Cruel Paradise (Beautifully Cruel Book 2)

by J. T. Geissinger

  I squeeze my eyes shut and turn my face to the sheets. My voice strangled, I say, “You know why.”

  He’s still except for his ragged breathing. Buried deep inside me, his cock throbs, but he ignores it. He kisses my cheek again, nuzzles his nose into my hair.

  Then he slides out of me, rolls me over to my back, and pushes into me again, framing my face in his hands. His eyes blazing with emotion, he whispers, “No. Tell me.”

  That look in his eyes is overwhelming. That need. That desperate longing. I turn my head, sucking in a hitching breath.

  He kisses my neck, my jaw, my temple. He tangles his fingers into my hair. He presses deeper into me, watching my face like his life depends on it.

  I wrap my legs around his waist and my arms around his back and close my eyes.

  “Tell me,” he says next to my ear.

  I roll my hips and stay silent. I know if I opened my mouth, all that would come out are more sobs.

  “Tell me it’s because you know you won’t be able to go back to who you were before we met,” he whispers. “Like I won’t.”

  “Killian—”

  “Tell me it’s because you want me the same way I want you, even though it doesn’t make sense. Even though it’s impossible.”

  I can’t catch my breath. He’s inside me, all over me, his weight and his heat and his intensity, and I’m exposed in every way underneath him. I’m nothing but a beating heart and a naked bundle of raw nerves.

  He says gently, “Tell me it’s because you know nothing else could ever be as good as this.”

  I beg, “Please don’t be sweet. I don’t have any defenses against you when you’re sweet.”

  He bends his head to my breasts and nuzzles them, licking my hard nipples, gently testing them with his teeth.

  Delirious with pleasure, I moan and arch into his mouth.

  He starts a slow, steady motion of his hips, thrusting deep but gently. Greedy for him, I slide my hands underneath his T-shirt and up his back, loving the feel of his muscles as they work. Loving the smoothness and warmth of his skin.

  He goes back and forth between my breasts, sucking and licking, cupping them in his huge hands as he flexes his hips. I’m panting. Sweating. Trying desperately not to crumble.

  When I’m writhing and shaking, on the edge of another orgasm, he puts his hand around my throat and presses his thumb against my jugular vein.

  Then he fucks me harder.

  I gasp his name.

  He lifts his head from my breasts and puts his mouth next to my ear. His voice is a dark, irresistible command.

  “Come.”

  I do, instantly.

  He groans as I convulse around him, my head tipped back, crying out. My nails dig into the muscles of his back. My thighs clench around his hips. Still hot and wet from his mouth, my nipples throb and ache in the cool air.

  He discards the smooth, rolling motion of his hips and pumps into me faster and more frantically. The headboard starts to slam over and over again into the wall. He’s moaning and shaking, pulling my hair.

  Then he falls still with a sound like he’s in extreme pain.

  My eyes fly open, and I see he’s wearing an expression of extreme pain, too. I say breathlessly, “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  He answers through a clenched jaw. “Didn’t wear a condom.”

  “God, you scared me.” I relax against the mattress, letting the tension drain from my limbs. “Roll over.”

  His gaze hazy, he blinks at me in confusion. “Why?”

  “Do you want to come in my mouth or not?”

  He stops breathing. Then, in a flash, he’s on his back and I’m straddling him, smiling down into his fierce, wild-eyed face.

  I whisper, “That’s what I thought, gangster.”

  I roll my hips, and he groans. He reaches up to fondle my bare breasts. His eyes drift shut. I flatten my hands over his broad chest and roll my hips again, grinding my clit against his pelvis.

  “You’re drenched,” he says faintly. “Your pussy is so wet. So hot. So fucking—”

  He breaks off with another groan when I start to grind faster, finding a rhythm that sends shockwaves of pleasure surging through me and makes my breasts bounce in his hands.

  He grabs my hips and thrusts up into me, his body jerking, all the tendons standing out in his neck.

