Perfectly Damaged: Luka : A bad boy mafia romance

by Alice May Ball

  His fingers raked my back and my rolling stomach as his tongue flew on my clit and then deep inside me. My face and neck were red and I was sheened in sweat. My clothes hung loose and askew like strips of rag.

  From beneath me Luka rose, lifted me on his shoulders until he stood. Then he slipped me down through his strong hands. He held me, my feet still off the floor, my wet face in front of his, and he looked me in the eyes. His voice grated low. “You being in charge, dominating like that?” His eyes flashed. “That’s fun.” My legs clung around him and he held me with one hand on the small of my back.

  “But now I’m going to fuck you.”

  And I felt him reach down with his other hand, below my ass. I felt his belt pull and undo. The pops of his riveted jeans as he pulled open the buttons. The rise of his cock’s slick head as it shoved against my willing, wet wings. He gripped me hard by my ass and his other hand mashed my breast as his mouth roamed, wet and greedy, on mine. My hips shuddered as his cock barely grazed me from my ass to my mound.

  I pushed down but he slid away, made me wait. I needed him so badly I was ready to cry. Then my whole body convulsed as he pierced me. His hard rod split me open so wide I gasped and moaned.

  I clung hard to his body with my arms and my legs. I raked my hands down his back, squeezed the hard globes of his ass and clawed the skin of his chest and his stomach. Pleading, I peered into the gleam of his hard eyes as my hips rocked along the rail of his cock, driving as deep as I could, my mound kissing his pelvis.

  Inside me, boiling floods of sensation rose and brimmed. Luka filled me, and my greedy pussy felt every pulsing ridge of his cock as he hammered it deep inside me, so far up I felt I would break.

  “You’re amazing.” He looked right in my eyes and his growl set off a bursting chain of flashes inside me.

  My fingers pulled in his hair and I cried his name. “Luka!”

  “You’re fucking wonderful, Alexa.”

  “Luka!”

  “And we’ve made a baby!” His cock got farther up me, deeper inside, and it stretched my walls wider. “I love you.” He pummeled me. My fingers clawed and my toes bunched, my back arced, and my dams all broke in a wild cascade.

  “Fuck me, Luka. Fuck me, don’t stop!”

  He slammed in harder and faster. I lost control and his cock pulsed, swelled, beat and pumped. I cried out again and he growled my name, “Alexa! God, I love you!” as his seed shot in hot bolts inside me.

  Afterwards, and all the way back to the apartment, he held me, kept me close. And that night, he didn’t let me out of his arms for a second.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  EPILOGUE

  FOR THE meeting, Carmine chose the club where I’d gone that first time to meet Vassily. When Luka and I arrived, Carmine was at the table with Princess, the girl who’d been so hospitable before. They seemed to know each other, and for some reason, I was comforted by that.

  Luka sat beside me. I wanted to hold his hand, but I knew enough to know that wasn’t a good way for me to deal with Carmine. To him, I should present an independent woman. A woman who keeps a man like Luka for the use he can be. A woman who might even marry, but still, practical considerations would come first.

  It wasn’t how I felt, but I knew it was how I needed to appear.

  Carmine said, “You’re going to have to think about how you’re going to manage things from here on.”

  It was hard for me to think about how I wanted to manage anything other than Luka’s body. That, and his coming baby. If the choice was mine to make, I would just side-step the whole issue of “managing things” for Carmine. Hand it all over to Luka.

  Carmine had asked me to join him in the elegant seclusion of this sophisticated club, saying, “I want to know what you want. What you want to do next. How you want to go on.” But it was a pretense, obviously. He didn’t want to ask me any of those things. He wanted to make sure that I understood what he wanted. And that I would do it.

  In pretending to ask what I wanted, he would tell me what it was that he wanted. While he asked me how I saw things, he would be telling me how he expected me to see them. There was no point in pretending it was anything other than what it was. Carmine wanted me as his captain, his deputy, to get what he wanted. That was all there was to it. I knew that this meeting appeared to be a celebration of my position, a position that I didn’t particularly want. In reality, though, I was here to receive orders.

  Carmine had appointed me to take Bruto’s place. Bruto, who had taken Tony’s place. I still had no idea how much Carmine had been involved in that. Had he thought about me taking over from the start? Had he arranged, or simply allowed, Bruto to pitch Tony off a boat so that I would take over from Bruto? Surely not, surely it wasn’t remotely possible. How would he ever have expected me to do it? I couldn’t forget, though, that Carmine had sanctioned Luka as my protector, and Carmine knew about Luka’s history with Bruto. Had this all been Carmine’s plan from the start?

