by Shandi Boyes
She takes a little nibble on the crust before rolling her eyes. “I’d rather greasy bacon.”
“And I’d rather you naked and on your knees sucking my cock, but we can’t always have what we want, can we?” I’m lying. If my actions weren’t being monitored, I’d give her everything she wants—including my head between her legs.
Justine tries to the hide the heat flaring across her face with her sandwich, but it does her no good. She’s redder than the strawberry jelly sitting on her top lip.
When I clear away the blob of sugar with my thumb, her hot breaths fan my cheeks. I stare at the lips I’ve fantasized about sliding down my cock more times than I’ll ever share while she peers at me with hungry, desperate eyes. Her stare alone is hot enough to tempt a devil into becoming a saint, and it has me thinking recklessly.
Leaning in, I drag my nose down the vein beating out a funky beat in her neck, confident its thump matches the one between her legs. When the scent of her needy cunt, which has gone from subtle to dangerous in less than a minute, fills my nostrils, I’m hard in an instant.
With my pulse as high as my wish to claim her as mine, I place my hands on Justine’s thighs before spreading them wide enough for me to slot between them. While brushing the back of my hand down the heat making me mindless with need, I lock my eyes with Justine’s. She returns my stare, knowing she should tell me to stop, but aware she never will.
She wants this.
She wants it as badly as me.
Her breaths batter her ribcage when I curl my fingers around her neck. My hold is dominate but painless. The soft moan she releases when I tighten my grip assures me of this.
When I inch her mouth closer to mine, ever so slowly, yet also impatiently, warning alarms sound, consequences are assessed, but more than anything, need prevails. She’ll be the most expensive trophy I’ve ever owned, but she’ll be worth the risk, the torment… my death. If she survives me, she’ll be strong enough to survive Vladimir. I am the devil reincarnated, the spawn of all evil. I’m worse than Satan himself. I fear nothing—except how weak she makes me.
Fortunately for me, my weaknesses make me stronger. I won’t let anything happen to Justine. I will protect her and keep her safe after I make her mine.
Our lips are an inch apart.
We’re sharing the same breath.
Then disaster strikes.
Roman bursts into the kitchen, knowing all too well what he’s interrupting. Not only does his arched brow fault his ruse, so the fuck does the device in his hand. It’s showcasing a live stream from the camera perched high above my head.
“Не говори ни слова,” I warn him in Russian, even though I’m aware he doesn’t speak a word. “Or I’ll cut off your tongue and feed it to you.”
Justine giggles when Roman rolls his eyes like a child. I really wish she wouldn’t. I’m on the verge of killing him, and I’d rather do that without an erection. I’ve been called many things, but a deranged psycho will never be one of them.
Well, not tonight, anyway.
Justine’s laughter shifts to a groan when I lift her off the counter then nudge my head to the door still swinging from Roman’s brutal push. “Time for bed.”
For someone disappointed the fun is over, she follows my command remarkably quick.
I guess I didn’t say she was going to bed alone, so she has no reason to fret.
Roman doesn’t utter a syllable when I walk past him with a stumbling Justine in my arms. He doesn’t need to. His worldly eyes convey the entire story, not to mention the file he’s clutching like I want to do to his neck. It’s stamped with the Wallens Ridge State Prison seal, and the stack of papers inside are missing the thick black lines Maddox’s last file had, proving his time away from Justine’s apartment has served me well.
“I’ll meet you on the balcony.” Although the tightness of my jaw chops up my words, Roman has no issues hearing them. He dips his chin before following my exit of the kitchen, snickering like his tendons aren’t close to being sliced.
Even with Justine’s apartment being the smallest I’ve stayed in, our walk from the kitchen to her bedroom seems longer than a marathon. She’s takes more steps backward than she does forward, but since I can’t trust myself to touch her and stop, I guide her steps instead of forcing them.
She uses our closeness to her advantage. After pivoting around to face me head-on, she assesses my face as I plan to do her body when she’s not drunk.
Just like her, my face is free from the scars of my childhood. It hides my stories well.
