Game of Shadows

by Amanda K. Byrne

  I want fast. I want heat and sweat. I want mindless whimpers and bodies grappling over messy sheets. I don’t care if I have an orgasm or not. Although knowing Nick, he’ll work me over until I have one.

  Clothing’s yanked and ripped away until there’s nothing but skin. His, mine, rubbing together, his cock trapped against my belly as his tongue invades my mouth. I’m a squirming, incoherent mess. I am this close to insanity, the temporary madness of his body on mine a heady rush.

  Then he stops.

  He eases his way down, his lips soft and sweet and warm at my throat, along my shoulders, on the tops of my breasts. I suck in a breath, fisting my hands in the blankets as he flutters his tongue along my rib cage. It’s so weird, the gentleness, and terrifying the way it sends a signal straight to my core, fuck me fuck me fuck me now. It ramps up when he dips his fingers in between my legs, my hips undulating to meet his lazy thrusts.

  I need a distraction from the embarrassing wetness coating my inner thighs, something to throw off his slow, steady rhythm. Closing my hand around his dick, I copy one of his moves and suck his tongue into my mouth, pumping him, taunting him. He pushes himself into my hand. “Spread your legs, love,” he says, voice hoarse.

  Nope. I have other ideas. Other naughty ideas. I roll away from him and get on my hands and knees, sending a heated look over my shoulder.

  Nothing says fucking like doggy style.

  He curses and fumbles for a condom. Hands on my hips, he plunges forward, his hard length splitting me open. I brace myself on my forearms and snap my hips back against him, the harsh sound of flesh slapping flesh giving me what I wanted.

  They’re lonely sounds, the stuttered breaths, the bitten off moans, because they’re loosed into a void. He’s my living, breathing sex toy, and each drag of his cock through swollen tissues increases the emptiness.

  Then he hauls me upright, molding us together, one hand cupping my breast, the other banded around my waist. The only friction on my clit is from my own hand.

  This isn’t happening. My cells aren’t crying out with glee at the change. The tempo and tone of this has morphed into what I couldn’t handle tonight. Close, close sex, the intimacy of it staggering. It shouldn’t be, not this position, not how impersonal it is. No face to face contact. But my hips rock in counterpoint to his. The security, the surety of his body on mine, his mouth teasing my earlobe, smashes the distance from good old-fashioned fucking fun to more. This is Nick making me feel like this, Nick holding me to him as if he’ll catch me when I fall, Nick tipping my head back and kissing me as if he needs it more than he needs air. And all the while he’s thrusting into me steady, deep strokes designed to make us both insensate.

  The low, heavy thrum of the gathering tension gains strength, my body vibrating with the need for release. My legs can’t take much more of the strain. “Nick.” Help me help me help me. I can’t reach it. I can’t get there on my own. “Please.”

  “Hold on,” he mutters. The arm around my waist loosens as I cup the back of his neck, and he strokes his hand down, sliding his thumb over the aching bundle of nerves. The world flashes bright, blinding white, and I dig my fingers into his skin, seeking purchase.

  “Again,” I gasp. Again again again again. He does, thumb taunting, a scream building in my lungs. I’ve never screamed before.

  But then, I’ve never felt an orgasm as massive as the one bearing down on me now.

  It decimates. Levels me, shatters everything I know about sex and pleasure and reforms it into this…this thing that devolves into that scream. He goes rigid, his hands holding tight enough to bruise, and we fall forward, Nick twisting at the last minute so we land on our sides.

  I am so totally, thoroughly, and utterly screwed. This is not just sex anymore. This is absolutely Sex With Nick, sex that Means Something, and I can’t imagine what that is.

  Apparently it means I whine when he leaves the bed to get rid of the condom. He returns a moment later and lays down in front of me, expression wary. “What the fuck was that?”

  Blunt words. True words. A question I don’t have an answer for, and neither does he. “I was hoping you’d know.” Any other guy, any other situation, I’d say I’m well into the I seriously like you and not just in the I want to get in your pants all the frickin’ time point in a relationship.

