by Naima Simone
The question sent heat spiraling through her, ratcheting the desire that still hummed in her veins. As did his term “upstairs.” What the hell did that mean? More specifically, what waited for her upstairs? Anxiety and anticipation knotted her belly, sharpening the razor’s edge of the hunger that still had her pussy clenching and releasing, begging for the release that Killian had withheld.
They exited the room, Killian first, his huge, muscled body a barrier between her and the crowd beyond. Not that she’d had to worry. An L-shaped wall blocked them from the interior of the club, granting privacy. In four short steps, Killian paused in front of a section of wall and pressed a button on a panel. Almost immediately, the wall slid open. She blinked. An elevator. The doors had blended so seamlessly into the wall, she hadn’t noticed until they parted, the soft light inside casting a short glow.
With a tip of his head, Killian gestured for her to precede him. Her bare feet slid over the carpeted floor of the elevator, and she curled her toes into the surprisingly lush nap. Apparently, Killian, Rion, and Sasha had spared no expense. Or maybe a half-clothed woman in bare feet wasn’t an anomaly for this opulent elevator.
The doors closed with barely a hiss, and she surveyed the showpiece. The box was small, but boasted mirrored walls, warm, wood panels, and even a small crystal chandelier. It was elegant, lovely, and almost unexpected in this place that reeked of sin, excess, and indulgence.
“This is beauti—” She broke off, Killian’s stiff figure distracting her, cutting off the rest of her compliment. What the hell?
Tension fairly vibrated from him, and his big hands curled and straightened, curled and straightened. His broad chest rose and fell on deep, but labored, breaths. Sweat dotted his forehead, and one lone bead tracked a path down his temple to his rock-hard, tensely clenched jaw. Unease flitted through her, and she reached for him, but at the last second, lowered her arm, remembering they weren’t about comfort.
“Killian.”
He didn’t move, his narrowed stare stuck on the wall in front of him as if the map to the Holy Grail was engraved in its glossy surface.
“Killian,” she said, raising her voice and inserting a note of steel in it. “Look at me.”
A long second passed, but then woodenly, he turned his head, his hazel eyes dark, the pupils dilated. He stared at her, but somehow she doubted he saw her. Not with that sharp, almost brittle emotion blackening the depths.
Panic. She recognized the shell-shocked, almost animalistic fear. After her mother had been raped by one of her johns under a bridge, she’d been petrified of crossing one. Each time they’d travelled over Longfellow or Tobin Bridge, her mother would seize up, the air would whistle out of her nose, and her knuckles would pale from the death grip on the door or her purse. Killian wore that same sense of terror. But from what? What had triggered it?
With those questions ringing in her head, she didn’t allow pride or fear of rejection to keep her on her side of the elevator. The gut-wrenching thought of him—this powerful, strong, dominant man—enslaved by terror had her eliminating the small space between them. She slid between him and the wall, cupped his face and tilted his head down so he had no choice but to meet her gaze.
“Killian,” she repeated his name, smoothing the pads of her thumbs over his cheekbones. Her touch was firm as she tried to ground him in the here and now with her, and not in that place of lonely, dark, paralyzing panic. “Baby, look at me. Please.” Triumph winged through her when his gaze lightened. It was only the tiniest degree, but at least he was listening to her, seeing her. “Breathe me with me, okay? In.” She inhaled through her nose. “And out,” she ordered, exhaling through parted lips. “Do it with me, baby. In. Out. In. Out.”
Gradually, he followed her example, all that intense focus trained on her, her face, the pattern of their breaths. When the elevator gently bumped to a stop and the doors slid open, the shadows had cleared from his gaze, and the harsh lines around his mouth and eyes had eased. His body remained strung tight, but he’d come back to her.
He’d come back to her.
Jesus. She had to be careful. Too easily she could forget the landmines that lay between them, and convince herself they could have…what? A relationship built on the past? A past riddled with betrayal, resentment, and lust. Yeah, that would make a solid foundation. She’d sold him out years ago to save his life, and now he couldn’t ever trust her again.