  I couldn’t really imagine how he saw me in charge of half of his operation. Perhaps he thought that as a woman, I would be easy for him to control. I doubted it, though. It seemed that whenever Carmine showed me his approval or admiration, it was over something where I had acted independently.

  I knew Luka wanted to stay as my protector and right hand. He didn’t want the responsibility for the running of anything, and he didn’t want to answer to Carmine.

  And it made no difference, anyway. Carmine had settled on me, and so I would do it. If I didn’t, my only choice would be to run, and I was sure that if I tried to do that, I wouldn’t get very far. These families have eyes and ears everywhere. Once you’re in, there’s only one route out.

  Well, two routes. You get out when you die, and you can be as good as out if you’re the top of the tree. To get there, though, the only way is usually when everyone above you has died. “This life,” they call it. They also say, “this thing of ours,” but that’s not really right. It doesn’t belong to them. To us. We belong to it.

  Could I keep my baby from belonging to it? I didn’t know, but as long as I had Luka, I knew we were going to be all right.

  For now, though, the only certainty I had was that Luka and I would be safe, and we could go back to the apartment and make furious, desperate passion all night long in a bed. And on the couch. On the carpet by the big window.

  Inside, indoors, in comfort, and not in a car park or up against a dirty brick wall.

  As we left the club, as soon as we were out of sight, he pulled me to him. “Have I told you in the past hour that I love you?”

  “Mm, I’m not sure if you have.”

  “Well, listen now and listen good.” He wrapped me tight in his big arms. “I love you, Alexa.”

  “Luka, this is going to be hard.”

  “I noticed you didn’t say anything to Carmine about your condition.”

  I searched his face. A part of me couldn’t believe what I had found, what we had found together and yet I somehow couldn’t imagine what life was without him. Not anything I wanted to go back to, that was for certain.

  I said, “There wouldn’t be any point telling him. These guys don’t make allowances for each other. There’s no way they’ll make any allowances for a woman.” His big hand was comforting on my shoulder and a surge of strength ran through me as I looked up into his eyes. Would it be enough, though, he and I? “No,” I said, “I’ll handle it. I’ll have to or they’ll deal with me, the way they deal with all problems.”

  “They won’t get past me, Alexa.” Hearing, feeling the strength in his voice, I believed him. He kissed me tenderly and said, “You can do it. You can do anything.”

  And with him, I believed that I could.

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  © Alice May Ball 2016

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, place
s, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

  Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, or to any actual events is purely coincidental.

  All the people portrayed in this story are over the age of eighteen, and entirely imaginary. If you think that you know some of them, or that you may be one of them, then you should consider writing fiction yourself.

  Cover Design by Signs of Desire for TzR Publishing

  PIERCE

  PERFECTLY BAD

  A MAFIA BAD BOY ROMANCE

  Alice May Ball

  © Alice May Ball, TzR Publishing, 2016

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

  Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, or to any actual events is purely coincidental.

  All the people portrayed in this story are over the age of eighteen, and entirely imaginary. If you think that you know some of them, or that you may be one of them, then you should consider writing fiction yourself.

  Cover Design by Signs of Desire for TzR Publishing

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  The wet eyes of Adelina Bontempi, the stunning young woman and wife of his business partner, blazed up at Pierce Agostini. Seeing her in public, you’d think she was a fashion model, probably a little aloof, well-behaved and most likely quite prim and proper.

  Well, the first part would be right. Adelina Kean had been a model and she still made appearances as a brand ambassador and at charity functions. She didn’t seem too aloof, though, on her knees in the back of Pierce’s Bentley.

  While he had her by the hair, she showed no sign of being unwilling to do what he wanted, and it was hardly what a well-behaved girl would do, much less someone else’s prim and proper wife.

  She knew that Pierce wanted a copy of a document on her husband’s computer. She told him that she knew how to get it. Oh, but wasn’t there something that he could do for her?

  Didn’t matter how beautiful she was, how many fashion magazine covers those full, wet lips had pouted on or how many double-page spreads her long legs had sprawled over, all of that cooing and simpering grated on his ear.

  He could respect a woman who would just tell him straight, ‘I want your hard cock to fill my mouth and stretch the length of my throat, to rev up the soft heat between my tits. Then I want you to spread my thighs and split me wide, prise me open and pound me over the edge of endurance.’

