by Kane, Jessa
The Kingpin’s Weakness
Jessa Kane
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Epilogue
1
Easton
Not a damn thing moves me anymore.
In my youth, I was driven and ambitious. There was nowhere to go but up—straight to the top—and I didn’t care how many bodies I had to step over to get there.
Here’s what no one tells you, though. The top is fucking boring.
Now the only answer I hear is yes. Mainly because people assume their very existence will be in jeopardy if they question my decisions.
They’re not wrong.
But I digress.
I’m at the top now. A kingpin, they call me. Lord and master of this city’s underworld. Money is no longer something I have to work for. It’s my due. Respect has been earned. Fear has been established. No one challenges the king when pain is the implied result. There is nothing else to reach for and I’m colder than ever. Cold and indifferent and moving from one moment to the next like a feather underwater.
Here is the other thing they don’t tell you about being on top.
You lose more than you gain. Especially in my line of work.
A brother. A friend.
Casualties that come from being associated with a dangerous man, such as myself.
A waitress sets down a cocktail to my right, but I stare straight ahead, not bothering to pick it up. Not even sure if I ordered it in the first place. I’m in my private box at the arena, waiting for the MMA fight to begin below. My gaze drops to the crowd at my feet. Men in bloodthirsty packs, beers hoisted, general pandemonium. I own a sizable stake in the federation and I hoped it would amuse me to witness my illegal funds establish something so commercial.
But alas, once again, I am unmoved.
Tonight is a fight between the Maxim Semenov (aka The Madman of MMA) and Banner Kyle, a veteran of the sport who manages to even make my skin crawl. Quite a feat, considering the shit that I’ve seen and done.
I’m drumming my fingers on the arm of my leather chair, contemplating going home and skipping the fight altogether, but something catches my attention on the Jumbotron.
A girl’s smiling face.
Something flickers in my chest and I suck in a breath, rubbing at the spot. It has been so long since I felt anything, the sensation of my own heartbeat is unnatural.
Who is she?
Front row seats are expensive. Could she be an actress or model?
She’s certainly beautiful enough. But her black-rimmed glasses and the way she turns in a wide-eyed circle have me discarding those professions. No, she isn’t used to the front row. There is something buoyant and innocent about her. Classy. Soft.
I shoot to my feet and advance to the glass, as if I could reach out and touch her image on the oversized screen. Somehow she is the only person in this arena, the only person I’ve seen in years, that doesn’t read as one-dimensional. In a sea of cardboard cutouts, she’s a living, breathing thing and I swear I can almost hear her inhaling, exhaling.
Who the fuck is she?
I pull my phone out of my pocket, surprised to find my hand shaking. Gritting my teeth, I scroll for a moment, then hit the number for my head of security. He answers after half a ring.
“Yes, Mr. Brawn?”
“There is a girl…” I have to stop and clear my throat. “In the front row. Dead center of the ring. Black dress. Glasses. Bring her up to me immediately.”
“Yes, Mr. Brawn.”
“Don’t take no for an answer.”
“I never do.”
I cross my arms and watch my security guard jog down to the front of the arena, just as Maxim Semenov busts through the double doors and thunders toward the ring—and his opponent. Normally I would wonder what has gotten the fighter even more worked up than usual, but I just want the girl up here. I can think of nothing but that.
Part of me hopes she bores me just like everything and everyone else. That way I can stay wrapped up in my cold indifference.
Yet another part of me knows that isn’t going to happen.
There is too much honesty and life and intelligence in her eyes.
I can’t wait to fuck her.
My breath fogs the glass a little and I wipe it with the wrist of my suit jacket, watching as my guard informs the girl she is wanted in my box.
And I almost have to laugh at the horror that clouds her expression.
My name tends to get that reaction.
For the first time, I realize she is with another girl and they both argue. Don’t they know it is pointless? I get everything I want. My world is a world filled with yeses. No isn’t an option.
Finally, she is being guided up the stairs and…
Christ.
Her face is beautiful.
Her body is a goddamn meal.
She keeps tugging on the hem of her short, black dress and I get the sense she doesn’t dress sexy very often and isn’t comfortable in her clothes.
No matter. I plan to keep her naked.
My fingers start to burn and I realize my cigar has burned all the way down without me taking a single puff. They are almost at the entrance to my box now, so I stub it out, my attention locked on the door. Waiting for her to walk through. Preparing for my reaction to having her right in front of me.
But nothing, nothing could have prepared me.
My guard opens the door, gently prods her inside and closes it behind him, never making eye contact with me. Like a good little solider. And there she is.
She shifts in her high-heeled Mary Janes, her head bowed forward slightly, leaving her face curtained by a wealth of rich brunette hair. When she peeks up at me through her glasses and sucks in a breath, I get this very raw, very real sense that I’ve made every single decision in my life just so that I could end up right here. With her.
“Hello,” I say thickly. “What’s your name?”
“Scout,” she whispers. “And I’m going to pass out now.”
