by Naima Simone
She couldn’t help it; she chuckled. If he’d shown up on her family’s doorstep, he was the kind of man her mother would gladly have ushered into the living room and filled with dinner and news about how her daughter needed “a nice young man in her life.” He did seem nice, even if he didn’t set off any tingles below her belly button. But what the hell? It was a drink.
“Sure, I—”
“You have somewhere else to be.” The new, dark voice sent a cascade of shivers skipping over her skin. She shifted her gaze from her would-be suitor to the looming presence behind him. And though the statement had been directed toward the man in front of her, she shivered. But it wasn’t just the flat, ominous tone that had her trembling…
Holy shit.
Ragnar.
Instead of sporting a braided mohawk, this man had blond hair cropped close to his head. And a severe black suit and white shirt adorned his tall, wide frame in place of a leather tunic, leggings, and a broad sword, but still… It could’ve been the legendary warrior from the History Channel’s show Vikings who shifted forward and almost inserted himself in between her and her almost bar date. The other man’s jaw unhinged, and he gaped up…and up…at the blond giant.
Jesus. She blinked, part of her concerned over how pale the smaller man became when Ragnar pinned him with a hard stare. He didn’t utter a word. Just…stared. Whew. That kind of magnetism was…hot.
She couldn’t help studying the interloper. He demanded to be stared at. His profile could’ve been carved from a slab of marble. Sharp, almost harshly cut cheekbones, the slant of his nose, the slash of his mouth, and the rock-hard edge of his jaw—they combined to form a face that inspired fear. And lust. Both emotions twisted and tangled inside her, whirling and gaining strength with each rotation.
“Uh.” The other—smaller—man coughed. “Excuse me.”
“I need to speak with you,” the Viking rumbled to her while flicking a dismissive, steely glance to her would-be suitor.
He didn’t sound like a Viking. With that faint but melodic accent, maybe a tsar. Or a bogatyr, one of the famed warriors in old Russian legends. The slight lengthening of his vowels and softening of consonants brought to mind blinding-white, icy landscapes with a stark, primal beauty. Just like its speaker. Heat fluttered in her sex, flames licking at her flesh, her clit. Up until this moment, she hadn’t believed a voice could be foreplay. But the thought of his low, deep growl in her ear, murmuring explicit, dirty details of what he wanted to do to her and how he expected her to please him had her already creeping to the ledge of orgasmic abyss.
“Um, okay,” she murmured, surprise winging though her. “But I was just going to have a drink with…”
“N-no,” the other guy stammered, already edging past them. “That’s fine. I’m fine. It’s no problem…” Whatever else he said trailed off as he fled out of the corridor and into the crowd.
Leaving her alone with the Viking.
He turned toward her, and she met his stare for the first time.
Again, electricity crackled through her, and if she glanced down, she wouldn’t have been surprised if the hairs on her arms stood at attention. Bolts of lightning could’ve struck the floor in between them, and she still wouldn’t have been able to look away. His face was an artist’s delight of angles, planes, and curves, but the eyes…they were the masterpiece. Exotic and almond-shaped, the piercing blue and gray reminded her of a wolf’s predatory gaze.
Some of the men who’d come to visit her father had possessed that kind of stare. Then, she’d shuddered, hating their scrutiny on her, longing to escape it. And with good reason, she’d later found out, considering the killers she now knew were her father’s “associates.”
Unlike those men, though, if this blond giant had stood in their house, his focus pinned on her, something told her she wouldn’t have minded. Wouldn’t have avoided it but courted it. Done anything to keep it.
She shook her head as if she could dislodge the inane thought. Tara’s talk of kinky, secret dungeons had her mind skipping down a path marked “Not in This Lifetime.” Men like him didn’t notice women like her. He probably had women like the bartender—gorgeous, confident, and sexy, with a killer body—occupying his bed. The only thing the bartender and Corrine had in common was the size of their breasts, thanks to her mother and her busty Irish roots.
“Uh, you said you needed to speak with me,” she rasped, then cleared her throat and tried again. “I’m not sure—”
“You should go,” he warned, his voice softer but firm. Cold.
