by Soto, S. M.
I grit my teeth together and rake a hand through my hair in frustration. “On it.”
Arthur grunts. “Let me know when it’s done.”
And with that, the line clicks off.
The whole drive back to Blossom, I war with myself. I need to get rid of her. I should’ve gotten rid of her already. I don’t even know what the fuck is stopping me. There’s just…fucking hell. There’s just something about her that intrigues me. Something that makes me want to sit back and watch her for a while. I’m not ready to part with her yet. Despite whatever repercussions, I’m going to break down Blossom Jaymes. Even if it’s the last thing I do.
I pull this piece-of-shit car into the parking lot, my eyes scanning my surroundings before I kill the engine. There’s no sign of those fuckers loitering near the motel room and no sign of anyone else I might have to worry about. Thank fuck. I switched out the Porsche for this one, much like I usually do while switching from state to state. It’s easier to blend in when you drive a regular car like everyone else. Not so much when you’re riding around in a Porsche.
Being part of the Cavalieri Della Morte means hiding in plain sight. When you’re always a target, you get used to blending and hiding. Every few states between Louisiana and New York, I have spots I use as a backup. Need extra clothes and weapons? It’s there at one of my properties in Virginia. Need to switch vehicles? I have spots here in North Carolina, Atlanta, and Alabama. There’s a spot for everything. Being in this life for years, I’ve become accustomed to the bloodshed and the travel. The hiding in plain sight. The lurking. All of it is second nature to a man like me.
With time to spare before I have to check on the girl, I pull out the thick file I haven’t been able to stop staring at these last few days and go over everything inside once again. Blossom Avery Jaymes. Age twenty-five, went to Tokay High School. Grew up with two loving parents, Oakland and Daphne Jaymes—now I see why their daughter’s name is so fucking fucked. I shake my head, and it’s a struggle to keep from rolling my eyes.
She grew up middle class. Her father is a carpenter, works for a company called C&J Carpentry. Her mother is still a bank teller in Lodi, back in her hometown in California where she grew up.
I flip through the pages, settling on her college years. There’s nothing in here I already don’t know, nothing of importance. I keep going through, hoping I’ll find something that’ll justify this job—justify killing her…but fuck. I can’t. There’s not a damn thing wrong with Blossom Jaymes. The woman is a fucking saint. No run-ins with the law. Not one single parking ticket. No recent boyfriends or even any serious relationships. Pays her credit card and college loans on time each month. This girl has about the cleanest record I’ve ever seen, and I know it’s not because she needs to. Most people with squeaky-clean records always have something to hide, but that isn’t the case here. She keeps it clean because she wants to. That’s just the kind of girl Blossom Jaymes is. I can fucking tell.
And that is precisely why I’m having such a hard time getting rid of her. There’s so much more to the girl with the two different-colored eyes. There’s so much left to be uncovered—to be peeled away slowly. It’s all so contradictory. I want to strip her down to her core, leaving her defenseless and at my every whim. There’s this sick and twisted part of me that wants to hurt her. Rip her apart limb from limb and cause her pain. That same part of me wants to lose myself to the darkness in her tight little body. The way her body reacts when she’s around me, she can’t hide that. She wants me. And fuck me, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to fuck her. Those sweet, plump lips wrapped around my cock. I want to drive balls-deep, until her eyes water and she’s choking around me, trying to fit every inch of me between those plump lips.
The thought alone has my jeans tenting with a semi. Fucking Christ. I need to screw someone to get her off my mind. At the rate I’m going, I’ll end up storming in there right now and fucking her senseless while she’s tied to the bed and gagged. As appealing as the thought is, I’m not into forcing women, not when I don’t have to; they always come willingly.
Snapping her file shut, I drum my fingers along the steering wheel and consider calling Arthur. It’d be so easy to call him and find a woman from one of his escort services or one of his brothels in the area, but as I glance at the time on the dash and then toward the motel room labeled 6C, I decide not to. I tell myself it’s because we have a long day of driving tomorrow. To get to New Orleans on time. But deep down, I know that’s only part of it. The bigger part? She’s bound and gagged on the bed, and as much as I enjoy watching her squirm, I don’t need her pissing all over the place I plan on sleeping tonight.
