by Jagger Cole
One of my security team gets the door. I step out, and the man turns to reach for her. I growl, savagely. It’s instinctual. It takes even me by surprise. But it’s like a gut reaction. The man stiffens, pales, and steps away. “My apologies, Mr. Genovese.”
“It’s fine,” I grunt.
I'm not a ruthless or cruel boss. That’s what comes from getting my position through blood and merit, and not birth. But I do instill fear and power. That’s from years of working my way up. I was exactly this man, in another life when I was young.
Before Bellamy was born, I was a foot solider for the Scaliamis. I was a guard for a Don’s home. I worked my way up and earned more and more responsibly. Eventually, I came to be second in command to Leo Scaliami himself. When he was killed, I took over. And I’ve been at the top ever since; the head of a family whose name I don’t bear. But it works.
The guard fades away. I turn to the car and reach inside for her. Our eyes lock, and she trembles. She worries her lower lip. God, she’s so fucking beautiful.
“Come,” I growl. “We’re home.”
Her hand slips into mine, and she shivers. I groan inside. My blood thrums. My cock swells as I help her from the car. Here we go.
Inside, I walk with her and Harry, my butler, to her quarters. Her quarters. Not mine. I called ahead before we left the offices in the city to arrange for this. I know what this is. I know this arrangement between my organization and Anton’s is real, and binding. But I’m not a goddamn savage. This isn’t the eighteenth century. I’m not bringing her to my fucking chambers to ravish. Though, the thought of doing so has my thickness swelling.
I grit my teeth. I shake those thoughts from my head. I remind myself that she’s almost literally half my fucking age.
“Here,” I growl. We step inside her quarters. Katrina looks around. Harry drops her few pieces of luggage. I nod, and he steps out with a bow, closing the door behind him.
“This is my room?”
“These,” I grunt. I walk to one wall and open a huge set of French doors to another living area. This room has a fireplace, shelves of books, and a balcony overlooking the gardens. I walk back across the first room and open another set of doors. These lead to her bedroom, and adjoining walk in closet and full bathroom. I turn back to see her staring in awe.
“All of this?” she says breathlessly.
“All of this.”
She blushes deeply. “Are… are these your rooms too?”
I frown. “No.”
“Oh.”
“I didn’t ask for this, Katrina.”
She looks up quickly. Her eyes look worried. Her lip catches between her teeth. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.
Shit. I growl and shake my head. “No, I don’t mean—”
“I’ve displeased you.”
I frown even deeper. Especially since she looks so scared when she says it. “What?” Displeased me? What the fuck kind of shit is that? Thinking that someone—Anton, I’m sure—put that into her head makes me seethe.
“I’m sorry, sir…”
“You haven’t ‘displeased’ me, Katrina,” I grunt. “I’m just saying I didn’t ask for this arrangement. You coming here as… as my…”
“Your wife,” she whispers.
“Yes. Nor did you ask for it.”
“It’s my duty, to my family…”
I sigh. I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Well, your duties now are to do as you please. You will stay in the house for now. But you may do as you like.”
“Yes, sir.”
I groan. Those two words seem so fucking filthy coming from her innocent, soft mouth.
“Maybe just call me Micheal,” I grunt.
“Yes si—” she blushes. “Yes, Micheal.”
Shit. My name from those soft pouty pink lips might be even worse than her calling sir.
“You may do as you please, here at the house.”
“And you?”
“Me what?”
She blues. “Will you… will you do as you please?”
I frown. But then suddenly I understand what she’s saying. And God help me, my cock gets it too.
“Welcome to your new home,” I growl brusquely. I turn for the door.
“I can please you.”
She blurts the words out at my back. I freeze, still facing away from her. My jaw tightens. So do my hands, into fists.
“Sir, I—Micheal.”
I turn.
“I can please you,” she says quietly. Her hands slide behind her. She’s shaking all over. She looks fucking terrified. But suddenly, her dress drops to her feet. My pulse thrums. My eyes harden and drink her in. She’s just standing there in a pure-white, lacy bra and thin, barely-there panties. She blinks those big blue eyes, looking up at me.