A massive surge of cockiness pelts into me when she slurs, “You’re sooo pretty.”
Her voice is the same cock-thickening one she generally uses, but it has an edge of playfulness to it, making me convinced it’s been a long time since she let go of the reigns. Almost as long as the last time she was fucked.
“I wish I had your lashes. They’re sooo long they could reach the stars.”
Once she’s in the safety of her room, she breaks away from my side. “Woo!” she squeals as she dives onto the mattress.
With a laugh, I kick her door closed before pivoting around to face her. My cock knocks at my zipper when she commences removing her clothes. She drags her shorts down her milky-white thighs before fisting her long sleeve shirt. When it joins her shorts on the floor a few seconds later, I ball my hands into fists, fighting like fuck not to touch her.
Her beautiful body ensures one taste will never be suffice. It will have me craving another, and another, and another, until we both end up in a ditch. I can protect her, but only if I remember the killer I was raised to be.
My beeline for the door slows when Justine murmurs, “Don’t go. Please.” My nails dig into my palm as painfully as my cock headbutted my zipper when she undressed when murmurs, “Stay with me. I don’t want to be alone. I’m sick of being alone.”
Her whispered words tug at my chest. They pull me into a dark place. A solemn hole. They hit me harder than any fist, whip, or chain has. A man like me has rules for a reason, but she has me wanting to break every one of them.
The thought pisses me off as much as it is excites me.
When I shift on my feet to face Justine, I work my jaw side to side. She’s lying on top of the bedding, looking as ravishing as she does innocent. “Climb under the sheets. There is no fucking way I can lie next to you looking like that and not touch you.” My husky words reveal my wavering constraint. They are as hot and as temperamental as Justine’s sinful body. “And considering I won’t take anything not willingly given, you need to get your fine ass under the sheets.”
Mistaking the yearning in my voice as repulsion, Justine’s lower lip drops into a pout before she slips under the sheets as requested. The cloudy haze dampening her eyes softens when I move to the opposite side of her bed to remove my boots and jeans. My boxers are incapable of hiding the response of my body. I’m thick and hard, and the crown of my cock is peeking out the top of the stretchy black material. Although the removal of my jeans doubles my fight, it sliced Justine’s in half.
The instant my head hits the pillow, she scoots across the mattress until we meet eye to eye. “A perfect fit.”
I thought being almost beaten to death would be the worst punishment I’d endure in my life. I was fucking wrong. Justine flattening her breasts against my chest is by far more taunting, and don’t even attempt to get me to mention the heat of her cunt scorching my dick or I’ll kill you.
“See? Other than your extra-long legs, we’re a perfect match.”
A breathy chuckle rumbles in my chest when she murmurs a few seconds later, “Is the bed moving?” She looks like she wants to punch me in the stomach when she hears my laughter, but since that means she’d have to remove her tits from my chest, she’s not willing to do that. “I swear, my head is more foggy now than it was on my eighteenth birthday. I guess that’s what I get for not drinking in almost a decade.” When I arch my brow, she rolls her eyes. “My
brothers were worse than my father. I would have had more freedom in a convent than my childhood home.”
After snuggling into my chest, she tells me how her brothers had planned her eighteenth birthday celebration on the belief there’d be no alcohol involved. Excluding the part about her friend leaving with an abusive douchebag, it sounds like a typical eighteenth.
Well, I assume. I’ve never celebrated my birthday, much less had a party.
No one rejoices the devil’s resurrection.
The gleam in Justine’s eyes hardens when she says, “I’d give anything to go back to the days where my biggest worry was beating Maddox into the Jack-and-Jill bathroom we shared. He was such a free spirit, Nikolai. He wouldn’t have harmed a fly.”
I dip my chin, acknowledging I heard her, but I don’t utter a sound. I don’t want to rock the boat by pointing out that she said ‘wouldn’t have’ as if Maddox’s favorable traits are past tense. She has enough guilt in her eyes without me highlighting that she’s secretly skeptical about her brother’s innocence.
