t help picturing those lips stretched around my cock, sliding up and down while I fist her platinum hair. I clear my throat. “Anything else?”
She points to a chocolate croissant.
I order a triple espresso for me and the tea and croissant for Pepper. The satisfaction I get from her allowing me to take care of her is laughable. Buying a girl tea doesn’t make me a big man. At least she won’t see it that way. All she’s gonna see is that I’m strong-arming her into doing what I need her to do to perform her end of the deal.
Still, when she takes them, it satisfies the part of me that’s always on—that underlying need to to protect those in my dominion.
Pepper walks through the airport like an observer, not a rock star. She takes in everything around her. Not like me—not sizing up threats and dangers—more like an artist studying her subject, or a writer people-watching for inspiration.
We sit down at our gate and someone yells, “Pepper!”
Pepper’s head whips around as a millennial with a phone snaps a picture of her. “See, I told you it was her,” he says to the girl with him.
Pepper could’ve ignored him, or even flipped him off like she loves to do to me, but instead she smiles and waves.
Encouraged, the kids come over, and the people around us all sit up and pay attention, crowding closer.
“Can I get a selfie with you, Pepper?”
“Can I?” Now they’re all asking.
“Ms. Heart is resting her vocal cords today so she’s not speaking,” I project over the hubbub.
Pepper smiles and gets up, posing with each clamoring fan, making faces, getting goofy. It’s cute but also disturbs me on some level I don’t quite get. Something about the contrast between the smiles and melancholy of the actual girl.
I get up with her, making my full size felt. When it goes on for more than a minute, I lean down and speak into her ear, “Squeeze my arm when you want me to get rid of them.”
