I brace my hands on her hips and hold her there over me as I quicken my pace. Her hips undulate on mine, drawing me deeper than I can go by myself. She’s writhing on me, but in controlled movements, her pupils blown, her expression distant, as if she’s completely focused on what she’s doing.
Just the sight of her like that, completely abandoned to her own pleasure, is almost enough to make me lose control. I clench my thighs together and thrust harder, wanting to drive that much higher before I finally climax.
When she shudders around me—again—I can’t hold back any longer. Everything in me lets go in a powerful rush, and my vision goes black for a few seconds as the orgasm clutches me by the balls and I empty into her. She stills above me, her channel still pulsing on me, so tight, like a fist. We’re like that for a long time, just suspended, melded.
Then, finally, we come down on the wave. My hands move on her waist, opening and closing. There are vague red marks on her skin where I’ve held her so firmly in place.
“Cain,” she murmurs, shoving her hair back from her forehead.
“Yeah?”
Jess shakes her head. “Nothing. I just wanted to hear your name.”
Gently I draw her down to kiss her. We’re both slick with sweat, shivering off the last of our climaxes. Her hair falls into my face, and I sweep it back.
As she draws away, I look into her eyes. “You’re so beautiful.” Her breasts are swinging against my chest, and I glance down to see the full curves, the pink nipples. “And you’re mine. Don’t forget that.”
She makes a snorting noise—not very feminine, but quite expressive. “As if I could. And you…” Reaching down, she grabs me by the ears. “You’re mine. Don’t you forget that.”
“Never in a million years,” I answer, and draw her into my arms.
I hate to leave Jess in the morning, but I have to go talk to her father. It’s the usual doling out of funds after the fight, but I get the feeling there’s going to be more to it. For one, Spada called me last night, late, to remind me I needed to be there. He never does that.
When I show up at his house, he’s much more composed than he was outside the ring yesterday. He meets me at the door—another surprise, since he usually has one of his underlings handle door duty.
“Cain,” he says by way of greeting and shakes my hand firmly, looking right into my face. That’s new, too. It’s like he thinks I’m an actual human being all of a sudden instead of just a hired pair of fists. “Good to see you.”
I nod, not sure how to respond.
“Feeling okay after yesterday’s fight?”
I notice he doesn’t mention the fight after the fight. I don’t blame him. I don’t really want to revisit that scene either. “A little stiff here and there,” I concede. “Nothing major.”
“Good.”
He leads me back to his office. His goons are all there—minus Romano, of course. I get the feeling he has something to say to me. I don’t know what it is. I guess I’ll find out soon enough.
I smooth my tie back—I’m wearing my best suit, because I know that’s what Spada expects—and take a seat at the table. The atmosphere in the room is relatively relaxed, for which I’m grateful. The tension that usually accompanies these get-togethers is normally enough to make a person choke on his own heartburn. Spada gives me a nod, and the other people in the room follow suit. If Spada had flung a knife at me, the rest of them undoubtedly would have done the same.
No knives today though. Today is all about more pleasant things, it appears. Spada has taken a wad of cash from his jacket pocket and is thumbing through the bills.
“Nick,” he says, and passes some bills to the man in question. Nick counts it and puts it in his pocket. Spada gives him a look as if he’s not too happy about the counting, but he says nothing to Nick. “Frank,” he goes on, and then calls out Chris and Leo. They’re all given varying amounts—Frank gets a good-sized chunk, while Leo doesn’t get much at all. It’s all based on who did what for this fight and what percentages were agreed upon ahead of time. As I recall, Frank was odd man out last time, so Leo must have taken his role this time to make the payments even out.
There’s still a good-sized wad of bills in Spada’s hand when he finishes. He turns his attention to me. “You get your usual, Cain,” he says, and hands me my pile. Then he sorts out a few more bills and holds them out. “And this.”
I give the money a suspicious look, as if it’s going to explode in his hand or something. “What’s that for?”
