Cruel Sanctuary (Wages of Sin Book 1)

by Tara Leigh

  Almost, but not quite, preventing a low moan from escaping.

  “I promise I’m worth the hit to your pride.”

  Lust bleeds from the pores of her flushed, flawless skin, thickening the air between us as the tip of her tongue darts out to lick her trembling lips. “Even if I believed a promise from you meant anything at all, I wouldn’t hold my breath.” Her voice is a husky rasp that makes me want to slide my cock down the sleek column of her throat.

  I shake my head slowly, luxuriating in the sweet, honeyed mist that clings to her heated skin. “I’ll have you know, men have staked their lives on the weight of my word.”

  “So you say. Those who are wrong don’t live to tell the tale.”

  I twist my head to the side, studying Aislinn intently as I admit to myself that I’m enjoying our verbal sparring more than I would have thought possible. “You know, I’ve never been the type to have hobbies. Thirty-plus years, and I think I’ve finally found one to keep me entertained.”

  A frown grabs hold of arched eyebrows three shades darker than the hair on her head. “What’s that?”

  “Proving you wrong.” I slide my thigh deeper between Aislinn’s legs and then slowly rise back to my full height. “And in case you haven’t noticed, you’re practically burning up. You’re so soaking wet for me I’ll bet you could come right now, just by riding me—just like this.”

  I catch Aislinn’s hand an inch before she strikes my cheek, her wrist as delicate as a sparrow inside my grip. Taking my time, I lean down until my lips are barely an inch from the velvety shell of her ear. “If you want to slap me, I’m happy to show you how it’s done first. That fine ass of yours would look so fucking good with my handprints all over it.”

  7

  Aislinn

  I jerk my arm from his grasp. “In your dreams, King.”

  The rebuke would have considerably more impact if it didn’t emerge as a moan, low and throaty. Every beat of my heart sends another pulse of arousal and intrigue coursing through my veins, completely altering my body chemistry.

  I’m reminded of the one time in my life I took drugs. Ecstasy that I regretted the second I swallowed … until the high kicked in.

  My body’s reaction wasn’t gradual. There was no transition. One moment I felt normal, and the next I was encased in a shimmery slow globe of bliss.

  While I never took another one of those tiny little pills, I haven’t forgotten the way it made my skin feel like a tightly woven bundle of highly charged nerve endings, every single one connected to the throbbing center between my thighs. The way I feel right now.

  Except that I’m stone-cold sober, and entirely too aware of my nipples dragging along the lace of my bra with every breath. And it’s taking everything I have not to squirm against the press of Damon King’s thigh. Because, not that I’m willing to admit it, he is right. I could easily explode just from his touch.

  And I’m trying to decide if the smirk on his too-handsome face is typical or if he knows—

  Who am I kidding? Of course, he knows. I am so in lust right now I feel like a feral cat in the wilderness. Hungry and restless, on the prowl despite the dangers lurking in the dark.

  King steps back and rakes me over with the heat of his gaze. A predator studying his prey. Paying particular attention to my breasts, his tongue snakes through the crease of his lips as if imagining what he’ll do to them. The wanton peaks furl even more tightly into hard, desperate buds, poking through my sheer lace bra and the thin silk of my shirt. I really should have worn something less revealing.

  Something that wouldn’t advertise my body’s response to King’s dark stare and hard features and his too-wide, too-tempting mouth. I don’t want him to realize that the sound of his gravelly voice is making my breath catch in the back of my throat. Or that I’m loving the feel of his hand wrapped around my wrist.

  I don’t want to want him. But I do. He knows it. I know it. And I hate him for it.

  King releases my wrist, spinning me so that I’m looking out the window again. I press my palms against the cool glass, a sharp contrast from the hard wall of heat behind me. His hands land on my waist, moving steadily up my sides until his fingers curve over my breasts. The barest of whimpers builds in the back of my throat as he plays with my nipples, each squeeze starting out as a prick of pain, just for an instant, before transitioning to a rustling ribbon of pleasure that unspools all the way to my toes.

