Everything for Us (A Bad Boys Novel)

by Leighton, M.

  I laugh outright. “Or maybe it’s a Ginger thang.”

  “Even better,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows. “Ginger thangs are always a good idea.”

  “I’m beginning to see how you’d think so.”

  She nods and winks at me. “I like you. And you’re smart, too. Two things I require in a friend. You and I are gonna get along just fine.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  Ginger leans across the couch like she’s going to tell me a big secret. “I don’t know if Olivia told you, but I give great advice about sex, so if you get hold of that hot piece of ass and don’t quite know what to do with it, don’t be afraid to call. I’ve always got some ideas.” She nods as though she’s done her good deed for the day.

  Ginger’s public service message.

  “If he gives me any trouble, I’ll be sure to call.”

  “Girl, if he doesn’t give you trouble, he’s not half the man he looks to be. That one, the rough one, looks like he could tear a woman to shreds with just one look. I’d be highly disappointed if he didn’t turn your panties inside out and your world upside down.”

  I wonder for a second if I should tell her that he’s already done both of those things, but then I decide against it. No matter how funny I think she is or how much I think I’ll like her, Ginger is a stranger to me. And I’ve still got enough discretion bred into me to be inclined to keep my mouth shut. So I do.

  “I’ll keep you posted. How’s that?”

  “Fair enough, but be warned that I like details, so if you call me, be prepared to tell me everything. Besides, I work better if I have the full picture of what’s going on. And I’m a huge pervert. We can’t forget that.” She winks at me again.

  “I doubt I’ll be forgetting that any time soon.”

  “Good girl,” she says, patting me on the knee.

  Yep, I like this woman. How could I not?

  NINETEEN

  Nash

  After a frustrating morning, I’d hoped my day would get better. Only it hasn’t. I’m just as frustrated now, driving back to Marissa’s, as I was when I left this morning.

  I followed Gavin to the club, mostly just to make sure he didn’t decide to pay a return visit to Marissa. It’s not like I’m jealous. I’m not that guy. I don’t get jealous over women. I can take them or leave them. There’s always another one just around the corner. No reason to get too attached to any particular one. So I know it’s not that. I think it’s primarily that he messed up my morning. And I just don’t like the thought of that Australian asshole hitting on Marissa. It pisses me off. I don’t like him and I don’t want him around. Period.

  Cash had been taking Olivia to school, so once he returned, he and Gavin got down to taking care of some club business. Nothing I had any interest in. Once I was sure Gavin was thoroughly occupied, I took off.

  My inclination was to go back to Marissa’s. And that’s exactly why I didn’t. It’s too soon. I shouldn’t want to go back to her yet. Not even for sex. So I didn’t.

  But that hasn’t stopped me from thinking about her every few minutes all day.

  For the same reason, I purposely stayed away all evening, too. I texted her a few times, just to make sure she’s okay. I used the same two words each time.

  U ok?

  And her response was the same single word each time.

  Yes.

  It’s the responsible thing to do, especially considering that she’s only in this mess because of my family. The least I can do is make sure she doesn’t get herself killed.

  But that doesn’t mean I have to stay with her every minute of every day. And it’s the fact that I sort of wanted to go back that kept me from doing exactly that.

  I don’t like feeling weak, and there’s something about her that’s starting to make me feel weak. I think about her too often, even when I try not to. It’s like I might not be in complete control of the situation. And that’s unacceptable. So I avoided her.

  I spent most of the afternoon and evening in Cash’s “Nash” condo looking through law books. No, I haven’t been to law school, but I have enough gray matter to be able to read law and interpret it, especially when I have an Internet connection and access to all the reference materials I might need for clarification purposes.

  What I’ve managed to discern is probably pretty much what both Cash and Marissa already knew—there are a lot of pieces to a RICO case. While it’s definitely doable, in our case, it would require the cooperation of more than one person. And what I know from extensive past experience is that you can rarely count on other people to do the right thing.