“If I had listened to him, he wouldn’t have needed to step in.” A hue stains her cheeks. This one is more in anger than lust. “I thought Dimitri saw me… the real me, but all he saw was a pretty doll for his display cabinet.”
My knuckles pop when I clench my fists. Dimitri is on the other side of the country, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to beat the living fucking shit out of him. He hurt Justine, in more ways than one, yet she’s the one who got punished.
How the fuck is that okay?
By the time I’ve settled my anger enough I can talk, I’m too late. Justine is asleep. The gentle rise and fall of her chest ensures I can’t be mistaken, let alone her faint snores. Watching her sleep settles something deep within me. She truly looks like an angel when she lets go of the weight on her shoulders. The shadows beneath her eyes aren’t as dark, and the groove between her brows isn’t as deep.
She’s peaceful.
Safe.
Protected.
More protected than she was when she got these.
The figure eight pattern I trace over the bite-like scar she usually keeps hidden shouldn’t be enough to wake her, but I forgot about the sexual tension that forever crackles between us. It could wake the dead.
Justine stares straight at me, her eyes vacant and sad as she once again places the needs of others above herself. It’s a known trait of any survivor. “You have to help him, Nikolai. Maddox doesn’t deserve the life sentence he was served any more than you deserve the one you were issued at birth.” I’m not surprised she sees through the shield others can’t. I just wish it was occurring after I had reclaimed my throne. “If he could just serve his time at Harborview, my guilt wouldn’t be so intense. He wouldn’t be free, but at least he’d be safe.”
I stiffen when she burrows her head into my chest to hide the wetness streaming down her face. Tears are still new for me. I honestly don’t know how to respond to them. For years, I thought they were a sign of weakness and manipulation, but that wasn’t what reflected out of Justine’s eyes before she buried her head between my pecs.
She’s not crying because she’s weak.
She’s crying because she’s been strong for too long.
The heartache heard in her sobs brings back the unfamiliar stab of protection I felt when watching the video of her assault. It has me wanting to cocoon her from the world, to protect her how her brothers endeavored to when she was young.
I never relied on anyone; even your shadow leaves you when things get dark, but you can trust me when I say I’ll stop at nothing to ensure the people responsible for Justine’s pain feel her pain.
If a devil can’t bend the rules of heaven for an angel to live her life in peace, he’ll raise hell instead. My body wears the medals from the last time I stepped into the fire for another. This time the honor will be bestowed on the area where my heart once thumped.
Chapter Seventeen
The thump of my head compliments to only a few hours of sleep is forgotten when I feel the heat of Justine’s eyes scouring my body. She starts her assessment at my face before counting the bumps in my spine. When she reaches my naked backside that’s barely covered by the bedsheet, she intakes a sharp breath. I could have kept on my boxing shorts when I returned to her room after a two-hour long impromptu meeting with Roman and Trey, but since she was opened and exposed last night, I wanted to be just as raw.
When her eyes finally return to my face, my lips tug into a cocky grin. For a woman pushed to the brink yesterday, she looks remarkably comfortable in her own skin. Her cheeks are rosy, and her lips are plump. Even her bloodshot eyes are full of life.
“Morning, Justine,” I greet her in Russian, my voice groggy from just waking up.
My brows furrow when she asks, “It is morning?” She twists her lips before glancing at her closed bedroom door. “That’s why it's so quiet. Everyone is passed out.”
I stare at her in shock, equally impressed and confused. Impressed that she understood what I said, but confused as to why she has no recollection of me climbing into her bed at four o’clock this morning. She watched me strip naked with hungry, guilt-free eyes before rolling over so I could spoon her like a motherfucking soft cock, so why is she acting as if she can’t remember anything?
Air whistles between her teeth when I brush away the curls covering her bump. “Sorry,” I apologize in Russian, hating that I hurt her but desperate to unearth the reason for her lack of memories. “Dok assures it's a superficial bump from your fall. There are no internal injuries.” Although now I’m not so sure. The lump is the same size it was yesterday, but its coloring is more angry.