  Why couldn’t they ever just say what they meant? ‘Rip through the clinging wet velvet of my hungry walls and ram into the backs of my thighs with the ridges of your rock-hard abs until I bite and scream and gush.’

  That was what she meant and they both knew it. In the cozy hush in the back of his sapphire Bentley, she hadn’t waited five minutes to slip her tongue between his lips, to nuzzle down the ridges of his chest and all the way down his perfect white cotton shirt. Then to flash her dark eyes and shimmy out of her expensive satin dress.

  After that, she panted as she slid her silky lingerie and her soft, peachy flesh all over his suit, over his shirt, inside his jacket. Snuck her fingernails in the gaps between his shirt buttons and shoved her eager hands into his pants.

  She didn’t care about people on the street who could maybe see in through the tinted windows. She didn’t even care about Callaghan and Calhoun, sat up front both staring rigidly straight ahead.

  She stretched and squeezed and cooed against the rising heat in his suit pants and then she peered up into his eye as she hauled his zipper down. Her hot breath made him so hard it hurt.

  Her cool fingers trembled while they gripped him, as she leaped up to get her tongue down his throat. He smelled her perfume and her own scent as she blew and flicked her tongue in his ear.

  Her soft, warm mouth made a slow journey down the side of his neck, over his chest and his stomach until her lips were sliding over the head of his aching pole.

  He knew if he didn’t do something, she’d be there all night, so he flung her face-first into the upholstery. He could tell that she’d like that.

  She howled like a drunken schoolgirl as he reamed and rammed her, doggy style, and slammed her sprawling into the deep softness of thick black leather. All she did was mewl and whimper when he stopped. By the time they got to the club, she’d got her breath back and started to beg for more.

  Watching her shamelessly buck and roll along the hard length of his hot cock as she brimmed and burst took him up to the edge. He yanked her hair, and the cheeks of her bare ass rippled as he slapped them.

  When she whimpered his name, his anger propelled him on to pump and fill her in hot, pulsing bolts. When he finished, she slumped, exhausted, and crawled to rest her head in his lap. She made it awkward for him to pull his clothes together and he resented her very presence.

  Still, he needed her husband’s plan. He drew a slow breath, thinking that he might have to fuck her again to get it. He’d avoid that if he could. However much he wanted a woman when he first saw them, as far as he was concerned once he had them they were all used up. He hadn’t found one yet that he could stand to be around afterwards.

  Like this one, the more he tried to get rid of them, the more they wanted him again. Each time he nudged her out of the way, she crawled back into his lap like a stray cat that slinks in out of a freezing cold night.

  She was beautiful, like they all were. Sexy as hell, but they all were that, too. And looking at her reminded him, as they all did, of why his rule was such a good one, ‘One time and one time only. No exceptions.’

  He thought she was going to follow him out of the car naked, but somehow she got herself covered and tottered behind him into the club. The nightclub was part two of the plan.

  Princess loved almost every part of her work, except while she was actually doing it. In the dark and discrete basement off Wall Street, which was her daddy’s nightclub, she greeted the guests by name. She waited tables and knew all of their tastes.

  The clientele were mainly rich men in the financial sector, and sometimes their egos would get the better of them. That was how she put it to Ethan, her BFF, and she especially described it in those—or even milder—terms to her daddy.

  The members, almost all of them men, treated Princess with a respect that she enjoyed, and while she had more than her share of compliments and admiring looks, the men understood that whatever else went on in the club, she was off-limits. There were always some who still had to test the theory.

  However big the tips, the explosive testosterone of an overweight and over-intoxicated man in his fifties could be a challenge to deal with. The more so because Princess walked a diplomatic high-wire. If she didn’t, the club could run out of customers fast.

  Daddy tried and tried to persuade her to go away to college, to learn other skills, meet different people, but she was determined to stay in Hotsteppa’s.

  Princess had grown up among the explosive mix of bankers, jazz musicians, and the women who flocked to cluster around them. It was the life she was born into.

  Her neat black blouse and skirt, the seamed stockings, and the black stilettos were her suit of power. Her battle dress. Her simple makeup, pale tan foundation with ruby red lips and nails, were her armor.

  In Hotsteppa’s, Princess felt strong and in charge, even though Daddy was the law there. The outside world always seemed to her like a dull second best.