It didn’t matter. Couldn’t matter.
In three days, she would leave Boston again, and they could both return to the lives they’d pulled together out of the wreckage. But at least she would have him. Even for a few hours, she would have him.
His hands covered hers and lowered them, striding forward and backing her out of the elevator, his fingers still clasped around hers. The stark darkness had completely dissipated from his eyes, and the frenetic tension had seemed to shift to something else—something calmer, but heavier, hotter. Whatever had happened to him in the elevator had passed, leaving behind the indomitable, invulnerable man who had stalked her across a club then thrown down a dirty, naughty bargain that had her on her knees…literally.
He released her and, with a palm on the small of her back, guided her down a dimly lit hallway. Apparently, the “upstairs” comprised another section of the club. A more private one from the lack of traffic and noise in the empty corridor. She glanced at the old-fashioned sconces that cast a low light over the walls and the floor, as well as the murals depicting a grandfather clock, people in ornate costumes, and a chandelier. At any other time, she would have appreciated the beauty of the gothic-like mural, but Killian had stopped in front of a green door.
Her heart launched for her throat. Feminine instinct warned her that as soon as she walked through that door, there would be no turning back. That what awaited her on the other side would change her. And probably not for the better.
Killian entered the room, then turned and held his hand out.
End it now. Walk out of here, go home, and you’ll still have your heart intact…
She placed her hand in his and followed him inside.
Chapter Five
Killian studied Gabriella’s slim back, and the slender, curved legs that seemed to stretch for miles from under her blue shirt. The hem barely cleared the bottom of her ass, and every step she took was a torturous tease. He’d already seen her ass, had cupped it, squeezed it as he ate her sweet flesh, but even minutes later, he wanted, craved, more.
God, that pussy. He rolled his bottom lip between his teeth and slicked his tongue over it. He could still taste her. After so many years, he’d convinced himself that she hadn’t flowed sweet and thick like the purest honey. That she hadn’t been so addictive. He’d almost lost himself between her thighs, would’ve willingly drowned in her, if he hadn’t dragged himself back from the edge at the last moment. She’d accused him of being a bastard for leaving her right on the brink of orgasm, for leaving her hurting. What she didn’t know was pulling away from her had punished him as well. He would’ve gladly offered up his left nut to have her slick, firm muscles squeeze his fingers as she flooded his hand. Have her clit swell and contract against his tongue. Have her screams of completion rain down on him.
It’d been shiny new and so damn familiar. A surprise and predictable. The old Gabriella had never taunted him, pushed him. Not that she’d been meek; it’d been Gabriella’s strength that had made her submission so perfect and precious. This slightly older and hardened version of the woman who haunted his memories challenged him with her mouth, eyes, and body. But the taste, the grip of her sex, her immediate, uninhibited response—they were all the same. Just as he remembered.
Where had she been all these years? What had she been doing? Was she okay? Unbidden, the questions flocked his head. He shouldn’t care, but gone was the innocence that had somehow still managed to lighten her eyes back then, though she’d seen nothing but the seedier side of life with her mother’s lifestyle, his mob conne
ctions, and the barrage of people that tracked in and out of Garrett’s bar. The purple gaze seemed sharper, watchful, and full of a knowledge that only experience brought. Hard experience. Her wide, full mouth didn’t smile.
I miss it.
Again, the thought crept into his head before he could block it. But once there, he couldn’t deny it. Gabriella always had a smile for him—one capable of lighting up a room as well as the darkness that grew bigger every day in his chest. He’d walk into her uncle’s bar fresh off a night of gambling, stealing, or collecting debts, and she’d look up from whatever table she waited on and given him that luminescent curve of mouth that let him know he was wanted, missed, cared about…loved.
She even walked differently, he observed as she paced the room, arms crossed over her chest. No longer bouncy and fast as if she’d just downed three cups of coffee. Now her steps were measured, slower, like those of someone always ready and prepared to flee or fight. Streetwise. Yeah, that was it. Somewhere in the last four years and eight months, Gabriella had become streetwise.
