by T Steele
“Why are you so mad?” I say, throwing my hands in the air.
He swivels toward me, caging me in with his arms, and my heart beats faster. His eyes roam my face. “I had to demand everyone leave the garage. They weren’t happy with me.”
“Since when do you care if people are happy with you? Are you going soft, John?”
He growls, his tongue darting out to lick his lips. “Dammit, Ruby, you have no idea how hard it is for me not to fuck that smart mouth of yours.”
Now, I’m the one to lick my lips, and he leans in closer, causing chills to erupt over my body at his proximity. “I almost killed someone today.”
I flinch, that wasn’t what I was expecting. “Why?”
“For looking at you.”
Then, it dawns on me—the reason why no one was in the garage today. John had ordered them out because he didn’t want them to look at me.
Apprehension coils inside me. “That—that’s not healthy, John,” I stammer.
He laughs, and I’m awestruck. It’s deep. The sound of a low guitar vibrating, but hollow inside. It’s the thing of nightmares wrapped as Hershey kisses. Just like everything about John. The man screams sex appeal, but also seems to have a “do not disturb” sign plastered to his forehead. And if I’m not careful, I’m not just going to fall; I’m going to split apart, dissolving into little pieces and every single one of those pieces will belong to John Russo.
He twirls a piece of my hair lightly between his fingers, staring at it as if it’s a piece of gold. He brings it to his nose with a deep inhale. “I’m not concerned with my health when you’re dressed like a private school girl with oil smudged on her face. You look like you just stepped right out of one of those fuckers’ wet dreams.”
Then he shrugs away from me just as he did this morning and when the elevator door opens, I feel breathless and foggy. The reason I was on the elevator in the first place had completely vanished from my mind.
I straighten my shoulders, smoothing the nonexistent wrinkles in my shirt. I chance a subtle glance at John, and he stares back at me expectantly, as if he’s been waiting for me to step off the elevator for several hours. My mission suddenly returns to my mind.
I march out, determination giving my legs longer strides than usual.
I lift my hand to knock on the door of my father’s study when I feel the weight of John’s palm on my shoulder. I tense.
“What are you doing?” He hisses.
“Nothing,” I shrug his hand off my shoulder.
“Do you want me to throw your ass over my shoulder and force you to go to your room?”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
His answer is to raise a brow.
“You’ll have to knock me unconscious because I’ll scream bloody fucking murder.”
He grinds his jaw, and I hate that I want to run my tongue along it.
I look away, raising my fist to knock again when I hear my dad yelling inside. I press my ear to the door, eavesdropping, and I almost want to laugh at the look of uncertainty on John’s face. I bet he’s never had to babysit anyone before. Especially someone like me—the Boss’s daughter. He can’t barge in on my father’s private meeting—one that he was likely supposed to be a part of—but he also can’t manhandle me or demand I do anything unless it’s regarding my safety.
The sound of my dad pounding his fist on the table almost rattles the door. “So, we’re still losing money at the casino?” my father asks.
“Yes, Boss,” someone says sadly.
“I say we bring in more strippers. Men will pay anything for titties and pussy.” This from a different voice.
“I’ve hired a few new girls already. We need more players,” says my dad.
I don’t know what he means by players. Poker players, maybe? He’d mentioned a casino.
“We need more incentive for people to come. There will already be more strippers. I’m going to ask John if he’ll be willing to play again.”
My eyes drift up to John’s, but he only stares at me blankly.
“What are they talking about?” I whisper.
John closes his eyes with a resigned sigh as if he’s asking for patience. “Your dad’s casino, The Balla Ragazza. It’s where we make most of our money, and almost all of our deals happen there. The people who live here know how to count cards, so your dad has us sit-in at the tables, winning hundreds of millions of dollars, which we all split with the family.”
“Wouldn’t that just make you lose more money?”