  Which is why I wanted a plan B. And C. And D. As many as I can get, in fact.

  My plan A is and will always be to put a bullet in Duffy and any of the other involved parties I can identify and get my hands on. It’s not like I’ve never had blood on my hands or dead men on my conscience. But, considering the consequences should I get caught doing it on American soil . . . I wouldn’t mind if we could get them the legal way, either. It’s not exactly my dream to spend my last days in prison.

  My anger returns, anger that I’m even in this position to start with. And with it, frustration. And the desire to stop thinking for just a little while.

  I press harder on the accelerator. I remind myself that I’m not speeding toward Marissa per se; I’m speeding toward a much-needed distraction. Nothing more.

  Anticipation curls in my stomach and I feel blood rush south as I think about sinking into her soft, warm body. I mean, sex is sex, but I have to admit we have damn good sex. Damn good!

  I feel a frown pull my eyebrows together when I pull up out front and have to park behind a Mercedes. It could belong to anybody, but I don’t like that it’s here, whoever the owner is. Most likely it’s someone from Marissa’s old life, the one she hates and wants to escape, so I automatically dislike this person.

  It’s an E-Class, sleek and black with tinted windows. I have no trouble imagining that it belongs to some polished douchenozzle of a lawyer.

  I’m instantly grouchy. Well, grouchier.

  I cut the engine and look at the clock in the dashboard.

  And what the hell is someone doing visiting so late, anyway? It’s nearly nine.

  I walk quickly up the sidewalk to the front door. I don’t knock; I simply twist the knob and walk in, unannounced. If Marissa doesn’t like it, she can kiss my ass. And if whoever is visiting her doesn’t like it, they can kiss my ass, too. Unless they’d prefer to make it physical, which I’d be more than happy to do. Breaking some bones might make me feel a whole lot better about the situation. About life in general.

  My irritation spikes to anger when I see the lawyer from the library sitting on the couch across from Marissa—Jensen something or other. It only makes it worse that Marissa looks the way she does. She’s wearing some sort of sexy lace top that cups her breasts perfectly, and a skirt that makes her legs look long and slender. Her hair is up with a few strands dangling down over her shoulders. She looks like she just climbed out from under some lucky man. And that she’s ready for more.

  Who the hell does she think she’s trying to impress?

  She smiles when I stop at the edge of the living room. “Cash,” she says with emphasis, “you remember Jensen from the library, right?”

  My only response is a grunt of agreement.

  “I came across some case information I thought Marissa might find helpful,” he says politely by way of explanation.

  “I bet you did,” I say snidely. “And you felt like it couldn’t wait until morning, right?”

  Jensen laughs uncomfortably and glances at Marissa. “Uh, well, I have court early, so I’ll be at work well before dawn, and this is a big case, so I wasn’t sure when I’d have a chance to get it to her otherwise.”

  “How thoughtful of you,” I say sarcastically. �
�Well, now that you’ve dropped it off, I guess you’ll need to be on your way. Get rested up before the big day, right?”

  Jensen clears his throat and rises to his feet. “Actually,” he says, looking down at Marissa, “I do need to be going. I appreciate the coffee and I hope what I brought helps.”

  Marissa rises, too. “Thank you so much, Jensen. It’s very helpful information and I really appreciate you going to all the trouble of looking this up and then bringing it over.”

  “It’s my pleasure. Really.”

  I watch as Marissa smiles up at this poser. For some reason I want to snap his scrawny neck.

  “If there’s ever anything I can help you with on the corporate side of things, let me know. I owe you.”

  “I might just take you up on that,” he says with a predatory smile.

  My blood is boiling.

  He turns to walk past me to the door. Marissa follows him, shooting me a stern look of disapproval as she passes.

  Before he can make it out the door, my phone buzzes from my pocket. I pull it out and look at the lighted screen. My pulse picks up when I recognize the number. I dialed it very recently.