  “Open your eyes,” King growls.

  I startle, blinking them open. So many explosions of pleasure had streaked across the screen of my eyelids, I wasn’t aware that I’d closed them.

  The window in front of me is completely fogged by my needy panting, a fact King arrogantly points out. “You can’t see a damn thing with how badly you want me, how desperately you need what I’m doing to you right now.”

  He’s right. So right.

  Tonight, the foundation I believed to be solid has been split apart by an earthquake, leaving a gaping chasm where there was once rock.

  And now up is down and down is up. Cold is hot and hot is cold.

  Is it such a far stretch to believe spending the night in Damon King’s arms can be right?

  It’s not like the morality police will come after me.

  I’m a twenty-eight-year-old woman with no job, no relationship, and practically no family.

  Maybe Damon King is the perfect Mr. Right Now.

  The instant I’ve made up my mind to enjoy our time together just as much, if not more, than King, he abruptly drops his hands and takes a step back. “You’ll have to beg me to soothe that ache between your thighs another time. I have business tonight.”

  He’s already across the room before I have the presence of mind, or muscle control, to turn around.

  Damon King is leaving.

  What. The. Fuck?

  “You … asshole!” I yell at his suited back.

  King pauses mid-stride, turning. “Guilty as charged,” he shoots back, looking smug and overbearing but not at all guilty. “Someone will be in to show you to a room where you’ll be comfortable for the night.”

  My stomach folds in on itself as I once again take in the stark beauty of the man in front of me, then twists with disappointment and frustration at his impending exit.

  I finally decided to give in. To devour what was on the menu because I was hungry.

  After all, if I wanted to sin, who better to sin with than a savage?

  And he has the gall to walk away.

  Motherfucker.

  “Tomorrow?” I screech. “You asked me—no, you demanded that I come here. Now I have and you’re leaving?”

  My temper rises with each word. “You can’t leave. We have things to discuss.” Not to mention the fact that I purposely didn’t bring anything but a purse containing my wallet, keys, and phone.

  When I left my apartment, I had no intention of staying. I didn’t bring pajamas or a change of clothes. Or even a toothbrush.

  King hasn’t seemed to notice my missing suitcase, and because I don’t feel like hearing his inevitable, I told you so, I don’t mention it either.

  “We will. Tomorrow.” He takes another couple of steps. “Have a restful night.”

  I want to stomp my feet and scream. I want to sprint across the room and claw King’s insufferably handsome face.

  I want to flip my hair and pop my hip, looking up at King coquettishly from beneath my lashes as I say something flirtatious.

  I want to rip off my clothes and dare King to finish what he started.

  I do none of those things. Because all I really want is for him to come back … because he wants to. Because he’s as hungry as I am.

  So I stuff each ridiculous urge inside a locked vault, hidden far from view.

  “Then I’m leaving, too.” I’ll take my chances with the cartel. King can call me when his schedule frees up—and this time, I’ll pick the place.

  “Fine. Then I suggest you get in touch with your father—be
fore Los Muertos gets in touch with you—and tell him to retain counsel. I don’t know where that recording will end up, but it’s bound to get out. And once that happens, there’s nothing anyone can do for him.”

  My left eye twitches as I glare at King from across the room.

  “If you stay, I will hold up my end of the deal. That recording will disappear—all copies—and whoever made it will be appropriately warned. But if you leave, all bets are off.” His mouth twitches, one corner kicking up. “The ball’s in your court, princess.”

  8

  Aislinn

  I don’t leave.

  I do, however, take off one of my shoes and throw it at the door. I was aiming for King’s head, but by the time it flies across the room, the thick plank prevents it from doing anything more than leaving a dent in the wood.

  Alone, my knees finally give in and I collapse under my own weight, slumping into the couch. But out of the corner of my eye, I see something that gives me hope for passing this night quickly. The liquor cabinet.