  How long have I known him? Two weeks? Less than that. It’s not love. It’s more than lust. This is A Relationship. It has the power to be big and important, and I feel like those words deserve capital letters.

  His grin doesn’t reach his eyes. “If I did, I wouldn’t have asked.” He lifts a hand, then hesitates, uncertainty clear on his face. “Come here.”

  I scoot forward, not stopping until my nose is smooshed against his chest. “You have a cuddle fetish?”

  “No. But I think I’m developing a Cass fetish. It’s more pronounced when you’re naked.”

  I’d laugh, but I think I’m developing a Nick fetish to match his me fetish. “Your timing sucks.”

  “No doubt. Don’t really care.” He laces his fingers through my hair and tugs gently, tipping my head back. “Figure we’ll just make it up as we go along.”

  Yeah, I’m definitely in the I seriously like you phase. At least I don’t have to pass him a note to know he feels the same way. “I can do that.” Improvisation is my friend. “Is there more cake?”

  His laugh spins through me, slinking into the dark places and warming them. “If there’s not, I’ll have another one delivered.”

  Oh, goody. I do like me some cake.

  * * * *

  Cake tastes even better after amazing sex.

  I dunk a bite of cake in the melting vanilla ice cream I’d scooped on top and pop it into my mouth. “Umf. Good.”

  He sits up and leans forward. “Gimme.”

  I shield the cake with my body. “Mine. Get your own.”

  He reaches around and sticks his finger in the ice cream before dabbing it on my lips. He licks it off, giving me a lazy smile. “Yours is better.”

  When he puts it that way, it doesn’t take much to convince me to share. We polish off the piece, and then he goes and gets another, adding chocolate syrup this time. I groan. “Jesus. You’re trying to kill me.”

  “Nah. I leave that to my other family members.”

  He did not just say that.

  “Too soon to joke?”

  I snatch the cake plate from him. “Tact much?”

  He has the decency to look sheepish. “Sorry. Age doesn’t always equal maturity.”

  “No shit,” I mumble around a mouthful of cake. I swallow and lick my lips. “Your dad offered to help.”

  “Did he? Or did he tell you to call him if you needed anything?” Stealing the plate back, he scoops up cake. “There’s a difference where my father’s concerned. He’ll step in once you’ve run into so many brick walls your face is unrecognizable.”

  “Oh.” The vague warm fuzzy I’d gotten over his offer cools significantly. Stupid of me to think he was any different from Turner. I tip over onto my back. “I’m tired of this. Someone wants me dead. Someone wants you dead. It would be much simpler if they’d just come out, announce their intentions, and then shoot. Or something.”

  “Where’s the fun in that?”

  I lift my head and stick my tongue out at him. “Don’t tell me you don’t wish something like that would happen. Don’t you want your life to go back to normal?”

  He must have set the plate down somewhere because his hands are gliding up my legs. “Depends. Is it the old normal or the new normal?”

  “What’s the difference?”

  My blood heats as he works his way up, the gentle touch reminiscent of his earlier caresses. “Old normal was work, take out someone’s kneecaps, more work, and work again. New normal?” His fingers find their way into the leg of the boxers I pulled on. “New normal’s pretty much the same except I keep getting distracted by a very
pretty assassin.” Heat flares across my cheeks, and he grins. “Cute. I like it when you blush.”

  “Shut up.” I squirm, trying to make contact with his wandering hands, blowing out a frustrated breath when he withdraws. He settles himself between my legs, bracing himself on his forearms. “So I guess that means I don’t need to have you check yes or no?”

  “Yes or no?” He dips his head to nuzzle my temple. Sigh. The many, many sides of Dominic Kosta. The sweet, languid side might turn me into a puddle someday.

  “You must have gotten those notes in school. The ones that said ‘Do you like me? Check yes or no.’” Turning my head, I press my mouth to the first piece of skin I find, a spot just in front of his ear.

  “I remember those notes. Maybe I should pass you one.” One hand sneaks under the hem of my tank. “Mine would say ‘Do you want me to fuck you? Check yes or yes.’”