“For saving my daughter’s life. I owe you big for that, son.”
I’m not sure what to make of the “son,” but I do know what to make of the money. “Keep it,” I tell him. “I didn’t do it for you to pay me off. I did it to keep her safe.” I pause. Yeah, I can say it. “I did it because I love her.”
Spada nods, though I see an eyelid twitch. He’s still not comfortable with the idea of me and Jess together, I can tell. “I didn’t mean to imply anything,” he says. “Just call it a thank-you gift. And maybe an investment in the future.”
I shake my head. “Nope. Keep it. I don’t need it. I don’t want it.”
Looking a bit defeated, Spada lets his hand fall to the table, still holding the bills. I’m relieved; he could have defaulted to his usual anger at me and had me done away with for not being on the same page as he is. He’s in a totally different place today, though, and his next words surprise me. “Is there anything I can do for you, Cain?”
I want to ask him exactly what he means. Does he want to make up for having me beat up—twice—or for making Jess’s life hell? For controlling my life and forcing me to throw fights I could have won? Just for being a general asshole? He has so many choices, after all.
“There’s one thing you can do,” I finally tell him. I don’t shrink from it; I don’t want him to think I’m kidding around, and if I’m reading the room right, this is exactly the right time to put all my cards on the table.
“What’s that?”
“You can get the fuck out of my life. Let me run things my own way. Leave Jess alone. Leave me alone. Let us live our lives. That’s what you can do.”
Spada is silent for a long moment. I know there’s no way he’ll ever meet my terms. He’s too addicted to the control to ever change. I watch his face, looking for any indication of how he’s going to respond. I see nothing. Then, finally, he says, “Let me think on it.”
I guess, for now, it’s the best I’m going to get.
12
Jessica
It’s amazing to me how much can change in such a short time. Only a year ago, I was sitting in that bar, watching Cain come up to me, all attitude, almost daring me not to pay attention to him.
And now here we are.
Cain’s in the bathroom, and the shower’s running; he just got home from his latest bout. I don’t know what kind of deal he made with my father, but I do know he’s happier. He’s not being told when to win and when to lose—he just gets to fight, do his best, and let the outcome fall where it may. And he’s good. Very good. Truth is, as hard as it is for me to understand, he loves what he does. How you can love doing something where you get the shit beat out of you for a living is beyond me, but I guess there are worse things.
Also, if you’re going to get beaten up for a living, having a budding physician’s assistant as a wife is an excellent choice. I get to practice stitching him up, getting the swelling down on his cuts and bruises, and making sure nothing gets infected. I’ve also monitored him a few times for concussion, although he’s been lucky in that regard.
It’s the concussions that worry me more than anything else. I’ve seen way too many people drift off into mental oblivion after one too many hits to the head. Which is why I’ve been encouraging him to look at something else he might be able to do. I know he loves fighting, but there are less dangerous jobs he could have without leaving the MMA world. Training, for instance. He seems amenable to the idea, so hopefully on
e day he’ll stop coming home bloody.
In the meantime I’m still studying, still taking my classes. I go to school at night; during the day I take care of the baby and do some freelance work. We’re doing okay. I’m not taking money from Pop and neither is Cain. Pop comes by from time to time to visit and to see the baby, but there’s no more ugliness, no more power plays. I can live with that.
Speaking of the baby, Annabelle has fallen asleep nursing in my lap while I study for a test I have coming up this week. I hear the shower turn off in the bathroom, so I make sure to get to a stopping place before Cain saunters out, shirtless, rubbing his hair with a towel. His face has taken a beating; he’s got a black eye and a big cut on his cheekbone. With the number of scars he’s got, it’s amazing he’s still pretty.
Scars or not, he grins at Annabelle, and she grins back, her smile gummy and full of drool. He laughs at her and reaches down to take her.
