Master of Salt & Bones

by Keri Lake

  He recoils, throwing my hand off of him, his expression guarded and hard all over again.

  The humiliation flares to life a second time, and I jolt up from the piano bench. “Never mind. I’m just …. It was stupid.”

  A hard tug of my arm jerks me into him until my butt slams back against the bench. Palm to my chin, he holds my face, and devours my breath in a white hot kiss.

  Butterflies explode in my stomach, my heart fluttering out of control, a menagerie of wings and victory trapped inside of me. My head is dizzy and my muscles are weak, and it’s a damn good thing I’m sitting down, or I’d have probably passed out. I reach out to hold onto something, and my fingertips are greeted by the hard bunched muscles of his biceps.

  A feral growl rattles in his chest, and his fingers curl tighter, his tongue dipping past my teeth. With heightened fervor, he kisses me harder, and his hand slides to my nape, the tight grip there thwarting any chance to steal a breath. “I’m tired of these fucking games with you,” he says through his teeth.

  A warm palm skates up my thigh, and when he reaches beyond the hem of my skirt, I gasp into his mouth.

  His touch falls away, and he breaks the kiss, leaving a cold and bitter emptiness between us. Tongue sweeping across his lips, he stares back at me, with rapid breaths and flared nostrils.

  The enthralled look on his face reminds me of an animal that’s just gotten a taste of blood and hasn’t decided whether to spare, or finish off, the rest.

  Gaze locked on his, I escort his hand up my thigh and beneath my skirt, my own hands trembling with fear and excitement. “It’s okay,” I whisper.

  His breaths hasten, and the amber of his eyes is swallowed up by the blackness of his dilated pupils. At the first skim of his fingertips over the damp cotton of my panties, I watch his expression sharpen to a knowing smirk. I suck in a breath and close my eyes, concentrating on the tickle at the barrier to my flesh beneath.

  I’ve been with boys, I’ve been touched by boys, but never a man so forbidden and off-limits as Lucian Blackthorne. The exotic animal trapped in a cage. It’s like falling into a tank, not knowing if the circling shark will ultimately devour me.

  Warm breath hits my neck, just as in my dreams, as he runs his finger up and down the indentation he’s made, the slit of sensitivity. A shaky blast of air escapes my parted lips.

  I brace one palm on the bench, squirming against his intrusive fingers, and spread my knees open to allow him access. “Oh, yes,” I breathe, and suck my bottom lip between my teeth, until the coppery flavor puckers my tongue.

  “You’re my curse. Staying away from you, is like trying to hold my breath when the tide is rising.” His words dance around my head, the deep timbre of his voice titillating my senses. “I want to drown in you.”

  I tip my head back, and the coarse scratch of his facial hair against my throat adds a delicious tickle, as he pushes my panties aside, rougher than expected, for the bare skin beneath.

  He doesn’t fumble in his movements, like boys my age. Every touch is deliberate and brimming with assurance that I’ll be a hot, wet mess afterward.

  “I hate that I could fuck you for hours and never tire of it.” He kisses along the edge of my jaw, and on instinct I turn to face him. Tongue dancing over my lips, he licks the blood I’ve drawn, before sealing my mouth in a possessive kiss. His fingertips gather the sticky fluids he’s worked up between my thighs, and he spreads it up over my swollen clit, gently rubbing my sensitive nub like a tiny pet he’s trying to rouse from slumber. “Everything about you pisses me off,” he grits against my mouth, the radiating tension hot and dangerous, while his fingertips work me beneath my skirt.

  I let out a moan and lift my hips off the bench toward his unforgiving strokes. My belly curls, muscles tight, and my shirt is suddenly too tight, the scratchy fabric tickling my nipples through the lacy bra. Releasing my neck, he seems to take notice of the hard peaks and scrapes the tip of his thumb over the sensitive buds.

  A tortured whimper leaks from my mouth, my whole body stiff, as if wires run beneath my skin.

  “The way your body responds to my touch. Like the strings of a piano when the hammer strikes it. Every note of a song that I write. A song you keep begging me to play.”