  The fully stocked liquor cabinet.

  I didn’t want a drink when Damon King was here, his mere presence enough of a threat to my equilibrium. Alcohol would only have scattered my thoughts, lowered my inhibitions.

  But now that he’s gone—

  A fresh wave of anger slams into me anew.

  He left me. Damon King really left me.

  Technically, I’m a guest in his home. His guest. What kind of person invites someone over—okay, maybe invites is a stretch—and just takes off?

  Damon King. A man who does whatever the hell he wants.

  I kick off my remaining shoe and walk to the bar, reading the labels. Balvenie 50-year single malt scotch whiskey, Deleon Leona Tequila, Grand Marnier Cuvee.

  In anyone else’s home, these bottles would be locked away, or at least tucked out of sight. Brands served at the most exclusive bars and restaurants—for hundreds, even thousands, per shot.

  I know this because I’ve thrown countless events designed to woo men—and they are nearly always men—on behalf of my clients. Liquor, cigars, and yes, sometimes even the kinds of women who take credit cards.

  The ends justify the means. It’s a concept I’ve always resisted, even when supporting enthusiastic, idealistic candidates who will no doubt do great things. Although I’ve occasionally walked an ethical line, I’ve never crossed it.

  But right now, I’m fully aware that I am the means to an end.

  For my father and his career.

  For a Mexican drug lord and his territory.

  For Damon King and his … what? Sexual appetite?

  Somehow that doesn’t quite ring true.

  In New York City, if a man wants kink, it is just a phone call away. Hell, there’s probably an app for it. If King wanted a woman, willing or not, one could be delivered in minutes.

  Clearly, King isn’t interested in just any woman.

  He wants me.

  I am drowning in a sea of ambivalence. Damon King is the most infuriating, alluring man I’ve ever met. It is impossible not to be flattered by his attraction. He also scares the shit out of me. Not the kind of fear that has me shrinking from his touch, but an ancient, self-protective instinct that is sounding a steady, silent alarm.

  Caution. This man is dangerous.

  An alarm I decide to silence, at least for the moment, with a bottle of Don Julio. Probably the least expensive in the entire bar—I don’t want to feel at all indebted. Sloshing the clear liquid into a heavy crystal glass, I toss it down my throat in one gulp.

  It burns like lighter fluid. Or, what I imagine lighter fluid would feel like if I was stupid enough to slam a shot of it.

  Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I force down another shot.

  Then I pour a third and walk back to the couch, setting the glass down on the cocktail table before doing a back dive onto the plush down pillows and propping my bare feet up on the upholstered arm.

  Of course, that’s the moment the door opens and a heavyset woman wearing a starched white uniform pokes her head in. “Miss Granville, I’m Ms. Weathersby.” A polite smile curves between her wrinkled cheeks, gray hair arranged in a bun at the top of her head. “I was told you’ll be spending the night.”

  I immediately sit up and drop my feet to the floor, manners that have been drilled into my head since birth kicking in. “Oh. Um, yes. It would appear so.”

  “How lovely.” She looks genuinely pleased. “May I show you to your room?”

  “Thank you.” I hurry to grab my shoes, quickly realizing that only one is near my feet.

  I tuck my purse under my arm, retrieving my glass and the shoe I didn’t throw, then collect the other one by the door. Not that I can slip it on, its heel is hanging onto the sole by a torn piece of leather. Barefoot, I follow Ms. Weathersby down one hallway, then another. Then another.

  King’s place is huge—and not merely by Manhattan standards. There are wide hallways that lead to spacious, high-ceilinged rooms. There are open doors, closed doors, and arched entryways. The color palette is neutral, every square foot immaculate. His apartment could be an exclusive boutique hotel.

  In my case, it feels like an elaborate, expensive prison. Although I do make a mental note to ask Ms. Weathersby for a spare toothbrush.

  She opens a door and gestures for me to enter. The moment I step inside, my jaw sags. Not because the room is beautifully appointed, although it is. Or because it has a stunning view, although it does.