“There’s Daddy’s baby girl,” he says, settling her on his lap as he sits down. Her head’s still a little wobbly, and he’s careful to be sure it stays steady. He’s so good with the baby, so good with me. “Come sit on Daddy’s lap while Mommy fixes Daddy’s face.”
I laugh at him and scoot up next to the chair he’s settled into. “I think it’d take a miracle worker to fix your face, these days.”
He leans forward to kiss me. “Which is why I ask you to do it.”
Shaking my head, I start to examine his face. While I’m assessing whether anything needs stitches, he lets Annabelle squeeze his fingers while he makes baby-talk noises at her.
It’s all I can do to keep the tears from welling up. It’s so perfect, the three of us. I never dreamed it could be like this. Even when I was working so hard to get away from my father, I never dreamed it would really, actually happen.
But here we are. And here we’ll stay.
* * *
I hope you enjoyed Filthy! Up next is Wrong, another hot mafia romance.
I stole her to make a baby…
Wrong? Hell yeah, it’s wrong. Wise guys never live by the rules, but there’s one you don’t break.
I’m not a damn bit sorry. I’m done with one-night stands. I need a family to call my own. A wife. A kid.
I found the perfect girl: Sarah. The second I felt her curves, I knew she was destined to be mine. It’s been explosive since we met, and it’s only getting hotter. I won’t stop until she’s carrying my baby.
One problem—she’s engaged to an abusive bastard. Sal. The man next in line to become my boss. He doesn’t deserve the girl or the job. And ever since I took Sarah, he’s out for blood.
She wants to leave him, so we made a pact: protection for a baby.
I know it’s wrong.
Ask me again if I care.
Bring it.
Wrong
1
Nick
“Hit me.”
The dealer drops a card. I glance at it, do quick math, and realize I broke twenty-one. Oh well. Can’t win them all. She gives me a small smile.
She’s a pretty thing—dark hair, dark eyes. I wonder what my chances are of taking her home. Probably pretty good. The Spada family’s paying her, after all. If she knows what’s good for her, she’ll say yes to anything anybody asks her.
We finish up the hand, and I accept my losses like a man. Blackjack’s not my game anyway. I should find some other way to enjoy this party. There are plenty of other nice pieces of tail to check out, and I can have any one of them. Don’t even have to play my cards right. Which is a good thing, since that’s exactly what I just didn’t do.
Phil Spada likes having parties at casinos. It’s a moneymaker for him, and it puts him in good with local businessmen. He needs to be in good with somebody right now, since he sure as hell isn’t hanging on too well in his own business.
You want to run a mob organization, you need to be respected. But in the Spada family, things are up in the air. Everybody’s edgy. Nobody’s confident. People are jockeying for power.
I’m one of them.
The party was a good idea, I have to admit, but it’s too little too late. If Spada wanted this get-together to convince us he’s still got his fingers on the pulse of the organization, he’s fallen short by about a mile. Mile and a half, maybe.
Still, no point in not enjoying it, or at least trying to. Nothing’s really sparking me. I try to tell myself it’s just the party—the tension, the emptiness of it, the way everybody’s trying to have fun just like nothing’s changed. Truth is, I’ve been like this for a while. Just…kind of dull. Dreary. Going through the motions, mostly. Ever since Dad died.
Fuck that shit. Time for a drink, maybe, while I try to get my thoughts in order. I glance toward the bar.
Well, what do you know? It’s Salvatore De Luca. He’s got a girl next to him, but her back’s to me and I can’t tell who it is right off. It’s probably his latest arm candy, though. Susan? Sheri? No, Sarah. I don’t understand how any woman can spend more than about fifteen seconds in his company, though. Just the sight of him makes me want to go spit in his drink. Or, better yet, in his face.
I’d better get used to looking at him, though. Right now it looks like he’s next in line to the Spada family empire. Spada’s been grooming Sal since Carmine bit it. Nobody likes that. Sal’s an asshole—more so even than most of the rest of us. If we don’t trust Spada right now, double that for Sal. It’s pretty well agreed upon that, if he takes over Spada’s place, things are going to get ugly.