  Dmitry.

  The timing couldn’t be worse. I can’t talk in front of this guy—or Marissa for that matter—but I’m not leaving until he’s gone. Like, I-see-his-taillights-at-the-stop-sign gone.

  I slip my phone back in my pocket and follow Pompous Ass to the door. “I’ll walk out with you. I need to make a phone call and I don’t want to disturb Marissa while she’s getting ready for bed.”

  I know my comment sounds very familiar, intimate. Maybe even a little suggestive. But not enough for Marissa to take exception to it. It could be a perfectly innocent comment. It’s not, but it could be. It’s not my fault if Pompous Ass deduces that Marissa and I are sleeping together. But that would go a long way toward keeping his face from coming to blows with my fist in the near future.

  “Fine,” he says sharply. “Marissa, call if you need anything. My secretary can get hold of me, even if I’m in court, and I can call you back.”

  How very thoughtful of you, I think wryly.

  “I’ll try not to bother you,” she says kindly.

  “You’re never a bother,” he responds smoothly. After a few seconds of undressing her with his eyes, Pompous Ass looks back to me. There’s a challenge in his expression that sets my teeth on edge. “Ready whenever you are.” I’m not sure if he means it like I take it, but it sure as hell sounds like he does, like he’s ready to throw down over Marissa. Not that it matters. He’ll lose. I play to win. Always.

  “After you,” I say, nodding toward the door.

  Jensen opens it and walks through. I give him a good lead and turn to look at Marissa. She says nothing, and neither do I. Her eyes aren’t flashing in anger, but there’s something in them. I just don’t know what it is.

  Without a word, I walk out the door and close it behind me. I wait until Pompous Ass is in his car and heading down the street before I slide behind the wheel of the BMW and start the engine.

  I pause only long enough to hit the redial button before I slam the car into gear and speed off down the road, away from Marissa’s. Dmitry doesn’t answer; I get only an automated voice mail greeting. I dial again. Same thing. I stop at the stop sign and check my phone. Sure enough, he left me a message.

  “Nikolai,” he says in his gruff, strongly accented voice. “You will not be able to contact me at this number. It’s no longer safe. I’ll be in touch with you soon. Expect my call.”

  A loud click signals the end of the message. I hit replay and listen again. It’s no longer safe. Something has happened, but what? And why? Why now? Does it have anything to do with his association with me? Could they have found out that he harbored me, the other son of a traitor?

  A surge of fury rises up inside me. Impotent rage. I want blood. Their blood. On my hands, quenching my thirst for revenge. But it seems every step of forward progress I make, they’re there, countering it. Tying my hands.

  My frustration is at peak level and I need to vent, to release some angst. One face comes to mind. I’m too angry to think of why it does or the wisdom of going to her. I simply act.

  I yank the steering wheel, whipping the car around. With a squeal of the tires, I race back down the street. Back to the condo. Back to her.

  The brakes scream as I screech to a stop along the curb. I climb out of the car, slamming the door behind me. When I reach her door, again I don’t bother to knock. I twist the knob and walk right in, thankful it’s still unbolted. The fact that it was, which is incredibly stupid on her part, only adds fuel to the fire of my anger.

  I stomp down the hall toward Marissa’s bedroom. Her bathroom door is partially open and I can see her reflection in the mirror. She’s standing in front of the sink with a tube of toothpaste in one hand and her toothbrush in the other.

  She has already changed clothes. She’s wearing a tiny little nightie thing. It’s not trashy or blatantly seductive, but it’s sexy as hell nonetheless.

  It looks more like something a girl might dress her baby doll in. It’s girly and pink and hangs in a straight line to the tops of her thighs. Thin satin straps hold it in place over her shoulders, like a sundress. Where it departs from anything a child or baby doll might wear is in the material. It’s nearly transparent. I can see the shadow of her nipples through it, as well as her navel and the outline of her panties. It’s both innocent and provocative, and I want to rip it off her.