John gives me a droll stare. “Yeah, Malcolm has us voluntarily sit-in at the tables losing money,” he sighs. “We count cards. Even if some of our money is thrown in, it’s won right back. None of us lose and no one there knows we’re a mafia family living under the same roof.”
“Thanks for explaining that so nicely,” I say sarcastically, and this time, when I raise my hand, I do knock on the shiny mahogany wood.
“WHAT?” my dad yells.
I walk in, pretending I’m not about to piss my pants.
“Ruby,” he says, his demeanor softening. While I don’t trust him, or know if I ever will, I find relief in knowing that he does seem to care about me in his own odd way. “Why are you so filthy?” he asks, scrunching his nose as if I smell.
I blush, glancing around the room to the other men, but none of them glance in my direction. I’m thankful in this moment for how protective my father is and how much his men respect him.
“I fixed John’s car,” I say. “I was hoping you’d let me start working in the garage. Sorry to interrupt your meeting, but I’m tired and wanted to ask you before I go to bed.”
My father’s eyes lock on John, and they seem to be having some sort of silent communication that makes me want to rip out my hair.
“I’m sorry, Ruby, but no. You’re my heir. You shouldn’t be working in the garage like the help.”
“But I like doing it, please, Father,” I say, not knowing how to address him, but feeling so desperate for freedom that I may get on my knees and beg.
“We’ll talk about this later, Ruby—”
I interrupt him when I know he’s about to ask me to leave. “If you won’t let me work in the garage, then I can help you with the casino. I have to do something outside of this house!”
My dad’s glare turns murderous. “You will do no such thing.”
“I can be the entertainment.”
Everyone in the room stiffens, and it’s almost as if the temperature drops by how cold the look on my father’s face is. I realize they must think I meant that I could be naked entertainment, and I’m quick to explain. “I can sing,” my voice comes out high and shrill. “I could sing on stage. I’m assuming there’s a stage. I would be fully clothed,” I clarify.
“That’s nice of you to offer, but sweetheart—how stupid would that make me look? The Bykov family, our rivals, already know you’re here. You performing center stage would put a bullseye on your head.”
I grin, a plan forming in my head that has to be perfect. He has to approve. “But what if you hid me in plain sight? Think about it. I could wear a different wig and dress each time. You’re right. They wouldn’t think you were that stupid. They would never guess it was me. To them, I’m just meaningless entertainment working for tips.”
I feel the mood in the room shift. The big, mean men start to realize I’m not the dumb little girl they thought I was.
“I’ll think about it,” comes my father’s curt reply. “Now, leave me to my meeting.” He turns from us. We’re dismissed.
I walk from the room, knowing when to pick my battles. That was the first time he hadn’t outright dismissed me. I’ll take it.
John and I walk back to my bedroom in silence, but as soon as the door shuts, he whirls on me, his head cocking to the side. “You can sing?”
“No. I just lied. I plan on getting up on stage and making a complete fool of myself for shits and giggles.”
His eyes darken, and I smile smug
ly. His eyes dip to my lips.
“Sing for me,” he says huskily.
I blush, and my heart starts beating faster. “You can’t just put me on the spot like that. I—I can’t—”
He grips my chin, making me look him in the eye. “How do you expect to perform on a stage in front of hundreds, maybe thousands of people, if you can’t even sing in front of just one person?”
He’s right, and I hate that he’s right. I also hate that I feel hurt by his words.
John presses his lips to mine, gently, so gently, but I still gasp at the unexpectedness of it. His lips are so soft, and he tastes of alcohol, and I wonder when he’d drank. Regardless, I feel as though I am the one getting drunk on his lips. His scent envelops me: leather and steel and some heady cologne. I run my fingers through the silky locks of his hair and he groans. My brain says I should stay mad at him. Give him hell for the way he acted this morning, but whenever John’s lips touch mine, common sense runs out the window, jumping through glass and all. Making my heart and body disagree, winning the fight fair and square. Sorry brain.
He pulls away. “Sing for me,” he repeats.