  “You’re so hard for me.” I gasp. “Oh god. I’m going to come again. Killian. Killian—”

  He pinches both my nipples at the same time. I climax, shuddering and moaning on top of him, my head thrown back.

  “Baby—ah fuck, I can’t—I can’t—”

  A deep, broken moan breaks from his chest. He falls completely still, every muscle in his body straining. I barely have enough time to scramble off him and take his throbbing cock into my mouth before he’s spilling onto my tongue. I wrap my hand around his shaft and suck.

  His fingers twisted in my hair, he thrusts up into my mouth, shouting.

  It’s a strange sort of elation I feel, watching him fall apart. Watching as he completely loses himself to the pleasure I’m giving him with my mouth and my hands, with every stroke and slide of my tongue. He’s so huge, so strong and powerful, but he’s helpless, jerking into my mouth uncontrolled, calling out my name like a prayer.

  I close my eyes and swallow every drop of what he gives me.

  Along with it goes my final shreds of denial that this thing between us is going to be anything but a total catastrophe.

  I knew it, but it wasn’t until just now that I accepted it.

  We’re going to burn each other to the ground.

  I awake sometime later on my side, nestled against him, my head resting on his chest and my leg caught between his. The room is dark except for the small blue light glowing on the cable box on the dresser across the room. Beneath my ear, Killian’s heart is a slow and steady thump.

  He murmurs, “You said my name in your sleep.”

  I hope he’s making that up because otherwise, I’m going to die of humiliation. “Do you ever sleep?”

  “Not around you.”

  Toying with my hair, he presses a kiss to the top of my head. His so big and warm and comfortable. Dangerously comfortable. I could stay right here in this bed for the rest of my life.

  “I have a question for you.”

  “Hmm.”

  “How do you always know where to find me?”

  His voice achingly gentle, he says, “The same way a compass knows how to find true north.”

  Oh shit. He’s being sweet again. I shut my eyes and draw a slow, steadying breath.

  He gives me a squeeze, chuckling. “Such a big softie,” he whispers.

  “Look who’s talking. And compasses don’t point true north. They point to magnetic north, which isn’t the same thing.”

  “I know. But it wouldn’t have had the same romantic ring to it. True north being a euphemism for—”

  “Don’t say it,” I beg. “God. Please. Are you trying to kill me, or what?”

  “No, lass. Just trying to scale the fortress walls.”

  “Well, stop it.”

  “No.”

  I exhale in a ragged gust. I swear, I’m going to need some kind of cardiac surgery after this. A quadruple bypass, at the very least.

  We lie in silence for a moment, long enough for my pulse to return to near normal levels. My fingers decide to take a lingering stroll over the architecture of his abdomen. His skin is satin. His abs are steel. When I lightly trace the outline of his belly button with my forefinger, a delicate shudder runs through his chest.

  I whisper, “Killian?”

  “Aye, lass?”

  “If I asked you to give a million dollars to the Red Cross, would you do it?”

  “Of course.” Thoughtful pause. “Are you asking?”

  “I think so. Yes.”

  “Done.”

  “Okay. Thank you.” It’s my turn to pause. “How will I know?”

  His vo
ice turns warm. “I’ll think of something. Any other charitable donations you’d like me to make, while we’re on the topic?”

  Thinking, I run my finger around and around that fascinating little indentation in the middle of his hard belly. I resist the urge to lean down and stroke it with my tongue. “Um. Probably? But…”

  I feel his attention sharpen. “But what?”

  “Never mind. It’ll sound weird.”

  “If you think I’ll let this go now, you don’t know me at all.”

  Sighing, I say, “Fine. What I’d like you to do instead of another charitable donation is, um…not something bad.”

  “What is it?”

  “No, that’s it. I want you to not do something bad.”

  He considers that in silence for a while, running his fingers through my hair. “Like what kind of something, for instance?”

  “Pick one. You’re a mob boss. I’m sure there are a dozen bad things you do in your daily schedule that you could name right off the top of your head.”

  He pretends to think. “So, like…don’t run over a grandmother with my car? Because I’ve got that scheduled for Tuesdays.”

  “Ha ha.”