  The shock coursing through my veins is entirely due to the fact that I recognize my laptop sitting on the elegant, kidney-shaped desk angled in the corner. The laptop I left at home.

  I spot the weekender bag I hadn’t pulled down from the top shelf of my closet sitting on the plush rug in front of the bed.

  And the books I’d last seen on my own nightstand … They are now stacked on this one.

  My toothbrush is probably in the bathroom.

  How the hell had Damon King—or one of his minions, more likely—gotten into my apartment? I stride to the closet and discover many of my own clothes there.

  Jesus Christ. Savage. Stalker. Thief. Motherfucker.

  King’s résumé is growing.

  Spinning around to confront Ms. Weathersby, who I now highly doubt is as sweet and oblivious as she looks, I discover that she’s already gone. The door is closed, a tray of food left on the desk beside my laptop.

  No. This isn’t going to work. Not at all.

  I lunge for the knob, intending to demand that her boss get his sexy ass back here. Or, threats be damned, I will leave.

  He’s probably bluffing, anyway. I hope.

  Except that the knob doesn’t turn.

  It is locked. What. The. Hell?

  This apartment doesn’t just feel like a prison; it is a prison.

  My prison.

  I’m a bird trapped in King’s gilded cage.

  Maybe someone else would accept that as their fate.

  But not me.

  And no one—not even King himself—will clip my wings.

  9

  Damon

  T he relief that slams into me when I close the door on Aislinn has a much bigger impact than the shoe she throws against the door. To be fair, she was aiming for my head. Maybe she didn’t—

  I chuckle. Of course, she did. My little spitfire used all her strength hoping to strike me dead.

  But at least Aislinn isn’t.

  For years, I’ve kept tabs on her through the camera of her laptop and by cloning her phone. My vigilance has kept Aislinn safe, fulfilling the promise I made to do so. But because of Granville and Lytton’s greed, the threat level has become too high to watch over her from afar.

  Now she is safe and sound—albeit furious—right where I want her. Under my roof.

  Where she will stay until she is no longer in danger.

  The past few weeks have been torture. Once Granville turned against Los Muertos, I knew it was only a matter of tim
e before Cruz retaliated. So I increased my interaction with anyone affiliated with the cartel, increased my surveillance of all electronic communications.

  As I knew it would, news of Granville’s plan got back to Hugo Cruz a couple of days ago.

  Immediately, texts and calls between Cruz and his top delegates here in New York spiked. Even calls between Hugo and his son, Sebastián.

  A surprise given that Sebastián has had no interaction with the cartel and very little with his father in the twenty years since he was sent to New York with his mother, Hugo’s second wife. Sebastián is clean. Or, more accurately, I have no proof that he is dirty.

  But I don’t buy it. Men like Cruz don’t allow their offspring to leave the fold. At least, not permanently. In my opinion, Hugo is playing the long game. Allowing Sebastián to grow up with a veneer of legitimacy. A veneer I haven’t been able to crack. Yet.

  Until two days ago, I didn’t have much more than a hunch that Aislinn was in imminent danger. Which was why I’d arranged the audio recording, hacking into Lytton’s phone and accessing his internal microphone. I could have used any of his conversations with Granville. They’ve spoken ad nauseam about their plans to curry favor with the voting public by going after Los Muertos—and their illegal profits—but I specifically chose to use one from a public place.

  I sent it directly to Lytton through an encrypted email address that didn’t accept replies, knowing he would share it with Granville. And that they would call me. To them, I’m a one-stop shop for anything on the dark web.

  After telling Granville to take me off fucking speakerphone, I explained exactly what I would require for this job.

  His daughter.

  Were my reasons valid? Fuck yeah. If Los Muertos got to Aislinn first, they would use her as a bargaining chip to get what they wanted from Granville. Lower rates, less oversight, more distribution, twenty-four seven access to him personally. New York City would become a fucking border town and he’d be their puppet.