Fuck. I drink her in like a man staggering out of the desert desperate for water. My eyes slide over every single curve and hollow. I can see the faintest hint of pink nipple through her lacy bra. I groan quietly at the way her panties trace the crease of her smooth inner thigh. I see that red hair and I want to wrap it in a fist and guide that pretty little mouth exactly where I want it….
I close my eyes. I take a breath. I’ve lived my life by keep myself utterly in control. I’ve scrabbled and fought to get to where I am by staying to a path. No distractions. No vices. No temptations. But for the very first time in a very long time, that willpower feels shaky. I open my eyes again and look at the stunning creature standing in front of me. My control cracks at the edges.
But it holds. It cracks, but it does not break.
“Goodnight, Katrina,” I hiss thinly. I close my eyes and turn. I breathe deeply, and then I storm out. I have to get the fuck out of here before I grab her and crush her against my mouth. Because I understand what weaknesses looks like. Right now, I am that weakness.
Out of her room, I close the door sharply. I lean against it. My heart pounds. My desire swells. My cock is like steel in my pants.
This is going to be a problem. She is going to be a problem. And I have to get away from her, before I have her please me until I’ve marked every fucking inch of her body as mine.
My eyes squeeze shut. It’s like I’m trying to force out the filthy thoughts and desires she brings out in me.
My hands shouldn’t crave her, but they do. My lips shouldn’t hunger for the taste of her. But that too, I can’t help. I shouldn’t want her at all. But I do. Badly.
Christ, how am I going to survive this?
4
Katrina
The second he leaves the room, I crumble. My resolve breaks completely. I fall to the ground, shaking. I clamp a hand over my mouth to stifle the gasping sob. Quickly, I pull my dress back up. I hug myself, feeling ashamed and sick.
Great. Now he probably thinks I’m a prostitute or something. I’ve never done anything like that in my entire life; obviously. But my uncle’s words were pounding through my head: “Please him, Katrina.” “Remember what happened to his last wife.” “Make him happy before he has to ask it of you.”
I guess “making him happy before he asks” didn’t work so well, though.
With a hot, red face, I drag my luggage into the bedroom. I’ve lived in relative luxury my whole life. But this is beyond anything I’ve known. I slowly take in my new quarters. They’re pure opulence. The rooms are stunning, huge, and exquisitely decorated. I feel like I’ve been sold to a king; like I’m a princess. Maybe like I’m his princess.
But I know that’s not true. I’m not “his.” I’m nothing he wants, apparently. I saw how he looked at me in the meeting room. Like I was a nuisance. Like I was a business deal that was forced on him. I frown and look at my hands. I don’t know why that throws me. I don’t know why I’m upset by him not wanting me that way.
Do I want him? He’s handsome, of course. He’s far more than handsome, actually. He’s magnetically attractive, far older, and gorgeous. He carries strength and a hardness around with him. And he’s clearly not a man born
into wealth and power like my uncle and my cousin Sasha. Micheal looks like he’s fought the world to get this house, and his position in the Scaliami family.
After I explore a little, I unpack my bags into the walk-in closet. I run the shower and get in to try and slow my mind and my nerves. Afterwards, I comb my hair out and slip into a robe. I look through my luggage for a book to read. Instead, my fingers close around a familiar shape. I smile and pull the locket from the bag. My uncle hates me wearing it. So it’s usually hidden away. But my uncle isn’t here.
I slip the thin chain around my neck. The locket sits low, between my breasts. I smile at the feel of it. But suddenly, there’s a knock at the door to my quarters. My smile evaporates, and I stiffen. I walk quietly over to it. “Yes?”
“Katrina.”
Instantly, I tremble. It’s his voice—Micheal’s voice. And my name coming from that gruff and yet soft mouth makes me tingle all over. I know it shouldn’t. I know I should fear this man, not grow warm in secret places when he says my name.