  “Wednesdays I usually shoot up a barrel full of puppies. Thursdays are for helping blind people cross the street but leaving them in the middle of the crosswalk when the light changes, and Fridays I like to commit a little light fraud. Identity theft, telemarketing scams, that sort of thing.”

  “You’re a jerk.”

  “Oh—you’ll like this—on the weekends I usually buy a few dozen powdered donuts and take them down to the local homeless shelter.”

  He waits until I relent, rolling my eyes. “Okay, I’ll play your silly game. Why is that bad?”

  He stifles a laugh. “Because the powdered donuts are actually plain ones that I rolled in glue and baby powder.”

  I sigh.

  He pushes me onto my back, throws one heavy leg over both of mine, props himself up on his elbow, and smiles down at me. “Wait til I tell you what I’ve got scheduled for Mondays, lass.”

  I say tartly, “Let me guess. Bombing a hospital? Poisoning a municipal water supply? Killing off an entire comedy club audience with your awful stand-up routine?”

  His smile turns to a grin, stunning in its beauty. Even in the shadows, lit with only a dim blue glow, the man is breathtaking.

  “Better. Deflowering virgins.”

  I snort. “And making the poor things fall in love with you, no doubt.”

  His smile fades. He presses a gentle kiss to my lips. “Hopefully.”

  I turn my head, hiding my face in his neck. He runs his hand up my arm and over my shoulder, then cradles my head. He whispers, “‘And where two raging fires meet together, they do consume the thing that feeds their fury.’”

  My voice comes out choked. “If you quote Romeo and Juliet to me one more time, I won’t be responsible for what happens.”

  “That wasn’t from Romeo and Juliet, lass. That was The Taming of the Shrew.”

  “Oh. So I’m a shrew now?”

  “Considering my naked testicles are within easy reach of your angry fists, I decline to answer.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “Don’t say testicles.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s a gross word. Almost as gross as ‘moist.’”

  He chuckles. “I’ll make a note of it. Any other forbidden words I should be aware of?”

  I scowl into his neck. “If it’s in the dictionary, it’s forbidden.”

  “Ah. So what I’m hearing you say is shut up.”

  “Yes. Now. Or my angry fists will get to work.”

  Gathering me closer in his arms, his chest shakes with silent laughter. When I push against his stomach, irritated, he peppers soft, tender kisses all along my neck.

  I mutter, “You’re killing me, devil man.”

  “Right back atcha, little thief.” He palms my ass, squeezing it, flexing his hips into mine so I feel his erection. His voice turns husky. “I need to be inside you now.”

  “If it’ll get you to stop talking, I’m on board.”

  “Are you sure you want me to be quiet? Because from what I remember, you liked it an awful lot when I talked like this.”

  The Australian accent has made a reappearance. He’s Chris Hemsworth again, the evil bastard.

  But I’m not stupid. I spread my legs and draw him inside me, closing my eyes to pretend it’s the actor I’d rather have make love to me, rather than my dangerous gangster with the heart of a poet and a thousand unspoken secrets swimming in the darkness behind his eyes.

  22

  Jules

  When I wake the next morning, he’s gone again. It hurts even more this time than it did the last.

  I spend the day wandering aimlessly through town. I think it will become my new routine. When the sun is setting over the ocean, I head back to the same restaurant I’ve visited for the past two nights, knowing I’ll find him there.

  Or he’ll find me. Magnets have a funny way of attracting each other like that.

  This time when he arrives, he’s in a gorgeous navy blue pinstripe suit with a white silk pocket square and black leather loafers polished to a mirror shine.

  His hair is perfect. His beard is trimmed. He’s not wearing a tie, so the strong column of his throat is exposed, tattoo and all. The combination of sleek sophistication with raw masculinity is devastating.

  As is the British accent.

  Instead of Chris Hemsworth, tonight he’s James Bond.

  Leaning an elbow on the bar, he says to Harley, “Vodka martini. Shaken, not stirred.”

  Harley stares at him, nonplussed. “You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”

  I lift my wine glass to him in a mock salute. “Amen.”