When I push through the door, imagine my surprise when I find sweet little Blossom Jaymes off the bed, hobbling unsteadily on her legs as she tries to cut through her zip ties with the edge of the TV stand. I purposely slam the door shut behind me, startling her. Her squeak fills the air, and she jolts so violently she loses her balance, tumbling back onto the carpet. Slowly I close the distance between us and stop just beside her, my feet mere inches away from her head. I drop down to my haunches and level our gazes. Those eyes…those eyes that feel like portals into two separate dimensions glare daggers at me. She’s seething with rage. At me leaving her here to fend for herself.
I smirk down at her, unable to help myself as I trace my fingers over the tape sealed over her mouth. I finger the lines and indents of her lips. Her eyes flare, but for different reasons. I dart my gaze down to her chest and chuckle when I see the tiny peaks of her aroused nipples through her top.
“Sweet little Blossom,” I taunt, still tracing my finger around her lips, the only barrier the tape. She makes a noise low in her throat, and it has my cock jerking in my jeans.
Gripping the corner of the tape, I yank it off in one fell swoop and she curses, her eyes back to looking murderous, but no matter how hard she tries to hide it, I can still see how aroused she is.
“You son of ahhh!” she yells as I lift her from the ground and toss her bound body over my shoulder. I stalk toward the bed, plopping her down on what I assume are uncomfortable springs. I follow her body down, hovering over her. I trail my hand up her thigh, and she tenses. When I glance up at her, I expect to see fear and disgust written on her face, but it’s quite the opposite. She’s chewing on her bottom lip, her eyes wide with innocence as she stares up at me, lust sparkling in her blue and green eyes, chest rising and falling rapidly.
I look down at my hand on her body and continue my ascension, gliding my palm up her thigh. Steering clear of her center, I slide up her hip bone and over her flat stomach. Her body quivers beneath me. I raise my hand higher and higher, nearing her breasts when a slam against the wall where the headboard rests and the unmistakable sound of a moan on the other side has me freezing. My brows dip and I look down at her, seeing the questions in her eyes. Once the rhythmic thumping starts and the helpless mewls of pleasure begin, I want to fucking groan. I want to groan even more when I watch Blossom slowly process what’s happening in the room next door. I see the second she understands because her lips part in a soft little o and her cheeks redden.
For fuck’s sake…
Slowly, I climb off her, silently thanking the assholes next door for stopping whatever the fuck that would’ve surely turned into. Her eyes are still blazing with heat, and the intensity and color in each of them is doing some crazy voodoo shit to my dick, so I dig in my back pocket and pull out my knife. Her eyes widen when she sees the blade, and the color drains from her face. Before she can give herself a heart attack, I swiftly use the blade to cut through the zip ties, freeing her. Flicking it shut, I point to one of the shopping bags on the floor and nod toward the bathroom.
“Get cleaned up. There’s shit in there.”
She stares up at me, confusion written all over her face. “You’re going to let me shower?”
“Would you rather I not?” There’s an edge to my tone, stemming from my frustration with
this whole fucked-up situation.
She shakes her head and pushes herself up from the bed. When she gets to the bathroom and starts to shut the door behind her, I bark out a laugh that startles her. She freezes and sends me a puzzled look.
I tsk at her. “Only good girls get to shower with the door closed, Blossom, and you’ve proven time and time again you are not a good girl.”
Her mouth drops open. “You can’t expect me to shower in front of you naked?”
“Oh, but I do, Blossom. I’d love nothing more.”
Her eyes narrow. “You’re fucking sick, you know that, right?”
I half expect her to throw the damn bag down and climb back into this bed, but like she usually does, Blossom surprises me when she swiftly turns on her heel and stalks into the bathroom with the bag and starts undressing. I don’t make it easy on her either. I watch her every move, taking in every inch of her smooth, unblemished skin.
