Seeking Vengeance: Possessive Mafia Romance (Hunting - Mafia Romance Book 1)

by Eden Summers

  Here fishy, fishy.

  I grasp my whiskey and fight not to guzzle it down. “How old is your nephew?”

  “Eight weeks.”

  There’s no pause. Not even a slight frown as he recalls the timeline. This guy is fully invested in his family, and I’m a smidge jealous. I used to be surrounded by people like him. Good people. Loving people. But they never looked this severe or harsh. I can feel him scrutinizing me, studying me, just like I was doing with him.

  “See what I’ve done here?” Brent interrupts. “My pestering has started a conversation. If it wasn’t for me, you two would be sitting in silence.”

  “Silence is good.” The stranger swirls his beer with a lazy flick of his wrist. “Silence is comfortable.”

  “Silence is honest,” I add, gaining another fierce stare.

  He inclines his head.

  Again, my gaze is glued to his. I can’t help it. There’s something about him that demands attention. Something dark, like I’m used to, and also something promising, which is entirely new to me. I suddenly feel like I want to climb his broad chest and ride his face for hours.

  Not a good idea.

  I turn back to the bar and ignore my nagging libido as the chatter continues without me. Brent returns to his questioning antics while the stranger resumes his monosyllabic answers.

  Their conversation washes over me, sweeping away the brutal parts of the night to replace them with something basic and easy. Something suburban and casual. I concentrate, trying to learn more about him, but my adrenaline-filled brain is darting, looking for a hook to clasp onto.

  Unfortunately, it snags onto my attraction. The sexiness.

  My heart pounds harder with each muttered word. The minutes tick by with building lust. I glance to the large hands encasing his beer, the thick fingers, the tanned skin.

  Hands are my downfall. My Achilles’ heel. I can picture his grip around my throat. Clasping my flesh. Burying deep. A shudder slips through me.

  Damn it.

  I’m due to get laid. That’s all. What is the cobweb tally at now? Two months? Three? And my last conquest ended up being more of an unwilling victim. He hadn’t realized I was leading him into a sexual research situation and did a runner when I donned my newly purchased dominatrix attire.

  But a woman’s gotta try these things. I’m inquisitive by nature. Stepping outside the box is what I do. It’s how I learn, and grow…and realize my error of spending five hundred dollars on black leather items, including a high-neck bralette and matching web garter.

  “How about you, Steph?”

  “Hmm?” I blink up at Brent and take another sip of alcoholic goodness. “What did I miss?”

  “Laboring work. Do you know of any construction sites in this area?”

  Construction? Laboring? Of course this broad temptation has a body built for sin under his jacket.

  “Sorry.” I shake my head and keep my gaze straight ahead. Sip, sip, sip. “Maybe a temp agency could help.”

  Brent leans into my line of sight, his lips lifting in a knowing smile. “What’s wrong?”

  I raise my glass. “I’m almost out of liquor.”

  It’s no secret I like to get my sexy on, and my lovely bartender buddy probably thinks I’m too scared to get freaky with this Hulk-like Adonis.

  That isn’t the case.

  Tonight is for celebration, and I don’t feel like a sexual rejection to tarnish the memory. The insults from my last escapade are still raw.

  That’s a whole lot of spandex, sugar.

  It wasn’t spandex, asshole. It was expensive, supple matte black leather with gunmetal buckles.

  Brent fakes a yawn as he refills my glass. “I think I might call last drinks.”

  I glare, and his eyes beam back at me, taunting—matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match.

  Does he think I’m too timid to sleep with this guy? Really? My sexual appetite is more likely to indicate I’ll swallow the sexy stranger whole.

  “Yeah,” my drinking partner agrees. “I guess I better make a move.”

  I glance at him, and he’s right there staring back at me, strumming my pussy with his caged emotions.

  “Do you want to get out of here?” he asks, passive as fuck.

  The question not only surprises me, it lassos my womb and squeezes tight. I’m flustered, which is out of character, and I’m also aroused, which isn’t all that surprising.