  “Hmmm. I don’t know. You sure I don’t have any other options?” I curve my leg around his hip, rubbing against his erection, groaning when he nibbles on my earlobe.

  “Sure. There’s also ‘Yes please and thank you.’”

  I laugh, loving the smile he’s pressing into my neck. “Oh, that one. Definitely that one.”

  He raises his head and smooths the hair away from my face, all teasing gone from his expression. “We could do it, though. Word spreads through the organization pretty quick. You want to put your face out there, take a chance someone will come straight at you, I’ll make it happen. You’ll never have a second alone until the threat is gone, but you want it, I’ll do it.”

  If only it were that simple. I give him a half smile. “Wouldn’t work. The whole point is to get me alone. Next time I’ll be more prepared. And I’ll try not to kill the guy before I get some answers.” I kiss away his frown. “Distract me,” I murmur. “Yes please and thank you.”

  “So demanding.” He captures my lower lip between his teeth, an enticing preview of coming events.

  I don’t think of anything but him for the rest of the night.

  Chapter 25

  Normally, bullet points are fantastic. They lay out information in a clear, concise manner, leaving little room for error or interpretation.

  The bullet points staring me in the face right now are not fantastic. These are the points I have to bring to Nick, and he’s not going to be pleased.

  My gut is right. It says Constantine is behind all this, that he’s hiding his desire to oust his cousin from the top spot behind an affable and charming façade.

  In the past four years, Constantine was the lead on fifteen different deals, split between Nick’s legitimate holdings and the family’s ever expanding empire. Of those fifteen, Marc played a crucial role in five and dropped the ball, much like they were worried Isaiah would do, forcing Nick and Constantine into taking over to close the deal.

  And of those fifteen, four fell through, four were saved by Constantine, and the remainder were saved by Nick. After Constantine was brought on board.

  It’s not nearly enough to prove anything. There’s only so much I can determine by looking at files. What I need are impressions. I need people who will talk to me. I have to figure out what questions to ask because I’m almost certain Constantine is in the trenches here, whispering in a few well-placed ears, planting the seeds of dissatisfaction.

  I’d be unhappy. From what it looks like, Nick had to step in over Constantine’s protests to save the deals. And I can’t forget Constantine is one of the few who could give Josef orders and expect him to follow through.

  The list taunts me. I have to show this to Nick and convince him he needs to take a closer look at the cousin who’s more like a brother to him. There’s always the possibility I’ll be wrong, and that could damage whatever’s building between Nick and me.

  Good. I’m not cut out to handle feelings, anyway.

  Liar.

  Tucking my hair behind my ears, I stand, smooth down my skirt, and pick up my notepad, resisting the urge to tug at the hem of my shirt. I’ll get the bad thing out of the way so I can move on to the fun thing: lunch with Lia.

  Nick grins when he sees me in his doorway. The expression fades when I don’t return it. I shut the door behind me and lock it for good measure. Being interrupted during this conversation would not be a good idea.

  This is going to suck so hard.

  “So what’ve you found?” His tone is casual, relaxed, and you’d think he’s talking about a movie he enjoyed or the weather.

  “Um,” I hedge. I draw in a breath, blow it out. Remind myself my gut’s never led me wrong before, and it’s not going to now.

  “I think I may have figured out who’s behind this, but I can’t go much further with the information I can access.” His gaze sharpens, and I try to reach the cold, dark space inside me and fail. Fuck it. I can do this without the detachment. “It’s someone in the family. Someone who has high clearance, or whatever you want to call it. Someone who has seven valid reasons to resent you.”

  I hand over the list. “These are the deals, both legitimate and within the family, that were headed by Constantine over the last four years. As you can see, he’s got a reason to resent you from those alone based on the money they brought in. He’s placed high enough people will listen to any mutterings he passes along about needing a change in leadership. He’s one of the few who is authorized to give kill orders to Josef. That’s a pretty strong case to look closer.