Again, surprise struck her, and she reran the last couple of minutes through her head, trying to figure out what she could’ve done that earned his displeasure.
“But I didn’t do anything…” She held her hands out, palms up.
“It’s not what you’ve done,” he murmured, shifting closer so only mere inches separated them.
The wide set of his shoulders blocked out her view of…everything. His scent—sweet and earthy like freshly cut wood—surrounded her, invading her nose and settling on her tongue, smothering the odors of incense, sweat, and perfume that permeated the hallway. And when that almost eerie gaze dipped from her face to stroke her neck, shoulders, and linger on the bared swell of her breasts, her nipples pinched tight beneath the cups of the corset. She squeezed her thighs against the throbbing, and almost as if he could decipher the action, his regard dropped even lower, studying her body. Unless the man sported a blue unitard with a crimson “S” emblazoned across the front beneath his suit, then he didn’t possess X-ray vision. So there was no way he could detect the softening and swelling of her sex or the damp evidence of her arousal on her panties. But God, when he returned his scrutiny to her face, the knowledge in those narrowed, bright eyes had her second-guessing. And shifting backward.
“It’s not what you’ve done,” he repeated, reclaiming the space she’d placed between them. “It’s who you are…princess.”
Shock and pain punched her in the chest. She hated, fucking detested, that nickname; the Mob Princess—the moniker the press had given her—humiliated her. It illuminated not only her ignorance but the lifestyle she’d grown up in—a lifestyle built and paid for by the grief, loss, and blood of others.
Shoving down her shame, she tilted her chin up, met that intimidating stare. “Are you telling me to leave or suggesting?”
Surprise flickered in his eyes. “I’m strongly suggesting,” he said after a long moment.
“Well, thank you for the advice, but unless you’re the owner of this place, I doubt you can suggest I do anything…” She smiled, and it felt brittle and fake on her lips. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She circled his big frame and headed toward the mouth of the corridor. Forget the bathroom. She’d originally sought it out for a moment of peace, but all it’d brought was drama.
“I am the owner, princess. And you don’t belong here.”
The dark velvet of his voice halted her in her tracks just as much as the harsh words. Slowly, she pivoted. Calling on every ounce of deportment her mother had drummed into her, she faced her rescuer-turned-condemner and cocked her head. “Because of my father? Do you vet the family tree of everyone who enters this club, or am I just special?”
“You’re special given that most people can’t claim a mafia boss as their parent. But you’re something else, too, lisichka.” He stalked closer, and her impression of a marauding warrior focused on pillaging and conquering intensified. Once more, he didn’t stop until his body heat reached out to her, teased her. Until she was eye level with the steady pulse at the base of his strong throat. The urge to lean forward and lick it gripped her and shook her like a rag doll. “Innocent,” he said, lowering his head so close she could taste his breath on her lips. “Too damn innocent for whatever you came here looking for. This isn’t the place for your little rebellion.”
“I’m not—”
“Rebelling?” he interrupted, an eyebrow several shades darker than his pale b
lond hair arching. “Or innocent? The hell you aren’t here as some kind of ‘fuck you’ to whoever—your father, your family, the world. Otherwise why show up only days after your safe little world’s imploded? But the other? Yeah, I could be a little wrong about that. After all, innocents don’t tremble when they stare at two women kissing and rubbing their pussies together on a dance floor. Or men and women just a zipper pull or a shift of panties away from fucking. They run the other way, not slide the tip of their tongue over their bottom lip like they want a taste.”
She parted her lips, but nothing emerged. Images—the searing fantasies that had her twisting in her bed, had her sneaking a hand between her legs—tumbled in her head like clothes in a dryer. She longed to give him a nonchalant, this-ain’t-my-first-rodeo comeback, but couldn’t speak—lust trapped the words in her throat. How long had he been watching her? And how could he tell what her secret desires were with that short observation? She wasn’t a virgin—as much as it would probably kill her parents to know. While she might not be as, ah, free as Tara, she owned her sexuality, wasn’t ashamed of her body, and loved to be touched.