She slips off her shirt, revealing those full fucking tits encased in a plain white bra. When she yanks her pants down her legs, I’m greeted by the sight of virginal white cotton panties, and fuck me if it doesn’t make my dick hard. She pivots to face me, planting her hands on her hips to glare at me.
“You’re a disgusting pervert.”
I laugh. Outright laugh at her. Because sure, that may be true, but she wants to fuck me just as bad as I want to fuck her. Even if she has to lie to herself, I know the truth.
“Still want to show me your treats, Blossom? Or do you want me to eat them? You can have the best of both worlds.”
She sucks in a sharp breath, and her face turns the brightest shade of red. Whirling around, she ducks her head, hiding from me, as she discards of the rest of her clothes. All my humor vanishes when I get a good look at her from the back, without any clothes hiding her body. Her ass is divine, not a fucking imperfection in sight, just two smooth, round globes that my hands are itching to caress and smack. A perfect fucking peach that I’d like to bite into.
Blossom slips into the shower, hidden behind the curtain, and I slam my eyes shut, trying to focus on anything but the insatiable need to take Blossom up against the wall of the shower. Once the indifference seeps back into my bones, I use this time to power up my laptop from my duffel and figure out what the fuck I’m going to do next. I have another job, this one in New Orleans. It’s too close to Arthur for my liking. And the fact that one of my hits is still alive and well, in the fucking shower no less, is a problem. If any of Arthur’s men catch wind of me with a woman in tow, it’s going to raise eyebrows and people are going to ask questions. Not to mention how dangerous it is to have Blossom around when there’s always someone looking for me.
I don’t know what I plan on doing with her, but what I do know is I’m not ready to let her go yet. I won’t be satisfied until I strip her down to the core. I want to see what makes little Blossom tick. And I plan to.
Once the pipes squeal in the shower and the flow of water cuts off, I close the laptop, stuffing it into the duffel along with everything else, and stride into the small excuse for a bathroom. The steam billows around me as I grab a towel off the ledge and hold it toward Blossom just as she yanks the curtain open. She screams when she sees me standing there, towel in hand outstretched toward her, and I smirk. She makes it so hard not to.
Her first reaction isn’t even to take the towel; she slaps her palms against her wet, slick skin, trying to cover herself. She’s doing a miserable job at it. I can still see the curve and swell of her tits. Even though her hand is slapped over her pussy, I can see the bush of golden hair peeking out from her fingers, and fuck me, but this ’70s, I don’t know what a shaver is shit has me rock fucking hard. I can’t help the slow, sensual upturn of my lips. Getting a reaction out of her is too fucking easy. I push the towel into her body, giving her the clue to cover herself up. If she does or doesn’t is totally up to her.
Blossom’s movements are jerky as she tries to unwind the towel and use it to shield her body before putting it on. Now for the really fun part. I give my back to her and grasp the door, shutting it with a click.
“What-t are you doing?” Her voice is quiet and laced with fear. It should make me feel good about this, give me an edge over her, but it doesn’t. I grind my teeth together at the realization that she’s fucking everything up. Clenching my eyes shut, I keep my back to her while I strip off my jacket and slip off my boots. When I turn around to face her, her mouth is wide open in shock, her face slack with disbelief.
“You’re not the only one who gets to shower, sweetheart,” I say, putting her out of her misery. Her eyes widen at the thought, and she hurriedly climbs out of the shower, probably trying to get out of here before I strip myself of my clothes, but she won’t be so lucky. My arm shoots out, catching her by the elbow, and I click my tongue.
“Where do you think you’re going? You’re going to perch that ass right there,” I say, pointing to the toilet with the lid down, “and wait for me to finish. So I can keep an eye on you at all times.”
Her eyes narrow. “I’m not going to run, if that’s what you’re thinking.” She tries so hard to get me to believe what she’s saying. The blue and green eyes both do their damnedest to break down my defenses—too bad I already know she’s full of shit.
Gripping the hem of my T-shirt in my hand, I pull up, yanking the material off my body and over my head. I stride toward her, marching her back toward the toilet. When the backs of her knees hit the porcelain, she wobbles and her legs give out, plopping that sweet ass right where I told her to sit. Because I’m a dick, I press my body against hers, invading her personal space.