“What is this? Your own personal playroom?” The question, or rather the slightly defiant tone beneath it, drew him away from his contemplation of her newer mannerisms and demeanor. “My sister-in-law was regaling me with rumors of your reputation.”
He didn’t immediately answer, weighing how much to tell her. After a second, he opted to confirm only the information the gossips spread. “No, the playroom is another section of The Loft. This is the exclusive, membership-only part of the club. People pay to play up here without judgment or censorship, and with the promise of the utmost discretion and privacy.”
“A sex club?” she asked, disbelief rife in her tone.
“Aphrodisiac club,” he corrected. “With the exception of anything demeaning or unsanitary, whatever a person finds sexually exciting, we offer.”
She scrunched up her nose in an adorable moue. “And I thought L.A. had some kinky shit. Why?”
Los Angeles. That answered the where.
“You really asking me that?” he asked, voice low, saturated with the lust kindled by the rapid-fire succession of memories across his frontal lobe. Gabriella, spread eagle on her bed, helpless to his mouth and fingers. Gabriella, on her knees, swallowing his cock inch by inch. Gabriella, on her elbows and knees, ass in the air, slowly taking him inside that tight back entrance… How many times had he needed to cover her mouth with his hand to keep her screams from waking her neighbors through the paper-thin walls of her apartment? Or had to move them from the squeaking mattress to the floor for the same reason?
Yeah, she more than anyone should understand the draw of having a safe, worry-free place to indulge in fantasy sex.
“And as the owner, do you…play…here often?” she rasped.
He arched an eyebrow. “Do you really want me to answer that question, Gabriella?” he murmured. “Because be careful what you ask for. I’ll give you the truth if that’s what you really want.”
Her eyes narrowed on him, then after a moment, she whispered, “No. I don’t think I do.”
Good. Because if he did tell her, the masochistic side of him might demand a like answer, and he damn sure didn’t want to know that. Unlike Rion and Sasha, one of his vices hadn’t been sharing. And though she hadn’t been his for years—had she ever?—the thought of another man caressing all that golden flesh had him hungering for another round in a makeshift ring.
“Are you okay?” The softly spoken question jarred him, and he met her concerned gaze. She tipped her head toward the door. “From the elevator. Are you okay?”
And that topic effectively shut down any kernels of curiosity and simmering desire. Doused it like an ice-cold bucket of water over a campfire. Goddamn claustrophobia. Normally, he avoided the elevator like the clap. When he accessed The Loft, he took the back entrance and steps. But in his hurry to get Gabriella upstairs, he’d been willing to suffer the minute in the confining cage. He’d believed he could handle it. And thinking with his dick had him turning into a goddamn, sweating statue in front of Gabriella.
“I’m fine.” The clipped words should’ve warned her off, and for a moment, he thought she would drop it, but again, this was the new Gabriella.
“What happened?” she pressed. “It was a panic attack, right? My mother used to have them.” So that’s how she’d known how to center him, assist him through it. If he closed his eyes, he could still feel the gentle but firm touch of her hands on his face. Could still feel the deep breaths she’d coached him through. Still spy the concern in her amethyst gaze.
A greasy slide of shame slithered through his veins. He hated—detested—that she’d seen him weak. Goddamn fragile. Some people came out of jail and were able to put the time behind them, but Killian couldn’t. Not when entering his office every night reminded him of that hell. Now his fear was the gift that kept on fucking giving.
“I don’t like enclosed spaces,” he growled, unbuckling his belt. He needed to distract her…distract himself. He’d come here to lose himself in her, not lose his shit.
“Oh, baby, I’m sorry,” she breathed, her arms lowering as if she would reach for him again as she’d done in the elevator.
Baby.
The endearment sucker-punched him. She’d called him that minutes ago, but he’d been too focused on calming down and getting his shit together to fully register it. Now, with a clear head, the word scored him from sternum to sack. Only she had ever dared to call him that; she was the only one he’d allowed. And hearing it on her lips now… No. Especially when before the incident in the elevator, the last time she’d whispered “baby” he’d been wrapped around her slender body after making love.