Well, uglier than they are now. I shake my head a little. Sal’s got to go, and I’m probably going to have to be the one to get that job done. That’s fine. I’m up to the task. Thing is, how do I manage it?
The girl next to him turns her head just enough that I can see her profile. Just like I figured, it’s Sarah. They’ve been together a while—several months, I’m pretty sure. I can’t figure it. Sarah’s always seemed quiet, but solid, and Sal? He’s like a box of C4. You wiggle him the wrong way and he’s going to explode. He’s not known for his humanitarian leanings, if you get my drift. How he ended up with a treat like Sarah is beyond me.
Women. What can you do?
She’s talking to him calmly, her gaze steady on his, and I can tell by the way Sal’s back goes stiff in his tuxedo jacket that he doesn’t like what she has to say. She touches his arm, her fingers grasping a bit of the fabric of his sleeve. Sal jerks his arm back, way harder than necessary, and gets right up in her face. She leans back, but she can’t get away from him. I can’t make out what Sal is saying, but his mouth twists, and it’s ugly when he spits the words at her. Then he slams his empty glass down on the bar and stalks away.
Sarah’s hand comes up to cover her mouth. Her eyes have gone big and wide, like she might cry, but she blinks a couple of times and they clear. The bartender approaches her; she nods, and he brings her another drink.
Curious as to what just went down with Sal, I head toward the bar. Probably not the best idea, approaching Sal’s girl, but…
Fuck. Maybe it’s a good idea. What better way to make Sal look like the useless piece of shit he is? Smirking, I head for the bar and slide onto the bar stool Sal just vacated.
Sarah looks up, surprised.
“Can I get you a drink?” I ask her.
She gestures toward the highball glass in front of her. “I’ve got a drink.”
“You finish that one. I’ll get you another one.”
“I don’t know. I’ve probably had enough.”
I shrug. “I’ll get you one anyway. You might get thirsty.” I hold my hand out to her. “Nick Angelino.”
She nods. “I know.” Hesitantly she slides her small hand into mine. “Sarah Corelli.”
“I know.” I grin at her, and she manages a wan smile back. Of course we know each other. Everybody in the family knows each other one way or another, even if only by reputation. But as far as having been formally introduced—that’s a different story. “You’re too pretty to be
here all on your own.”
“I’m not on my own. I’m with Sal. You know Sal?” The edge to her voice tells me she’s warning me off. That she’s taken.
I shrug it off. “Everybody knows Sal.” I try not to make a face when I say his name. “And it doesn’t look like he’s here right now. He left you here all alone? Unsupervised? How does he know nobody’s going to just pick you up and take you home with them?” I lean a little closer. “Like, say, me?”
Her expression becomes a bit wary. “Are you suggesting something?”
“Honey, I’m always suggesting something.” I trace a finger along the back of her hand. She doesn’t flinch away, or slap me, or throw her drink in my face, so that’s a win.
I’ve seen her several times before, here and there, across a room or milling through a crowd of partygoers. She’s usually on Sal’s arm. She’s even prettier up close than I imagined from seeing her at a distance. She doesn’t seem to have much on in the way of makeup, and her skin is clear and appears virtually pore-less. Smooth, like porcelain. I want to touch her. Is all her skin that creamy-pale ivory color? I can picture it—miles and miles of smooth, flawless skin, face to tits to thighs. I can damn near feel it under my fingers.
Her hair is sleek and black, done up in an updo that looks like it probably took four hairdressers and an architect to construct. One pull on one of those ivory sticks poking out of it and it’d be all down around her shoulders, I bet. Tousled and unkempt, like she just got out of bed after a long, thorough fuck. My dick swells just looking at this woman, and suddenly I want her more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. Want her under me, pinned by the wrists while I shove my dick into her until she writhes and screams.
Hot as Sin (Contemporary Romance Box Set) Page 57