  I push the door open and it bangs against the stopper on the wall behind it. Her hands pause in midair. Her eyes meet mine in the mirror. They’re wide as she watches me. She says nothing.

  I walk over to stand behind her. With my eyes on hers, I reach around her and grab her breast. I squeeze it, maybe a little more firmly than I intended, and she flinches. But I don’t care. Right now I need to be rough. And right now I need her to take it.

  As if in answer to me, I feel her nipple tighten beneath my palm. Maybe I wasn’t too rough. Or maybe she likes it rough.

  I feel myself straining against my jeans. With my free hand, I reach for her toothbrush and toothpaste, jerking them from her fingers and flinging them into the sink.

  I lower my hands to her hips and curl my fingers in the material of her nightie. I raise it. When she doesn’t resist, I pull it over her head and toss it onto the floor behind me.

  Her nipples are puckered and ready for my touch. Her chest rises and falls with her accelerated breathing. Her bottom lip trembles in anticipation. Yes, she likes it like this, whether she’d ever admit to it or not.

  I palm both breasts and pull her back against me, flush against my chest. She lets her head fall back, but she watches me from beneath her lashes. “You’re so fu—damn sexy,” I groan, catching myself.

  I roll the tight nipples between my fingertips, lightly pinching them. Her lips part and I hear a tiny gasp escape them. I press my lower body toward her, grinding my hard-on against her. She arches her back and pushes that firm, round ass out, rubbing it back and forth over me. I grit my teeth so hard I could bite nails.

  I move my hands down to her hips, holding them still while I move against her. I bend my head to her neck and gently sink my teeth into her scented skin. Her eyelids flutter shut.

  Sliding one hand around to her stomach, I push my fingers under the edge of her panties, then down to cup her warm flesh.

  Her lips part further and she widens her stance. Just a little, just enough that I have better access.

  Yeah, she likes this. She wants it. But I want to see the desperation in her eyes.

  She moves against my hand. I know what she needs, where she wants me to put my fingers. But I want her to wait a little longer for it.

  Without parting her folds, I move my hand over her, teasing her. I can feel the moisture against my palm. It make
s me throb with the need to be inside her.

  But at the moment, I want to look in her eyes more than anything. I move my free hand to her hip. With one quick jerk, I tear her panties. The thin band breaks easily under the force. She gasps in surprise, but she doesn’t open her eyes. They’re still closed. But I don’t want them to be. I want them open. I want to see her reaction. I want her to know that I’m angry and that I’m taking what I want, not asking for it. And that she’s giving it to me.

  I want to see that she accepts me this way.

  I slap her on the ass and growl, “Watch.” Her eyes pop open and focus on mine. They’re dark with passion. And acceptance. And excitement. “Good girl,” I say, rewarding her by sliding one finger of my other hand between her swollen lips. She’s slick with desire. I rub my fingertip over the firm nub at the top of her lips and her eyelids drift shut again. I give it a little pinch and she moans. “Watch,” I demand again.

  Obediently, she opens her eyes to meet mine. They’re slow to focus. She’s under my spell. I reach up to tease her nipple with my free hand and I put my lips against her ear. “You want to know what’s inside my head? This is inside my head. Anger,” I say gruffly as I push two fingers down between her folds and into the slippery heat of her body. I pull them out a couple of inches and then drive them back into her, deep and hard. Rough. I feel her knees buckle, but I hold her against me and make her ride my fingers.

  “But you like it, don’t you? You like me like this. You want me to take what I need. You want to be free with me, don’t you?”

  Faster and harder, I jam my fingers into her. Faster and shallower her breathing becomes. When I feel her muscles tighten around my fingers, squeezing them, I move my thumb to the firm button of her clitoris and I make small circles over her, faster and faster. I see her body tense and I don’t relent until she’s standing, breathless and waiting, on the edge of her orgasm.