I love you, baby. I always will.
That had been the night before the ambush and he’d been robbed of two years of humanity.
“I was okay before I went inside.” Pain, grief, and anger coalesced in his chest, the hot ball of emotion swirling, pushing against his rib cage. “But after a month in the hole, any small space feels like six feet of dirt is crushing my chest. I couldn’t even stand up straight in that cell, couldn’t inhale a breath that didn’t taste of piss or sweat. Shut in twenty-three hours a day, I almost lost my mind as well as my voice.”
Her low sigh reverberated in the room like a boom, and the heaviness in it almost penetrated the glacial wall that encased his heart. “Killian, you have no reason to believe or trust me. But I didn’t mean to harm you. I definitely didn’t intend for you to be locked up for two years. Or to suffer and lose so much.”
“Really?” He arched an eyebrow. “And just what did you think would happen when you called the police? That they would come out and tell us all to just mosey along?” he drawled, the familiar anger rekindling inside him.
“I wasn’t thinking,” she admitted in a low voice. “I was scared as hell, and I didn’t think past saving you from being shot down.”
Killian nodded, his gaze solemn. “But it still comes down to you not trusting me to not endanger myself or you. To you not believing I would make the correct choice for both of us. Which I did. I arrived in time to convince Jamie that it wasn’t safe to go ahead with the meeting. But then the cops showed up and took us all to the station to ‘straighten things out,’” he sneered, his bitterness with the police still eating away at him. “You know what happened after that.” The helplessness and powerlessness that had drowned him at the time clawed up his chest. “So whatever your intentions, they were for shit.” He shook his head, slicing a hand through the air. “Now unless you’ve changed your mind, we’re through talking.”
He waited a heartbeat, the silence deafening. A surge of lust, satisfaction, and that deeper emotion he refused to acknowledge roared through him when she remained quiet. He kept offering her an out, abhorring the thought that he might be forcing her. She needed to be willing, needed to want this as much as him. Because he couldn’t turn back, couldn’t rescind his offer. Some freak twist of fate had provided him with the p
erfect excuse for stroking her soft skin, sucking those pert, perfect breasts, kissing and fucking that pretty pussy without getting emotionally on the hook.
Everything he did to her tonight was about finally getting her out of his system, not love. Loving her had taught him that vulnerability and weakness weren’t options. Trust in the wrong person, showing that person your soft underbelly, only meant devastation. One of his cell mates, a wannabe philosopher from Brighton, had been fond of quoting the Greek historian and general, Thucydides: The strong do what they can and the weak suffer what they must. While in prison, he’d had to suffer his two-year sentence, but when he got out, he’d been determined to never be at anyone’s mercy again. Not the mob’s, not the police’s…not love’s. As long as he kept his heart uninvolved, he could do whatever the hell he wanted. He was in control.
So after tonight, he would finally evict Gabriella from his memories, his dreams. He would be Gabriella James free.
Yet, as he stared at her loveliness, he had to thrust his fingers in his hair, loosening the bun at the back, to keep from reaching out to her…dragging her close, holding her so tight his arms grew numb. And he would still hold her.
“Lose the shirt,” he ordered. Lust reignited in his gut, thickening his voice.
She stared at him, and he carefully studied her for any hint of indecision or fear. The need to strap her down and spread her wide, render her vulnerable, clawed at the underside of his skin, but if he caught even a trace of uncertainty or anxiety, he’d walk her out of The Loft and the club himself.
But she barely hesitated as she started to unbutton her shirt. Except for dropping his arms, he didn’t move—couldn’t move—every bit of his attention focused on the skin she exposed. He’d already had his mouth on her sweet flesh, but the need to see her lovely, full breasts with their cherry-colored tips rode him hard. Already he could feel her nipples pebbling against his tongue. Eyes fixed on her, he dragged the tails of his shirt free and undid the buttons.