I lunge, catching her right before she collapses on the floor.
2
Scout
When I wake up, Easton Brawn is looking down at me.
It wasn’t a dream. I’m still in his private box. I’m alone with him.
The devil incarnate. The kingpin. The lord and master of the underworld. The notorious gangster I’ve been reading about in the papers since I was in middle school.
It’s just him and me, sharing air space. No big deal.
Not a hint of what he’s thinking shows on his face.
His corruptly sexy face.
He is a decade older than me, but there isn’t a single wrinkle to indicate that he’s in his early thirties. Almost as if he never shows emotion and therefore his face never creases, never crinkles. Just stays smooth. His eyes are mossy green. Sharp, but blank. Betraying nothing.
There is a faint aroma of cigar smoke around him and an undercurrent of mint. Not like toothpaste or gum. But the fresh herb. Chopped.
“You don’t smell like the blood of your enemies at all,” I murmur, obviously still in a stupor from my trip to unconscious land. “That’s nice.”
He tilts his head. “Have you spent a lot of time wondering what I’d smell like?”
“I was a little curious,” I admit. “Is that weird?”
“A bit.”
“Oh. Can I go now?”
“No.”
“I had a feeling you’d say that,” I whisper.
Easton Brawn, gangster, lifts a hand and brings it to my
forehead, hesitating for a split second before feeling for a temperature with the back of his wrist. “Were you feeling faint before coming in here, Scout?” he asks quietly. “Or do you just find me that alarming?”
I sit up slowly, expecting him to back up a pace, but he doesn’t. And that leaves me face to face with his gold belt buckle. Swallowing hard, I tip my head back to meet his eyes—and it’s a long way up. The papers never mention him being so tall. So…strong. “I find the unknown alarming. It’s why I like science. There is always an answer eventually. Facts. When I walked in here, I had no idea what you want from me. I still don’t. That’s what I find alarming. Not necessarily…you.” I force myself to stop rambling. “Thank you for catching me. I bruise easily.”
He exhales slowly, rubs at the center of his chest. “Goddammit.”
I push my glasses higher on my nose. “What?”
“I was hoping you’d do me a favor and be boring.”
“Sorry.” I open my mouth and close it. This man is nothing like I would have expected him to be. What is wrong with his chest? Is he going to faint, too? “I could try harder. Maybe recite the periodic table?”
“I have a feeling I’d find that adorable and it would only make things worse.”
This whole exchange feels a little bit like a dream. Or like the time my sister and I shared a bottle of champagne on the roof of our building, lay right there until the sun set and the stars came out. It’s a real moment, but it’s more vivid than reality. Crystalizing itself. “I’m a little confused. You’re the one that brought me here, Mr. Brawn.”
“Easton.”
“Oh.” I shake my head. “No, I can’t call you that.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Why not?”
Why indeed? Why does everything happening in my brain seem to fire right out of my mouth around this man? I’m not a smooth person by any means, but I’m usually not so goofy. Am I? “It’s a very intimate name. Isn’t it?”
A muscle ticks in his cheek. “Why do you think I brought you up here, cutie?”
Heat travels up my limbs like creeping fingers, warmth slowly curling in my belly. He wants me. My father is a gambler and bets on a lot of fights. Gets in a lot of trouble, too. On the way up here, I kind of convinced myself Easton wanted to speak about that. But no. His interest in me is sexual. And I suddenly feel very small and vulnerable sitting on that couch, the most notorious criminal in modern history towering over me. Vulnerable and…tingly.
His green eyes meander over my breasts and I’m shocked when my nipples plump up, as if wanting to show off. Rude little things. Do I hear him groan?
“Is this what you do?” I sound breathless. I am breathless. “You select a woman from the crowd and bring her up here for sex?”
He lifts a hand and cradles my jaw gently, running his thumb along my cheekbone. And I wish I hadn’t looked up, because his eyes smolder down at me. Making promises I don’t understand. “No, as it happens, this is not something I do. Ever.”
Okay. That makes this even more scary, so I pretend he never said it. Easy peasy. “Because I have to tell you, I don’t think that sounds very, um…satisfying.”
His laugh is pained. “You don’t think I’d be satisfied with you underneath me?”
Lord. My face is on fire. Other parts of me are suspiciously hot, too, now that the image of Easton Brawn on top of me, unclothed, is floating around in my head. “Don’t you want to get to know a woman before you j-just…” I flail my hands. “Otherwise, it would probably be very impersonal and, um…”
His thumb has stopped moving. “You’re a virgin.”
“Yes. Very much so.” I try to appear as rigid as possible. “You would hate it.”
“I sincerely doubt that.” Easton seems contemplative for a moment. Torn. Then the fingers on my cheek trail down to the strap of my dress. One digit tucks beneath the thin strip of material and drags it over my shoulder slowly. Down, down, until my nipple is just about to be exposed. “I’m a very bad man, cutie. So why am I having such a hard time taking what I want here?” His fingers trail across to the opposite strap and pull it down until the dress slithers down to my waist, my breasts fully exposed, my nipples in tight points. “I could make you want it,” he rasps, his chest expanding. “You’re already halfway there.”