  “Yes.” I throw back the last of my drink and stand. “But I’m leaving on my own.”

  Apparently, the mix of adrenaline and whiskey has made me reckless. I’m a panty slip away from taking this guy home. This devilishly sexy man with his shadowy intrigue and penetrating eyes. My heart palpitates. My sternum itches. I want to drag him to my apartment by his dick. I would strip him. Devour him.

  Not tonight, Satan. Not tonight.

  I need to focus. Regroup. I have a lead to chase tomorrow, and I don’t want anything else stealing my attention.

  I pull my pack from the floor and scrounge for my purse, only to have the stranger shake his head.

  “I’ve got it.” He reaches inside his jacket, pulls out a money clip, and slides a stack of bills across the bar. “This should be enough for both of us.”

  It is.

  More than enough.

  I don’t know how to respond. I’m uncomfortable with being indebted. I’m also charmed by his generosity. “Thank you.”

  He grasps his drink, not paying me attention as he raises the bottle. “Don’t mention it.”

  It isn’t a gentlemanly request. It’s a statement. A demand that I ignore his kindness. It’s entirely gruff and anti-social. It’s how I usually act—my MO outside of this bar and away from the one man I speak to. It’s so familiar I can’t help smiling.

  This man is me.

  “Well…” I beat my desire back with a studded bat. “It was nice meeting you.”

  He scans me with a quick appreciative stare, from eyes to heels and back again. “I assure you, the pleasure was all mine.” There’s no inflection in his tone, no excitement, and definitely none of this pleasure he speaks of. But I believe him anyway.

  I tingle in places that aren’t usually susceptible to flattery. I crave more of his scrutiny. I want all of his attention.

  Shit.

  I clear my throat to break the trance and sling my pack over one shoulder. “I’ll catch you later, Brent.”

  I don’t glance in the bartender’s direction. I focus on the door, my head high, and eat up the space between me and necessary fresh air. I fight temptation like a pro, striding my seductive heels toward my escape, until I hear the squeak of a bar seat.

  “I’m out of here, too.”

  That voice slays me. The lethargy. The masculinity.

  I pause and glance over my shoulder to see my fantasy approaching, the slightest tweak to his mouth a threat and a taunt, all in one. I should run. Fast. But all the cautionary thoughts are being smothered by the heavy weight of attraction.

  There’s a hum.

  A zing.

  It slides down my spine, tightens my nipples, and contracts my pussy in the most delicious squeeze. I’m already convinced this guy could make me come like a runaway freight train, leaving me devastated and deliciously broken.

  I want that pleasure. I want the pain, too.

  He raises a cocky brow. “You waiting for me, princess?”

  Princess? “Seems more like you’re following.”

  “Maybe.” He shrugs. “Is that a problem?”

  There is much more to his question than the issue of him tailing me. It’s about vulnerability. Susceptibility. Deliciously dreamy carnality.

  And yes, it’s a major problem. Huge. My normally infallible caution is wavering like a leaf in a hurricane. But I can’t voice a protest. The words aren’t there. Not the right ones. Only those that will be so very, very wrong. “I guess that depends on what you want to achieve.”

  Thoughts dance behind those lazy
eyes, and I want to know them all. I itch to hear his secrets. His darkest desires. I need to know his plans for me, and I want the explanation to come in erotic Technicolor.

  “I want everything.” His voice is low—pure sex and seduction.

  My pussy twists in knots. There’s no denying the inevitable. I’m going to succumb. This zing is too vibrant to ignore. I can already taste him on my tongue. The alcohol. The sweat.

  I sigh, resigned to my fate. “Then, no, I guess it’s no problem at all.”

  4

  Her

  I lead the way across the room, the stranger an inch behind me. When I press my palm against the cold glass of the door, apprehension sinks its teeth deep into my flesh.

  I pause, suck in a breath, and attempt to tune out my lust in an effort to listen to my instincts. This is the second time I’ve led a stranger from a seedy bar with the promise of sex, all in the space of a few hours.