In quicker than I can snap my fingers, Justine’s memories flood back in. “Sergei.”
Her eyes rocket to mine when I snarl, “Sergei should be grateful he's still breathing. If you hadn’t fainted, he wouldn’t be so lucky.”
I steal her chance to add to one of Roman’s many pleas for clemency last night by swinging my legs off the bed and standing to my feet. Just like earlier this morning, she doesn’t attempt to hide her ogle of my ass. Her stare is as hungry as the rumblings of my stomach, although neither of them have an association with food.
Once my jeans are slipped up and over my ass, I pivot around to face Justine. Sergei’s stay of execution is the last thing on my mind when I see the lust burning in her eyes. The thin sheet can’t hide the curve of her knees, and her chest is rising and falling in rhythm to mine.
“Do you look at all your clients like you do me, Justine?” My words are surly, heated by both lust and jealousy.
The jealousy half of my statement fades away when Justine shakes her head. “Good. My hit list just halved.”
I can only say half as there are still many men on her list. The top three names I know very well.
Just as the zipper in my jeans slides into place, Justine asks, “What happened last night? Why can’t I remember anything?”
I throw a shirt over my head before bracing a knee on the mattress. “After you fainted, Dok checked you over. He guaranteed you weren’t concussed but suggested we give you something to take the edge off.” When my lips curve into a playful grin, lust seeps beneath her skin, giving her pasty-white coloring a cock-thickening pink hue. “I gave you something.”
“You gave me something?” She is as breathless now as she was when ogling my six-pack. “What exactly did you give me that knocked me out for over twelve hours?”
I wink at her, not buying her flustered routine. I may have given her Xanax, but she downed vodka like a real-life bratva queen. “You weren’t knocked out, Ahren. You were alert.” I wiggle my brows as my smile inches higher. “Not overly lucid, but very much alert.”
She hears something in my tone I didn’t mean to give away. “Oh my god. Did we...” She coughs to clear her throat, “... have sexual relations?”
I throw my head back and laugh. If she wants me to believe her innocent act, she needs to switc
h the gleam in her eyes to a more saintly one. “It’s called sex, Ahren. Just don’t call it making love, as every man knows love is just lust misspelled.”
Justine rolls her eyes, pretending her clit didn’t get a second pulse from the gravelly delivery of my words. “Did we sleep together? As in, have... sex?”
I tilt closer to her, amplifying her seductive scent that’s begging me to tell Roman he can fuck his ideas on how we keep her safe. If I don’t seal this deal soon, Vladimir will be more suspicious than trusting.
“Are you sore, Ahren?”
Justine’s throat works through a hard swallow before she answers, “No… but what does that have to do with anything?”
A squeal similar the one she sings during ecstasy ripples through her lips when I catch her ankle to pull her to my side of the mattress. As I climb up her body, I suck in her scent like an addict sniffing freshly cut coke. When her pure smell floods my nostrils, blood rushes to my cock, making it dig into the heat causing my recklessness.
My balls grow heavy with need when the rock of my hips causes Justine to release a shallow moan. She’s quick to shut her mouth, but not quite quick enough for this sly fox.
“Are you sore, Ahren?” I repeat, my voice as deep as I want to be buried inside of her.
I rock against her again, forcing the moan she’s holding back to seep through her parted lips. It’s a teasing, sultry groan that has me fighting not snap off her panties and bury myself ball deep inside of her.
I would if Roman’s words weren’t playing through my head on repeat.
You are, but is Justine.
As soon as you show an interest, he will take her. He’ll make her his.
You saw what happened the last time she tussled with a mafia prince. Do you really want to put her through that again?
The anger surging through me has me taking it out on the wrong person. Justine doesn’t seem to mind. The instant my teeth scrape her bottom lip, the warmth stealing my senses scolds my cock with its fiery heat. My bite isn’t painful, but it’s a clear sign I’m pulling her into a world as violent and bloody as the one she’s endeavoring to save her brother from.