  “I’m not saying I’m positive,” I add, withholding my wince at his carefully blank face. “Just that he’s got an awful lot of reasons to want you out of your position, and not a lot of reasons to keep you in it. The only thing I can’t understand is why he wants me gone too. Unless he had his doubts from the beginning that I’d follow through and sent the men after you to ensure the job was done, and I just got caught in the crossfire.”

  Nick stares at my list, his shoulders rigid with tension. I study the blinds, his bookshelves, the potted tree in the corner. Anything to avoid looking at him. The longer the silence stretches, the more fearful I become because his expression has only grown emptier. Colder. This is the man I knew he was all along—deadly and not to be messed with.

  Finally he sets the list down. “You believe he tried to have us both killed,” he says slowly.

  “I believe he wanted you dead. I’m still not sure how I fit into all of this.”

  “Your argument, from a logical standpoint, makes sense, but lacks evidence.” He gets up, walks to the window, and yanks open the blinds with a violent tug. It’s the only outward sign he’s unhappy. “You’re certain.”

  I shake my head. “Not certain. But my gut’s never been wrong.” My exhalation is shaky. “My gut told me not to kill Marc,” I whisper. “He shouldn’t have died. I ignored it. Only time I have, and it’s come back to bite me on the ass.”

  He simply grunts, and his gaze drifts to his desktop and the offending list. I let myself out, sure I’ve just knocked our forward progress back about fifteen steps. Nothing like calling into question the trustworthiness and loyalty of someone who’s held both for possibly decades.

  The underground parking garage is deserted as I make my way to Nick’s car. Footsteps echoing off the cement floors, it takes me a minute to figure out I’m not alone, and I stop short of the car, scanning the garage. Isaiah appears from around a corner, and I smile. “Hey.”

  “Hey, Cass.” He comes up and wraps me in one of his bear hugs. “How’s your project coming along?”

  I shrug. “It’s going. Where are you off to?”

  His smile drops, leaving behind the cold lines of a seasoned warrior. “You’ll find out in a minute.”

  The shock of the Taser screams up my spine.

  * * * *

  Feeling’s returned to my legs, though it doesn’t do me any good. They’re currently bound together and secured to a pipe. Same with my arms. The rope chafes my wrists, and for one hysterical moment I wish for Nick’s
fuzzy fuchsia handcuffs. My shoes are missing, and my feet are freezing.

  We’re in some sort of small machine room. The hum of the large metal box Isaiah’s sitting on is loud enough he has to raise his voice somewhat for me to hear him. That is, I’m pretty sure he’s talking. I’m more interested in the large knife in his hands.

  Light glints off the blade as he turns it around, a wicked, thin piece of steel too wide to be a stiletto. Focusing on that is better than wallowing in the fear licking its way through my body.

  A knife like that means business. A knife like that means I won’t be leaving this room alive. The only question is if he’ll slit my throat or if he’ll go for someplace slower. Stomach maybe, or my wrists.

  I keep my mouth shut. I already know why I’m here: Marc. My instincts failed me. My instincts said dig into Constantine’s life. I underestimated the depth of Isaiah’s grief. I wonder what else I’ve underestimated about him.

  “Why?” He stops flipping the knife, dark eyes alive and agonized in an otherwise perfect mask of bland.

  He’s not going to like this answer. “It was a job.”

  “Who hired you?” He crouches in front of me, knife at the ready.

  The metal box ceases its hum, the quiet in the small room deafening. “I don’t know.”

  The knife swings down in a flash of steel, slicing along my left shin. A quick, searing pain races outward from the cut, dulling to a slight ache as blood chugs from the wound. It’s not deep, though it’ll leave a scar. One more for my collection.

  “Wrong answer.”

  Fearful, screaming Cass is crowding out cold, unaffected Cass. I shove her away. My pride’s about all I have left here, bound as I am. I wiggle my wrists behind my back, the rope burning into my skin with each twist. The man knows his knots. By the time I loosen these enough to free myself, I’ll be well on my way to dead. Isaiah’s clearly not worried about being found, which tells me either the security cameras are disabled or no one’s watching them. “Would it matter if I knew? It was business, Isaiah.”