“I haven’t even rehearsed. I need to—”
He cuts me off again, kissing me. It’s so soft that when his tongue slides against mine, it almost tickles in the best way possible.
His hands start to wander, cupping my breasts through the thin shirt I’m wearing, but it’s not enough. I need more.
He lets out a dark chuckle before he slips his hands beneath my shirt, stripping me of it. I’m so nervous and excited that I barely register when my bra comes unsnapped and drops to the ground, my breasts springing free.
He breaks away from our kiss to admire my breasts, cupping them in his hands, his eyes dark and intense, and my breathing starts to quicken. When he bends his knees, and his tongue flicks out over the pebbled bud, I cry out. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about this a million times since the last time he did it. I arch into him, pulling his head closer so he can have better access.
“Getting greedy now, are we?” he murmurs.
I stiffen, causing John to glance up. “I didn’t mean that as a bad thing. Why do you care about what I think so much?”
“Why wouldn’t I? I care about you and what you think about me . . .” I whisper, feeling uncomfortable at sharing so much.
John blinks, straightening and staring into my eyes at his full height. His hands are still caressing my breasts, his thumbs gliding over my nipples, and I clench my thighs together. My hands run over his chest, loving the way his body feels beneath my palms. John’s brow furrows as if he doesn’t understand what I’ve said, but with his hand movements and the pulse between my thighs, it’s hard for me to focus on anything else.
A lock of dark hair falls over his face, and I smooth it back. The gesture seems to make him angry because his cruel face tightens, making him appear even crueler.
“Don’t,” he says.
And I stiffen once more. “What did I do?” I whisper.
“You can’t be gentle with me.”
My face falls, “Wh—why not?” I stammer.
He slides a forefinger down my stomach, hiking my skirt up to where it reaches just below my breasts. His eyes are cold, yet filled with a want I’ve never seen before.
“Because, Ruby, I’m like a dog. If you’re nice to me, I’ll come back, begging for more.” His finger travels lower and lower until it reaches the apex of my thighs, and I bite my lip to suppress a moan. He shudders when he feels the dampness soaking my panties. “Besides, you’ve already fed me once.” Now his finger moves in steady circles over the tiny bundle of nerves and my hips buck. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to feed the strays, Ruby?” His voice is soft and husky and rough, and I don’t think a sound could have ever turned me on so much until I met John.
“John,” I moan. “You’re not a dog.”
Suddenly, I’m thrown onto the mattress. John hovers over me, and his finger dips inside my sex, and all the air leaves my lungs. “Don’t ever tell me what I am,” he demands, and then his tongue darts out, licking my nipple. I’m about to reply and tell him I can do whatever the hell I want, and that he shouldn’t speak so badly about himself—but then his finger curls inside me and anything that comes out of my mouth is nothing but a plea for more. “Fuck, you’re so perfect, Ruby. The things I’m doing to you, men would go to fucking war for them.”
Though I doubt that would ever happen, the words still affect me, making me feel confident and sexy.
It gives me the courage to ask, “Can I see you, John?”
He stiffens and then growls, “Ruby, if I get naked, I’m not going to be able to stop myself from fucking you.”
“Would that be such a bad thing?” I ask. Because my body wants his. It’s begging for it. I can’t deny the anxiety that fills me thinking of the pain, but knowing pleasure will eventually come overrides my fear.
John heaves a sigh and runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the ends, and I frown at his reaction, surprised he didn’t rip out any strands.
“Do— do you not want me? It’s okay, if not. Just pretend I didn’t say—”
John’s on me so quickly, shoving his tongue into my mouth, demanding and hot and tantalizing. When he pulls away, he’s breathing hard, and his eyes look crazed. “Don’t ever think I don’t fucking want you, you hear me?”
I gulp, only managing a nod.