Though, to be honest, lately her vibrator had been doing more touching than a man.
So, tonight, everything she’d seen had struck a carnal chord in her. Had her hungry for something that had been unlocked but never opened.
And God, staring at this man with his wolf eyes and searing sexuality, she wanted to be cracked open.
He cocked his head, a corner of that full, sensual, almost cruel mouth lifted. That small half smile, the glint in his eyes—they called to her, seemed to invite her closer even though that same mouth had just told her to hit the bricks.
Slowly nodding, he leaned forward. “No, lisichka, maybe not so innocent. But definitely hungry. The question is, do you even know what you’re starving for?”
Hungry. The truth in his statement hit her like a freight train—knocking her on her ass, undeniable. She was hungry. For freedom. To be seen. To be acknowledged. For more.
“Show me,” she said…and waited. Unsure whether he would straighten and order her to get the hell out. Or… Damn, the thought of “or” had her trembling.
The skin across his sharp cheekbones tautened, his mouth appearing fuller, more carnal. His blue-gray scrutiny became hooded, and she swallowed a gasp at the heat that damn near singed her skin.
He lifted one arm, and then the other, flattening his palms on either side of her head and lowering his head until their mouths were only a breath apart. “Show you what? Ask me for it,” he ordered. “If you can’t say it, you can’t handle it.”
“I want…” She paused, gathered her courage. Started again. “I want you to…touch me.”
“Not enough,” he murmured against her mouth, pressing his forearms against the wall and eliminating another inch of space between them. She inhaled, dragging in the dark, sweet, caramel-like flavor of whatever he’d been drinking, and damn, she wanted to suck it off his tongue. Lick it off that sensual bottom lip. His chest brushed hers, and she clenched her teeth, jailing a moan. “Try it again,” he insisted. “What do you want from me? Just admit it, baby. I noticed how you watched those girls on the dance floor and especially the couples on the couches. I already know what you want…need. So, just. Say. It.”
She had—she so had watched them, envying them, wanting to be them. If she just opened her mouth, she could be them.
“I…” Again her voice broke off, but she pushed on. “I want you to make me come.”
He stilled, but then in an explosion of movement, he gripped her wrist and yanked her forward, the passion—not violence—in his movements nearly undoing her. She followed, trying not to trip over her feet as he pressed the handle on the door at the back of the hallway and pulled her behind him.
The brisk September air wrapped around them, but it didn’t do a thing to cool off her overheated skin. He halted under a fire escape and yanked the end of the ladder down, and it lowered with a loud, rusty whine. He unbuckled his belt and whipped it through the loops of his pants. Once, twice, he looped and tied the leather around her wrists, before securing the ends through the bottom rung, stretching her arms above her head.
“Now you’ve gone and done it, lisichka,” he murmured, the soft tone a direct contrast to the firm, almost grim line of his mouth and the hard glint in his hooded gaze.
Oh, yes. Boy, had she.
Chapter Two
Fuck, the princess was trying to kill him. I’ll be fine, Sasha had told Rion when he’d volunteered to keep eyes on Corrine Salvaggi, and now those words flipped him off with a big fucking grin. Maybe if he’d kept his distance, he could’ve upheld his promise.
Maybe if he hadn’t spent the last hour and a half watching her lose herself in complete abandon on the dance floor, rolling and bucking those hips perfect for gripping, shaking that ass his hands itched to shape, mold, and bite… Maybe then he wouldn’t be thinking with his dick right now.
Yeah, and if “if” was a fifth, he would be drunk as hell.
“I want you to make me come.”
He’d asked for it. Yet, the words had still struck an explosion of lust inside him like a match set to dry kindling. Spoken so low and containing a tremble, the words should’ve been a plea. But they weren’t; she’d demanded. And suddenly, he’d been the one needing to comply, to obey.
He’d expected her to scurry away, grab her friend, and hightail it out of the club. Part of him hoped she would, because it was for the best. But the larger, darker, needier part of him had wanted her to remain under him. Get dirty with him.