  There’s a hypnotic darkness in his eyes, malicious and desiring, and I wonder if this is how it feels just before the devil claims a soul. I pant with his movements, his fingers tunneling deeper, circling against my soaked slit, creating chords of music that escape my lips. He hasn’t even penetrated me. “I dream of you sometimes.” The ragged texture of my voice mirrors my slowly dissolving composure.

  “What do you dream, Isa?”

  “Of this. Of … of your hands on me.”

  “How far do we take this in your dreams? Am I fucking you?”

  The mere thought of that sends tingles of excitement shooting through my core, and I can’t answer him, for fear of sounding like a pervert who’s fantasized about him. The ache between my thighs swells, as if attached by some invisible string that he pulls for his own amusement, and I cry out instead.

  “Of course I’m fucking you. How do I feel inside of you?”

  The heat of his breath on my skin, the touch of his fingers, the sound of his voice. It’s all too much. Too much. My senses are on overload right now, spinning me out of control.

  “So good. I don’t want it to stop.”

  “You want my finger inside of you, Isa? To fill this tender little hole with something thick and warm.” The tip of his relentless little weapon circles my entrance for emphasis, stirring the wet sticky juices over my skin, and I curl my hand around the bench, desperate to squeeze something.

  I mindlessly nod, my body lost to the sensations he’s stoked. Lust blazes through me, an inferno of need building at my core. I can’t sit still. I can’t move. My body is in chaos, waiting for the moment he puts it out of its misery and penetrates me.

  His dark chuckle rakes over me. “Too bad,” he says, and the moment he withdraws his fingers, the heat inside of me fizzles to a cold and bitter yearning.

  “What?”

  He captures my jaw in his hand, the same hand that stroked my overly sensitive clit moments before, and I can smell the arousal on his fingers. He presses his lips to mine, taking another piece of me. “I get off on pain. And there is nothing more exquisite than the pain of denying myself.” Shoving his fingers into his mouth, he closes his eyes, as if savoring the taste of me on his tongue. “You’re too young for me.”

  Too young. Too poor. Too unpopular. I’ve heard these things my whole life. Reasons for rejection. Yet from him, it somehow bites harder. The mercurial nature of the man, this hot and cold, is enough to make me scream with all the tension burning me up like a fever.

  Bitterness explodes inside of me. “Why did you touch me, at all, if you had no intentions of following through?”

  A smirk takes hold of his lips, one I want to smack right off his face. “Why do we bother to breathe, when we know we’re going to die?” Standing up from the bench, he twists to look back at me. “I’d fuck you up in ways you’ve never been fucked before, Isa. Consider this a kindness.”

  The sensation fluttering in my gut is one I’m intimately familiar with when it comes to this man. Humiliation. Wet and disheveled, I’m pretty sure this is exactly why he bothered to touch me, at all, to show me he doesn’t have to finish me off to leave me hot and panting for him like a stupid schoolgirl who’s hot for teacher.

  “There’s a masquerade ball coming up this weekend. I’d like you to play for me.”

  My mind longs to cling to the conversation of what happened between us, but the curiosity of his request draws me out of those thoughts. “Piano?”

  “Yes. Can you do that? For me?”

  I want to deny him, just as he did me, but I can’t. I’m ashamed to admit that I like this side of him. This teasing game of cat and mouse between us. I don’t know why. Maybe I’m sick, but there’s something thrillin
g about taunting the devil. “Of course. Whatever you like.”

  He slides his hands into his pants pockets, moving further away from the topic of us. “You’ll need something to wear. I’ll make arrangements for you to get what you like. There’s a boutique in town. They have my credit card on file.”

  A dress. Another goddamn dress. Even if the guy is paying for it, like something out of Pretty Woman, I still dread the thought of having to wear something fancy. And no doubt, any boutique that has his credit card on file is going to be fancy. “Okay.”

  “Something elegant. There will be a number of very powerful and important people at this ball. Dress accordingly.” He walks from the room.

  Chapter 35

  Lucian

  Notebook still tucked beneath my arm, I descend the stone staircase to the awaiting vehicle, where Makaio opens the passenger door for me.