John closes his eyes, looking pained. “Look, Ruby, there’s nothing I’d rather do than fuck you. Hard. I want you so badly that I should win a God damned medal for all my restraint. But, if we fuck, then you’re mine. I’m not a good man, Ruby. I’m at least man enough to admit that. But I don’t think you understand all that’s entailed when you’re with someone like me. Not only would I die for you, but I’d fucking kill for you, too. In a fucking heartbeat.” He pauses, and the expression on his face is tormented. “And then. . . there’s Malcolm.”
An impulsive and ridiculous thought pops into my head, and before I can put more thought into it, my voice wafts through the room, low and raspy and seductive.
The chorus from Audioslave’s “Like a Stone” lyrics come out, and John stills, staring into my face, and I close my eyes and continue.
I pour my heart and soul into the words, only repeating the chorus. My voice is soft and throaty and I make myself stare into John’s eyes.
I don’t sing the entire song, but when I finish with the small bit I showed him, he runs his knuckles over my face, admiring me like a masterpiece. “Every time I think to myself that you can’t get any more perfect, you prove me wrong,” he whispers and then stands, lifting his shirt from behind the neck and ripping it off his body, and now it’s my turn to admire him. I gave him my voice, a part of myself really, and now he’s giving me himself in the only way he knows how. A small voice in the back of my mind says this isn’t a good idea, but I think that voice is wrong. The more I look at the savage beauty of John, the more I squash the voice inside.
I get up on my knees and run my hands over his sculpted chest. His rock-hard abs tense with every little touch of my fingers. He’s scarred and tattooed, and everything I imagined John would be, yet more perfect.
He has two gun tattoos aiming at each other on both of his pecs and a giant black skull underneath them, the ink all dark and intricate. There’s a pink and puckered stretch of skin that looks as though he was stabbed, and another mark that looks as if he’s been burned. The words: I only live because of silence stretch out across his chest, collarbone to collarbone, in more black ink, and I trace my finger over it.
“What’s that mean?”
John swallows thickly. “It’s the omerta pledge of silence. It means the only reason I stay alive is because I stay silent.”
Before I can stop myself, I lean forward, kissing the words and the scar closest to me.
“This is going to hurt you,” John says, his voice flat.
“I know,” I say,
because I do know. I’m a virgin, and we both know it, but I trust John will be as gentle as he can be.
“I’ve never done gentle before,” he says as if reading my mind.
I’m too nervous to answer, so instead, I bring his lips down to mine. We kiss, and it feels so good that I allow myself to bask in it before my nerves crush me.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” John asks against my mouth.
“Yes.”
John’s pants are still on, but I feel his hardness rub against me as his hips buck almost involuntarily.
I feel his teeth sink into my bottom lip, and I gasp at the slight pleasure-pain. John hooks his thumbs into the waistband of my skirt before sliding it down my body. “You just have to wear fucking skirts every day, huh?”
“You said these were ‘respectable clothing’,” I say, letting out a soft laugh.
“I’m a fucking idiot.”
I giggle, tightening my arms around him, loving the way our skin feels together. Loving that, for some odd reason, I have an effect on this hardened criminal who is never affected by anything.
When my skirt and underwear touch my knees, I lean back, helping him finish the job. I lean up on my elbows, watching him as I lay naked before him. John’s muscles flex as he moves, staring at my body so intently that it almost feels like a caress in itself.
He softly lifts one of my legs, his fingers slowly gliding down my knee to ankle and he leaves a light kiss to my calf. “I love when you stand on your toes and your calf muscles stand out in your gorgeous legs.” His tongue darts out licking the calf muscle he was just talking about. “God, I’ve been wanting to do that forever,” he murmurs against my skin. “And then when you rub your chest, mmm . . .” he makes this deep noise in the back of his throat that makes my insides clench in the best way. “I know it’s a nervous tic, but all I see is your feminine little hands on your perfect tits. Like you’re teasing yourself. Like you’re teasing me.”
My chest is heaving and my body is on fire from his words and his tongue, which is running up the length of my leg to my inner thigh and then back down to my calf in a pleasurably tortuous pattern.