“I didn’t realize you were so good at lying, Blossom.” Her pupils dilate, and it brings my body closer to hers. I dip down near her ear and whisper, “We’ll have to fix that, won’t we?”
Her breaths are sharp and uneven now. And I’m enjoying it far too much. So I step back, slip the remaining clothes down my legs, and watch with satisfaction as she fights herself. She keeps her gaze on mine, but I can see just how hard it is for her not to look down. She wants to. Hell, I want her to.
When her pink tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip, my cock jerks up and the movement finally forces her gaze to lower slowly down my body. Her lips part. Her chest rises up and down with jerky movements, and those intricate eyes widen. Even from here I can sense her arousal. I can almost fucking smell it.
“Go on, touch it,” I coerce. “It won’t bite.”
The pallor of her face pales a bit, and she shakes her head, seeming to snap out of whatever daze she was in. Her eyes dart back up to mine, and her face morphs with disgust and hatred, all of it aimed at me. I ply her with a cold smile and turn around, working the taps.
It’s risky, leaving her in here with me like this. She could try to run when my back is turned, or she can fucking try to bludgeon me to death while I have soap in my eyes, but I do it anyway, because I need to see if I can trust her. If she’s someone worth trusting. I also reason if she tries anything while I’m in here, it gives me an excuse to kill her, one I won’t be able to back down from. It’s cowardly, but if that’s the only way I can get myself to do it, I will.
* * *
BLOSSOM
I hate myself.
I really, really, reaaaally hate myself.
No matter how many times I chant in my head, “Don’t look, don’t look, don’t freaking look!” What do my eyes do? They look. And boy is there a whole lot of this man to see.
I’ll be honest, I’ve never really seen a real penis with the lights on, up close and personal like this. I’ve touched previous boyfriends, but that was with the lights off. I’ve never…seen one this close, with so much light shining around us.
Sometimes I watch porn. It’s usually the soft stuff when I’m really hot and bothered, but those men? They’re not really real. But him—Percivale—now he is. He’s a rugged Greek god. His skin is tan and corded with muscles. The tattoos scattered along his skin have m
e itching to reach out and caress him and trace the fine details of his ink. He has that deep vee of muscles that the guys in porn usually have, the one that leads to their genitals. And once my eyes get there? I can’t seem to tear them away. He’s huge.
And I’m not just saying that.
He really is huge. Like make your eyes widen and your mouth gape kind of huge. His dick is long and curves up slightly, the angry-looking tip practically staring me right in the face. Where he’s long he’s just as thick. My fingers twitch; the urge to reach out and touch him just to see if my hand would wrap all the way around is a driving force, so I ball my hands into fists instead, anything to keep myself from making a huge mistake, like fall at this dangerous man’s feet.
I wish I can say when he suggested I touch him I was disgusted, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. The worst part? I was already thinking about touching him before he suggested it. Even worse than that? With my freaking mouth. I’ve never found fellatio appealing. Cunnilingus? Sure, most women seem like they enjoy it. The thought of a warm tongue sliding through my swollen lips and around my clit doesn’t exactly make me want to run in the opposite direction, but having someone stuff his cock down my throat? Yeah, that’s a different story. It doesn’t look fun or appealing. Or even remotely pleasurable for the woman, but why, now, am I suddenly thinking about it? Wondering what it would feel like, his long length sliding over my tongue. How he would taste. And almost like the sane part of my brain is finally coming into play, I’m suddenly appalled and…angry. So damn angry.
How dare this…this asshole come barging into my life, into my freaking business that I worked hard for, making me question my ethics when he killed a man who was surely about to rape me. As if that wasn’t enough, he puts a gun to my head and makes me come with him. Freaking kidnaps me! I should not find this man attractive. I should be disgusted. Part of me is—the part that keeps replaying the way he so easily pulled that trigger. He took a life like he was taking a breath. Like he’d done it a million other times before, and that, that is what scares me half to death. So I narrow my eyes at him and show him just how much I hate him, just how much I despise what he’s done.