  Rand is already inside, fingers entwined with telling impatience, as I fall into the seat beside him. For the opportunity to have my fingers down Isa’s panties, I rush for no one. Not even the Scarpinato men, who’ll be anxious to know where Franco disappeared to, I’ll bet. They requested a meeting with me a few days ago, one I was reluctant to oblige at first, until a crazy idea popped into my head.

  “I don’t know how you act so calmly, facing these men.” Rand keeps his attention toward the passenger window, as the car idles down the long drive.

  “I don’t look at them as anything more than flesh and bone.”

  “An army of flesh and bone, with the kind of weaponry that’d make the military jealous.”

  “Words are the most powerful weapon in the world. Alongside money. And if you combine the two, you’re practically a God.”

  Sighing, he shakes his head. “Well, I must admit, I’m dying to know what words you plan to exchange during this meeting.”

  “I’m sure you are. And I can assure you, you have nothing to worry about with this meeting.”

  “The more you talk about it, the more I worry.”

  “Then, let’s not talk about it.” I smooth my hand over the notebook. If only I could’ve captured the notes of her moans, I’d claim the song as mine and no one else’s. The sound was everything I dreamed it would be, and coupled to that pleading look in her eyes, it’s enough to make a man lose control.

  As if I needed another reason to be excruciatingly intrigued by this girl. She’s like a bad hangover after a long night of drinking, but hell if that’s going to keep me from grabbing the bottle again. One sip is enough for now, while my conscience pummels away at my head for trying to corrupt an innocent teenager.

  It takes over two hours to drive and ferry to the restaurant in Boston, where the Scarpinatos requested to meet. I’ve no doubt it’ll be teeming with their men, waiting for the moment they can open fire on me. But all that bullshit about family being the most important thing in the mafia is just that: bullshit. The truth is, they haven’t been relevant in a number of years, and their numbers are dwindling. They’d have to fuck their own sisters to keep a pure bloodline nowadays. If not me, some other asshole would’ve come along and silenced Franco, because you don’t walk around with a mouth that big without someone wanting to shove the barrel of a gun into it.

  Straightening my jacket, I enter the dimly-lit restaurant that looks like a two-dimensional wanna-be of Tuscany, with painted arched doorways and awnings on brick walls. Out the rear door on the patio, I find Vincent and Stefano, Franco’s uncle and cousin, seated at a table toward the back. Stefano, the younger one, reminds me of a dark-eyed Ray Liotta, with his black hair and dimples, who waves me over.

  “Here we go,” Rand says beside me, the nervous wobble in his voice bringing a smile to my face.

  Standing off to the side, behind the Scarpinatos, are two stocky men, bodyguards judging by their stiff and guarded posture, who eye-fuck Makaio as we approach.

  “Gentlemen,” I say, taking a seat across from them, alongside Rand, while Makaio stands off to the side behind me, eye-fucking the men right back.

  Ordinarily, they’d offer a hug and a handshake, but I didn’t give them the opportunity, which is why I’m guessing Vincent is looking at me like I tried to cop a feel under the table, or something.

  “Been a long time, Lucian. How you been?” Stefano asks, nowhere near concerned with etiquette. That’s the problem with the new generation--they just don’t care anymore.

  “Excellent.”

  “Sorry to hear about your father. He was a good guy.”

  “Yeah, well, when the big man says it’s time …”

  I watch the two of them give the sign of the cross, before kissing the crucifixes dangling from the chains at their neck. It’s incredible. The obligations of religion that force them to show respect to a man they’ve plotted to kill on at least one occasion. As much as my father tried to keep the peace with them throughout his life, nobody’s perfect. I almost want to say it again, to see if they’ll repeat the ritual.

  Stefano leans in and rests his elbows on the table. “We called you to this meeting to discuss the status of our arrangement.”

  “Which one are we talking about? The shipment I’ve withheld? Or the future shipments I refuse to deliver?”

  Rand clears his throat beside me, probably holding back a torrent of piss right now.