And goddamn, wasn’t she. Letting him push her into an alley. Letting him suspend her from a fire escape ladder. The sight of her strung up, bound and helpless before him… A hard fist of lust squeezed the hell out of his gut before moving down to his cock and stroking it, pumping it so he had to keep his hips from jerking forward. Had to force himself not to stroke his throbbing shaft between the thighs gloved in denim.
Need, hard and hot, pulled tight in his belly. Fuck. He should admonish her for allowing him, a man she’d just met, to exert such control over her. The wrong man would abuse that power, abuse her. The lapse in judgement emphasized her naiveté, and he would address it with her…just as soon as her body shook in orgasm and her screams echoed in his ears.
Lowering his arms, his fingers followed the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips, all the while studying her face, her eyes, for any hint of hesitancy or fear. So he could let her go. But only lust darkened her emerald gaze. Lust and excitement.
Humming softly, he skimmed his hands up the curves that had been taunting him all night. He stopped beneath the cups of the corset, and even through wire, satin, and lace, the heaviness of her breasts was a delicious weight against his fingers. He’d bet the fifty-thousand dollars he scored on his last job that they were real, not the unnaturally firm flesh that some women seemed to believe all men enjoyed.
“How should I make you come?” he purred in her ear, his thumbs unerringly locating and sweeping over pebbled nipples that pressed against her top.
She whimpered, arching into his touch, her hips twisting…searching. He swallowed back a growl, but his cock wasn’t as considerate. It pounded, demanding to feel her breasts squeezed around its length. Insisting it get to thrust between them before pushing into a mouth that hadn’t been created for sucking a man off, but should’ve been. With a short jerk, he tugged down the material concealing her from him.
“So fucking pretty,” he praised, that same groan working its way up his throat again as he finally eyed her bare flesh and cupped it. Pale skin sprinkled with a cinnamon smattering of freckles, she was a bit more than a handful… But then, he had larger than average hands, so just perfect for him. He plucked at her nipples…so delicate, pink, lovely. Lowering his head, he rubbed his cheek over a tight peak, then turned his head, grazing his lips over it. She jerked, cried out, and he murmured, “Shh. Legko.” Easy. “So responsive.” H
e delivered a long, slow lick, curling his tongue around the tip and drawing on it. “I could make you come just from this.” Another lap. Another suck. “Are you one of those women who could explode from this alone? You’re sensitive enough. And I would take as long as you needed. It would be my pleasure, baby.”
Her chest rose and fell on harsh, rapid pants. She stared down at his hands on her, green eyes glazed with the same hunger that gripped him in its sharp claws. He lifted his head, trailing his mouth over her breast, her throat, until he found the skin just below her ear.
“Or, do you want me to play with your pussy?” he offered, nipping her earlobe and tugging on her nipples. “I could slide my hand down the front of these pants that should be fucking outlawed, get inside your panties, and soak myself in all that wet heat. Because you are wet, aren’t you, baby?” He didn’t give her a chance to reply, instead abandoning one breast and dragging his hand down her belly, over her zipper, and in between her thighs. Her breath caught, and her body stiffened as he skimmed a caress over the crease, applying a teasing but firm pressure. His groan joined hers. Her jeans left little to the imagination and provided a flimsy barrier to the sex that seemed to singe him. “Which one will it be, Corrine? Do I suck you off, or do I finger-fuck you? The choice is yours.”
“I…” She sank her teeth into her lush bottom lip. “I want…”
“Decide. Here…” He tweaked a diamond-hard tip, eliciting a deep moan from her. “Or here.” He rubbed a tight circle over her clit, pressing his thumb against her denim-covered flesh. Her strangled cry gave him her answer even before she rasped it.
“There.” She tilted her hips forward as if begging for more of his touch. “Please.”
Part of him was tempted to drag the teasing out, make the princess tell him in detail where she wanted his fingers and what she wanted him to do to her. That part longed to hear that prim and sinful voice utter “pussy” for him. But the other half couldn’t wait that long.