  The first didn’t work well for Danny boy, and although I crept from that hotel room with a crazy-bitch smile on my face, I need to make sure I don’t end up being the victim in this scenario.

  “Problem?” The question is murmured with slight humor near my ear. “Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind already.”

  I glance over my shoulder and his face is a breath away. He’s a mountain of a man up close. Thick and strong in the shoulders, with a heavy hand that lands beside mine on the door.

  “Do I look like the type of woman who makes mistakes?” It’s not a flirty tease. He needs to know I own my shit. All day. Every day.

  He ponders the question, or maybe just me in general, and rakes his teeth over his lower lip. He gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head. “No. But there’s always a first, and I have a feeling I’m going to be a special kind of mistake.”

  He’s a cocky son-of-a-bitch, and damn, his confidence has latched onto my ovaries, and I don’t want it to let go until we are both double-digits deep in orgasms.

  “Promises, promises.” I push the door and walk ahead, not stopping until we reach the edge of the sidewalk. “I live over there.” I jerk my chin toward the looming apartment building across the street with the solitary streetlight that illuminates years of neglect. The old, block construction isn’t inviting in the slightest. It’s cheap and nasty. Just the way I like it.

  All the obvious downfalls are the reasons I consider myself lucky to live there. Nobody inside the dark and dirty walls has enough time or money to bother snooping on their neighbors. Most are too busy keeping their own heads above water with day-to-day life. I come and go without notice, not having made any friends in the years I’ve rented the studio apartment.

  “Lead the way.”

  A firm hand lands on the low of my back, beneath my pack, the touch warm against the thin cotton of my top. I straighten, stiffen, and suck in a deep breath at the tumbles taking over my stomach.

  I wait for a passing car, then step onto the asphalt, bringing us closer and closer to approaching bliss. He’s glancing around, scoping the area as I enter the pin code into the building’s outdated security panel. The one-two-three-four access code is a poor excuse for protection, but in this crime-riddled area it’s the thought that counts, right?

  I’m only glad the lobby doesn’t smell like urine and stale beer today. It means I can pretend this cheap-ass building has a modicum of decency, when clearly, everyone who lives here knows better.

  Another few feet of tense silence and we’re at the rickety death trap of an elevator. I shove my finger against the call button, and the doors jolt open. He follows, moving to the opposite side of the small space as I lean against the wall, my arms spread against the thin waist-high railing.

  He mimics me, arms spread, ankles crossed, and watches while I press the button to floor three. Neither one of us moves, or talks. He barely bats an eye until those doors close. Then he pushes from the wall and eats the space between us in two predatory steps.

  I hold my breath, my tingles turning into wildfire as he walks into me. Not up to me. Into me.

  His hips bump mine. He parts my legs with an aggressive shove of his knee. The silence and staring continue, no words, only actions as he wraps a menacing hand around the back of my neck and grips tight.

  Fear jolts through my chest, making me immobile. He’s animalistic, not an ounce of warmth in his expression.

  I don’t know this man. Not his name, not his age, not his hobbies or life goals. He’s a complete stranger who has me pinned inside an enclosed space, his strong, calloused hands holding me hostage.

  “You look nervous,” he growls close to my lips.

  I should back out, cut and run from this careless idea. But my heart loses the panicked beat and produces something more adrenaline-based.

  I want him. I need him. To make the sterile parts of tonight that hover on the edge of my awareness a little less harsh. To make life exciting for all the right reasons instead of those that are wrong.

  I lean closer, taunting him with a look I hope is equally as devilish as his own. “You’re the one who should be nervous.”

  His chuckle is barely audible. “It’s not my style.”

  “Mine either.”

  His fingers clench tighter, as if he’s daring me to back out. I won’t. Other women might be inclined to run. I still want to ride him and tame the wild beast barely contained in those eyes.

  The elevator bounces to a stop and the doors open. He backs away, and I ignore the chill seeping into me as I lead the way onto the threadbare hall carpet.