  An un-genuine smile stretches Stefano’s lips, and he sits back in his chair, hiking his elbow up on the seat. “See, that’s not gonna work. We have a longstanding history with your company. A contract.”

  “If you’ll kindly produce the contract, I’m happy to discuss the terms of it.”

  “It’s a verbal contract, asshole. Between our grandfathers.”

  “Both of whom are now decaying in the ground, asshole.” This meeting’s off to a great start. I can practically hear the fragile threads of Stefano’s patience snapping inside his head.

  Nostrils flaring, he shifts his jaw in annoyance. “We have suppliers looking to move a shit-ton of product.”

  “Fantastic. I trust you won’t be at a loss finding a replacement to ship it for you.”

  Jerking forward, he slams his fist against the table, like an angry toddler, and at Makaio’s lurch beside me, the two bodyguards behind Stefano reach behind their backs for what I presume are guns.

  “I ought to knock that smug fucking smile off your face!”

  Still wearing that smug fucking smile, I quirk a brow. “Careful now. I wouldn’t want over a million-dollars-worth of product to end up as fish food.”

  Rolling his shoulders back, he exhales a long breath and raises his hand, signaling for his men to stand down. “You’ve been doing this a long time. Why the sudden change of heart?”

  As I pull my cigarette case from inside my coat pocket, his men lurch again, but I hold the case up for them to see, and pop it open, sliding one of my smokes out. Makaio already has the Zippo lit beside me, and I lean in to light the end of it.

  “I fucking hate my job. Hate. My job. If I didn’t have to deal with all my father’s shitty loose ends, I’d buy a boat and sail around the world, fucking every woman at every port, until I die of some raging STD. You’re the first of many loose ends.”

  “What are you saying? You’re gonna … sell the fucking company?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying. Do I look like I’m over here trying to produce an heir?” With a shrug, I take another drag of my smoke. “It’s going to happen eventually, unless the key to everlasting life suddenly comes in the form of daily suppositories and denture glue.”

  “You can’t do that. We’ve been partners a long time. You don’t just ditch a business partnership.”

  “I believe a man’s odds eventually catch up to him, Stefano. We have been doing this a long time. And at some point, someone is going to get wise to the fact that I have been moving large shipments for the mafia. It’s going to be very bad. And my dreams of sailing and fucking? Gone like a prostitute when the meth runs out.”

  Beside Stefano, Vincent sit
s rubbing his fingers together, the harsh breaths coming out of his nose reminding me of a bull seeing red. “What do you propose?”

  “I’m glad you asked.” I lean forward to flick the ash of my cigarette in Stefano’s drink. “I’ll hand off your shipment and, as a courtesy, waive the usual cut. To honor my grandfather’s verbal contract with your grandfather, which, let’s face it, with the rising inflation, probably didn’t amount to much back then, I’ll buy out your arrangement for three-million up front, and another three-million when the business sells.” I catch the quick exchange of glances between Stefano and Vincent, as I ease back into my seat.

  “How soon?” Vincent also reaches for a pack of cigarettes out on the table in front of him and lights one up.

  “I’ll have Rand draft the paperwork immediately.” I lean forward to toss the remains of my cigarette in Stefano’s drink, catching the glare he shoots back. “Provide an account number to wire funds to. Your shipment will be at port as early as tomorrow morning.”

  “And what about our suppliers?”

  Rubbing my hand across my jaw, I breathe in the heady scent of Isa still clinging to my fingers. “I’ll provide the name of a smaller operation. I’m afraid that’s the best I can do.”

  “You honor this … and we’ll once again be in good standing.” Vincent’s eye squints as he takes another drag of his cigarette and points his finger at me. “A man’s word is gold.”

  “And I’m a man of my word. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have boats to shop for.” I push up from my seat, and Stefano leans forward.

  “One more thing. We haven’t heard from Franco in a few weeks. As I understand, he was in contact with you just before he went missing. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

  Lips tight, I lower myself back into my seat and set my hands on the table. “As a matter of fact, I would. It so happens, I killed him.”

  The slow descent of Stefano’s brows must mirror the slow realization that my reputation is everything they say with an extra helping of bat-shit.