Wow. This is what turned on means.
I can feel his need for me. It’s calling out to something untapped in my own body. A need to please. To seek relief with the help of a man. To be trapped under his weight. To be taken in this unrestrained way. On the surface, there doesn’t seem to be anything scientific about sex, but…there is. There is chemistry and hormones and methods to the madness. A culmination of energy and movement. All of it calls to me now when it never has before.
But he’s a stranger. This isn’t how I imagined my virginity being taken.
I’m not the type to rush into important decisions. I can’t let this unexpected attraction to Easton Brawn force me into something I could regret later.
“But I want my first time to be romantic,” I whisper, resisting the urge to cover myself.
That draws him up short, though it’s just a flicker of interest in his eye. The rest of his face remains impassible. Hard to read. “What does romantic mean to you?” he asks, cupping my bare breast in his hand, teasing the achy nipple slowly with revolutions of his thumb.
“Um,” I breathe, wetting my lips. And…those aren’t the only wet lips in the room. His touch is sending a wealth of confusing and exciting sensations through me, starting pulses in places that shouldn’t have pulses. “Soft lights and flowers and—”
“Those are just things.” He kneels in front of me, shrugs off his jacket and leans in to kiss the area between my breasts. His breath, his tongue, the side to side brush of his lips, the way his hands massage my sensitive mounds with such possession, is short-circuiting my brain. And then his hands slide up my outer thighs, gripping my hips beneath the dress and I have to trap a moan. “Lights and flowers have no importance.”
“No.” I struggle through the sensual haze he’s wrapped me in. “No, but I also want to know the person.”
He slides me closer, to the edge of the couch. The move hikes up my dress and his eyes lock on the juncture of my thighs, flaring with heat. “You don’t need to know me to get off.”
“It would be better if I did,” I say unevenly. “It would mean more.”
Easton curses and a line appears between his brows, the first crack in his façade. “I can’t mean anything to you, Scout. You can’t mean anything to me.”
“Why?”
Agitated hands curl in the material of my dress. “I get one night. One. Any more than that and you’ll become a target.” He leans in and presses our foreheads together, gathering me to him on the couch like a rag doll, crushing me to his hard body. “Like everyone else that had the misfortune of being in my life. Do you understand?”
I do.
Of course.
I never stopped to think how lonely the kingpin’s life must be. Other criminals want his position. There are constant threats. Culpability. Relationships must be impossible.
I don’t realize I’ve wrapped my arms around his neck until Easton gathers me tighter, rocking me on the couch, his face taking deep inhales in my hair.
“Well…” I pause, questioning the wisdom of what I’m about to do. Am I crazy? I don’t know. But I can sense this man’s need for me and my instinct is to fulfill it. “We have the night to get to know each other, then. To make this meaningful. Romantic.”
His laugh releases in a rush. “Is this where I point out I already have you half naked?”
“Fair point. But you don’t want me to regret my first time.”
I state it as a fact. Because somehow I know it is one.
He lifts his head and scrutinizes my features, as if memorizing them. “No, cutie,” he says hoarsely. “I…don’t.”
“So take me on a date, Easton,” I whisper, giving in to the
urge to brush his hair back.
The gesture, plus me saying his name, seems to unnerve him and soothe him all at once. One affectionate slip and he’s a cornered animal. He yanks me forward and pins me down to the couch so fast, a scream lodges in my throat. And then he’s above me, his body poised above mine, lethal and powerful, his hand dropping down to grip between my legs. “I could fuck you right now. Easy at first. Then hard enough to make you sore. And you would love it, little girl. Are we clear on that?”
My vision doubles, I’m so dizzy. From shock, from lust. From whatever foreign and unexpected effect this man is having on me. “Y-yes, we’re clear.”
Something like agony slips through his eyes. “Then why don’t I?”
“Who are you asking?” I breathe. “Me or yourself?”
He swallows, leans down and bares his teeth against my mouth. “I don’t take innocent little virgins out on dates. I don’t take anyone out on dates.”
“Where are we going, though?”
I have no idea when I got so brave.
Am I the same girl who passed out when I walked in here?
I don’t know where this confidence is coming from, but I have the complete conviction down deep in my belly that this man is not what everyone thinks. And that he is incapable of hurting me. That when it comes to hurt…he’s the one who’s experiencing it.
“You get to know me,” he says in a low voice. “You might not like what you find.”
Following impulse, I lean up and kiss his mouth softly, working my mouth over his until he makes a broken sound, kissing me back, winding his tongue around mine, his lips voracious, his grip tightening between my thighs until I whimper, shift my hips. Sensing we’re reaching the point of no return, I pull away. “I’ll take that risk,” I manage through deep breaths.
For long moments, we stare at each other and he seems torn. Conflicted. Starved. But I know in my heart he’s going to do the right thing. I’m positive.