  My door is at the end, the very last room on the left. I sling the pack off my shoulder and pull my keys from the internal Velcro compartment, ignoring any curiosity he might have as I start working on my door.

  I have three locks, the last a pin-code-operated deadbolt that is more high-tech than the entire building’s security. There’s also the small motion-activated camera beaming down at us from above the doorframe.

  “Have a problem with break-ins?” he asks.

  I cover the keypad, tap in the code—six, five, three, nine—and shove the door wide. “Nope. Not a one.”

  I’m smart and pre-emptive when it comes to protection. This stranger at my back is a risk, but my blade is hidden in a strap below my breasts, mace is in my pack, and there’s a myriad of hidden weapons at my disposal inside this apartment.

  I flick on the light, illuminating my studio space that is practically in a different dimension from the rest of the building. The paintings on the walls are huge masterpieces. The kitchen is filled with shiny new appliances. The floor is the finest polished wood.

  I’ve got family money. A whole heap of it. So, I live in comfort. I just choose to do it in a shitty building. I’ve learned it is easier to blend into the rat race than the wealthy elite.

  But I don’t get any of those reactions from him. I can’t hear his shock, or sense his surprise. Instead, his heavy footfalls approach, his large body pressing into mine, pushing me into the back of the sofa.

  A rough hand shoves into my hair, pulling my head to the side, his mouth moving to my neck. “What’s a woman like you doing in a building like this, princess?” His voice vibrates along my carotid, killing me slowly.

  The endearment is a special gift of misguided appraisal.

  He thinks I’m a princess. How cute. Or maybe he’s being sarcastic. If so, he gets a gold star.

  He sucks on my skin, and I moan. I’m completely unfamiliar with the acute vibrations taking over my insides. So unfamiliar I don’t want to speak for fear my voice might make it vanish.

  “Who are you?” he murmurs.

  I shake my head and nuzzle my ass against his crotch. He’s hard and thick, his erection an adamant force behind his zipper.

  I swing around, needing those lips on mine.

  He sates me immediately, taking my mouth with a harshness I don’t anticipate. I’m used to soft kisses. Kind and timid. This is profoundly better. A fierce, punishing collision of lips and teeth and
tongues.

  His hands find my hips and he grinds into me, teasing me with anticipation. “Who are you, Steph?” He holds my gaze, those eyes as questioning as his words.

  “I’m a memory you’re going to treasure forever.” I grip his shirt and pull him forward, demanding more of his mouth.

  I can’t get enough. Maybe it’s the way he scares me the slightest bit. The ferocity. The confidence. Or maybe it’s narcissistic, because his harshness kind of reminds me of myself. Either way, I’m scrambling for more.

  I want. I want. I want.

  I glide my hands under his shirt and place my palms on the warmth of his stomach. Another moan escapes me. The ripples of his muscles are like an ocean under my fingers, moving and changing as his hands slide down my back and squeeze my ass.

  He’s so fucking strong, and I want that strength coiled around me, controlling me. I crave his temporary ownership. Instead of always being the one in command, in charge and under pressure, I want to be owned. To be a puppet instead of a puppeteer.

  I claw at those muscles, working my way up his stomach and down his ribs. His masterful lips continue to overwhelm me, his tongue increasing its pace and severity.

  My panties are wet, soaked, and my pussy clenches, demanding to be filled. I push my hands farther, learning more of him as I glide them around his back.

  I’m about to release another moan at all the overwhelming perfection when my fingertips brush a hard object protruding from the waistband of his jeans.

  He stiffens. I do the same.

  He tries to recover by continuing the kiss, and I pull away, my fingers still touching the object that is undoubtedly a gun.

  I wait for a response to all the questions going through my head, but he gives me nothing. No explanation. No apology. Only the lazy bat of his lashes over steely, lust-glazed eyes.

  I inch closer and wrap my hand around the grip. He responds with the raise of his chin and the slightest narrowing of his gaze.

  “Why does a non-violent man need a gun?”

  “It’s a bad neighborhood.”