I swallow dryly. I open the door. “Yes sir?” He stiffens, and I blush. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t…” he growls deeply. His eyes sweep over me. I blush and grip my robe, pulling it tight and closed around myself. His gaze hesitates on my chest. I don’t have to look down to know it’s that my nipples are hard and pressed to the thin robe. His gaze makes me tremble.
I should feel exposed. But I feel… wanted. In spite of what just happened before. His eyes seem harder this time. I feel desired in a way I’ve never felt desired before. Men have looked at me, of course. Pavel has certainly looked at me with a sort of hunger before. But the glint in Micheal’s eyes doesn’t make me tremble or cringe.
It makes me warm.
“Don’t call me that,” he grunts.
I look down. “I’m sorry.”
“Katrina.”
His hand touches my chin. I gasp quietly as he tilts my head up. His eyes hold mine fiercely, without blinking. The heat I felt before seems to spread thickly through my core.
“It wasn’t an admonishment,” Micheal growls. “It was just telling you that you don’t have to call me that.”
“I’m used to it, I guess.”
He frowns. “What, calling men sir?”
I instantly blush deeply. “Just my uncle. I don’t…”
I want to tell him that I’ve barely been around any other men but my uncle and cousin and the disgusting Pavel in years. But I realize that’s weird. I realize that would make me sound like a freak of some kind. A shut in, maybe.
“I won’t say it again,” I say quickly.
Micheal sighs. “I’m not… Katrina, I’m not telling you what you can and can’t do. This is not a rule. You won’t be in trouble if you say it. I’m just saying you can call me Micheal.”
I smile. Micheal. I say it a few times in my head, and I like the way it sounds.
“Micheal,” I say out loud.
“What happened just now…”
“I’m sorry,” I blurt. My face reddens.
“We don’t have to talk about it,” he growls. “And you do not need to do that.” Again, I feel that strange version of disappointment. Like I’m dismayed that he doesn’t want me.
His eyes narrow slightly. “Anton told you to make me happy, or to please me, didn’t he?” he hisses.
I swallow, and I nod. Micheal’s strong jaw tenses.
“You don’t have to do anything, Katrina.”
“Except marry you.”
His eyes glint fiercely. But he doesn’t say anything for several long seconds. Finally, he sighs. “Are you hungry?”
My stomach growls, as if on cue. I blush. Micheal’s face is neutral.
“I’ll have my chef prepare some dinner. Fifteen minutes, downstairs?”
I nod. “Thank you, Micheal. That’s very kind.”
“It’s food, Katrina,” he growls. “And you live here now. You don’t have to thank me for food.”
“Yes, I… yes.” I blush at my own awkwardness. “I’ll get dressed.”
“If you need anything from…” he frowns. “Please tell me if you need anything.”
This is the unflinching, stone-cold man in charge of one of the most dangerous criminal organizations in the country. The tremble I feel near him should be from fear and fear alone. It shouldn’t partly be desire. It shouldn’t be a forbidden heat that teases my very core.
“Food will be ready in fifteen minutes,” Micheal grunts. He shuts the door with a loud slam, leaving me red-faced and trembling. And again, it’s not all from fear.
Fifteen minutes later, exactly, I go downstairs. The chef smiles at me and introduces himself as Pierre. I sit at the kitchen counter, which is seemingly set for royalty. Pierre lays a plate carrying a perfect looking omelet down in front of me. He starts to walk away.
“Um… is Mr. Genovese eating as well?”
He turns back and shakes his head. “Mr. Genovese has retired for the night, miss.” He smiles and leaves the kitchen. I frown to myself and look down at my plate. I reach into my shirt and finger the locket hanging against my chest.
Why am I upset? Why am I sad that the man who owns me isn’t eating freaking omelets with me? I tremble. Perhaps it’s because the man who owns me has his claws in deeper than either of us knows.
Perhaps I might actually like that.
5
Micheal
I’m hard. Christ am I hard. In my office, I lean against the wall. My jaw tightens, and my hand drops to my pants. I cup myself and squeeze the bulge there. I groan and close my eyes.