  Killian smiles blandly at the bartender. “And don’t shake too vigorously. The ice will bruise the vodka.” He turns to me, sending me a hot, half-lidded look. “Hello there.”

  “Hello yourself, Mr. Craig.”

  He lifts his brows. “Who’s Mr. Craig?”

  I look him up and down. “Daniel Craig. As in, the actor? As in, James Bond?”

  Killian laughs a husky, sexy-as-hell, ovulation inducing laugh. “No. Sean Connery is the best and only Bond. All those other blokes are just window dressing.”

  “I’ll give you the macho, devil-may-care thing. You’ve got that one pinned down. But Sean Connery had a super thick Scottish accent.”

  Killian leans closer to me, smirking. “A super thick Scottish accent like this?”

  Yes, exactly like that. I could strangle him with my bare hands.

  “Were you an actor before you turned to a life of crime?”

  He switches back to the posh British Bond accent. “No. I was a farm boy. Acting didn’t come until after I turned to a life of crime.”

  He holds my gaze. His own is unflinching. He’s just told me the truth, strange as it is.

  “A farm boy,” I muse, warming to the idea. “In Ireland?”

  He nods.

  “Did your parents make you do chores?”

  He nods again.

  Fascinated, I try to picture it. Killian as a young boy, on the farm, completing his daily chores. Mucking out horse stalls. Feeding the chickens. Milking the cows.

  Impossible.

  “Do you have siblings?”

  His pause is infinitesimal. “One.”

  I search his face, knowing he left something unsaid. “One…?”

  “Left,” he says, his voice lower. “I have one sibling left now.”

  “That’s right. Your brother. You told me.” After a beat, I say, “Wait. Left?”

  Hesitating, he moistens his lips. “There were eight of us. Only two are still alive.”

  Surprised, I stare at him. Accidents? Illnesses? Something worse? What would take six siblings in the same family before middle age? I’m dying to ask, but I don’t want to pry.

  Idiotic, considering I’ve swallowed the man�
��s ejaculate.

  Reading my expression, Killian says softly, “There was a fire.”

  My heart stops. My hand flies up to cover my mouth. “Oh god. I’m so sorry.”

  He reaches out to stroke a lock of my hair, gazing at it intently as he runs it slowly through two fingers. “Thank you.”

  “And…and your parents? Are they still alive?”

  His eyes very far away, he murmurs, “Gone. Everyone. Everything. Anything that mattered. All that was left for me was revenge.”

  He’s somewhere distant for a moment before he snaps back to himself. His hazy gaze sharpens. His eyes gather the light, glinting dangerously like the edge of a blade. He drops his hand to his side and straightens, facing the bar.

  Harley sets a martini in front of him with a dramatic flourish. “If your vodka’s bruised, King Arthur, feel free to lodge a complaint with management.”

  He dodders off, cackling.

  Cheeks ruddy, jaw tight, Killian grabs the martini and downs it in a single swallow.

  Meanwhile, I stare at his profile with one word that he said echoing over and over inside my mind.

  Revenge.

  The fire that took his family wasn’t an accident.

  I feel as if a forbidden, locked door has cracked open, revealing a sliver of light.

  He was a boy, his family was killed in a fire, and all that was left for him was to avenge their deaths.

  I say quietly, “You knew who did it.”

  He sets the empty martini glass carefully on the bar. His throat works. He doesn’t look at me.

  “You killed him. Or them.”

  He’s stiff and unresponsive, his silence giving an answer without words.

  “And that’s how it all started,” I whisper, knowing as I say it that I’m right. “The farm boy got a taste for vengeance, and he never looked back.”

  He turns to me abruptly, bristling, his eyes ablaze. He says gruffly, “I look back every fucking day. Remembering where I came from and why I do what I do is the only thing that keeps me going.”

  His normal voice is back. That rich, lilting Irish brogue, thick with emotion now. He’s himself again, all hard edges and sharp angles, a whirlwind of chaotic feelings contained by an iron will underneath a pretty, polished shell.