She tempts me. She shouldn’t, but she does. I should be stronger, but I’m not. Clearly. This entire arrangement is fucked and wrong. And the age is only the half of it. Her being twenty years younger than me is enough of a red flag. But it seems like even Salvestro is overlooking the most important flag: she’s a fucking Korolyov.
Beyond anything else, she’s Anton’s blood. I understand that we have a truce of sorts. But the Korolyov clan are poison. They’re cancer. I see it plain as day in Anton’s eyes every time I have the misfortune of having to meet with him. He doesn’t see this as a mutual partnership. He sees himself as temporarily inconvenienced by having to deal with us. And now, he’s pushing for me to marry his goddamn niece?
I frown. It’s got “spy” written all fucking over it. And that little act just now? Her dropping her dress like she’s some kind of delicate innocent trying to play seductress? My scowl deepens. She’s a hell of a fucking actress.
Or it was real. That fear in her eyes when she pulled that little stunt was pretty damn convincing. If she’s pretending to be the reluctant trophy bride here, she’s giving an Oscar-worthy performance.
I close my eyes and take a breath. I need to get my shit together.
I had Pierre make her an omelet, but I wasn’t going to stay. Instead, I grab a bottle of scotch and a glass from the bar cart in my study. I storm over to my desk and sit. I pour myself a heavy glass and brood into it.
This is not good. I didn’t ask for this. Not because I don’t desire a girl like Katrina. I’m a red-blooded man, after all. Of course I fucking desire her. Any man who looks at a woman like her would. She’s gorgeous and young, and smooth. She’s alluring. She’s goddamn temptation.
I close my eyes and imagine slipping those panties from her. Or dropping that robe off of her body. I imagine taking her in my arms and pressing my lips to hers. I picture exploring her body, kissing my way down between the valley of her perky, full tits. I imagine myself pushing her legs apart and running my tongue over her tight little…
I groan and knock back the scotch. It’s been far too long. Far too long. After Marylyn, I shut myself away. I lost her young—far too young. Bellamy was barely five when Marylyn left me. A more accurate narrative is that she was taken from me. I scowl into my drink. I always think of it best as Marylyn cheating on me, though. That’s how she died. She cheated on me and forgot her love for me in favor
of love for another: heroin.
My ex-wife loved the needle more than me. More than Bellamy too, and that’s what broke my heart. But that was a lifetime ago.
Over the years, I eventually tried women again. I dated casually, but I never liked it. I never connected with anyone. Women see a widower, and a single father at that. And no matter of status or power or money, they want to mother you. They want to nurse you back to life. I don’t need nursing, and I never did. I needed to feel alive again. But I’m not sure I ever did after that.
My job helped me of course. Rising to the position I’m in now has made my blood run hot. It’s given me purpose in my life; a hunger to strive and to build higher. But the feeling has never come from a woman. Or it never did until this very night. Until Katrina walked into that conference room.
I turn to my laptop. I bring up the home security cameras. I need to distance myself, not fixate. But I can’t stop myself. I watch her in the kitchen. She eats her omelet slowly. When she’s done, she brings her plate to the kitchen sink. Pierre stops her with a smile. But she insists on rinsing her own plate. She puts it in the dishwasher, and I smile.
The cameras, and me, follow her upstairs. My eyes follow her steps down the hallway to her rooms. They follow her inside, too. My house, my domain.
Katrina leaves a light on and changes for bed: I see everything, shamelessly. I see every curve, and every hollow. I see every shadow. I see smooth skin and tempting pink nipples. I see the curve of her tight ass before she slips into pajamas. I groan, and my cock hardens. I grip myself again, squeezing tightly. I feel my length and my thickness throbs in response.
I crave her. I want her. I could have her, and I should. She’s going to be my goddamn wife for fucks sake, like it or not. There’s no faking it, either. That’s happening. If Don Salvatore and Don Bernardo deem it so and agree on it with Anton, it’s happening.
I tell myself it’s for the good of the family. It’s a calculated business move, no different than being ordered to take out a rival. But it is different. The angel on my screen slipping into bed isn’t a rival I’m meant to take out. She’s just a girl that I want to take.
