by Leigh, Tara
Damon doesn’t answer. He stops at an open door. One of his men is in there. “Are we clear?” Damon asks.
The man checks a device in his hands and gives a firm nod. “Yes.” He walks past us, closing the door behind him. I know without asking that he will remain right outside.
I look at Damon again. “What are we doing?”
“Giving the Albanians half an hour to put together a plan and agree to my offer.” His lips twitch. “Your skin was on fucking fire out there, Aislinn. Thought I’d give you the chance to try out some of those moves you were studying so intently. On me.”
My jaw sags when I finally take in the space he’s brought me to. It’s about the same size as my closet in Damon’s apartment. There is a small stage in the center of the room, and a vertical pole that extends to the ceiling. Opposite, a dark couch blends in with the dark walls. “You brought me back here to … strip for you?”
He grunts. “I brought you back here so you wouldn’t bum rush the stage.” His hands grip my shoulders, exerting just enough force so that I step slowly backward until my spine is pressed against the pole. “Tell me I won’t find you wet and wanting beneath your skirt, Aislinn.”
I clench my thighs together but know it would be futile. A flush rises up my cheeks and I dip my head. “How can we be sure—”
I break off when Damon’s fingers gather my chin and lift my gaze to his. “I had the room swept for recording equipment. We’re alone.”
After a kiss that is firm and quick but still manages to leave me whirling, Damon sinks into the couch, his feet firmly planted on the floor, powerful thighs spread slightly apart. As I gather my composure, he watches me from beneath hooded eyes. I can see the length of him, thick and distinct, outlined against the fabric of his suit pants.
Music is also pumped into this room, although it feels less abrasive on my ears here. “I’m not a dancer,” I say. “I don’t know what to do.”
Neither of those statements is exactly true. I do have years of dance training. Ballet, jazz, ballroom. The dance floor was one of the few places I felt free as a kid. Unrestrained. But it’s been years since I’ve trained. I spent time on a stripper pole more recently. Not at an actual strip club, but at a trendy exercise studio I attended religiously for a while. But then my favorite instructor quit, and I lost interest.
Damon shrugs. “You are the most graceful woman I’ve ever seen. Give it a shot.”
Give it a shot? Like twirling on a pole is something that comes naturally. It’s not. Dancers make it look easy, but it takes hours and hours of training to look effortlessly sexy.
The classes I took were designed for exercise, and I was too busy trying not to fall off the pole to worry about being seductive.
A new song comes on, Beyoncé’s latest, and I run my tongue between suddenly dry lips.
Give it a shot.
I take a deep breath, swallowing down my insecurities as I stare at the man in front of me. What’s the worst that could happen? I trip and hurl myself into Damon’s lap. Not such a bad outcome.
A fresh surge of lust floods my veins as my hips begin to move, swaying from side to side. The muscles lining my diaphragm tense, engaging my core. My feet edge outward, my knees relaxing.
I reach behind my back for the pole, my hands closing around the cool metal. It feels good against my overheated palms. The music is too loud to hear my moan, but it vibrates inside my throat as I rub my ass against the pole through my skirt.
From across the room, Damon’s eyes glitter at me like onyx stones. His expression is stoic, yet intensely focused. On me.
With one last glance at the closed door, I unbutton my skirt and pull at the zipper. It falls smoothly to the floor, forming a black ring around my feet. I run my hands along my naked thighs, undulating to the heavy bass. My shirt is next, and when it joins my skirt, I kick both to the side and walk around the pole, holding it with just one hand.
One rotation, then two. On the third, I kick up a leg and find purchase by hooking it around the pole, launching myself upward. Muscle memory takes over, the basic skills I learned in class now imbued with the sensual energy pulsing through my lungs with every beat of the music.
I know Damon is watching me, and I know this dance is for him.
But there’s no room for anyone else on the pole but me. I am not experienced enough to take my attention off what I am doing. I fly through the air, a whirling dervish with long, loose hair and high stiletto heels that punctuate every movement, every twist and turn and spin.
By the second chorus, the pole has become my lover. I grip it with my hands and thighs, dragging my belly and thong-covered pussy along its hard, silvery length.
I am the sum of my breaths and movements, the room a blur of bright spotlights, dark shadows, and the flash of the chrome pole. At some point, I manage to unclasp my bra, flinging it in Damon’s general direction. With each sway of my breasts, an electric spark bursts to life between my thighs.
When the final beat of the song is pumped through the speakers, I swing my feet to the floor, blinking away the haze that descended on me during my performance. My thighs tremble from exertion as I slowly cross the room, the mist between me and Damon evaporating with each step.
His hungry stare rakes down my body, possessively marking every inch of me as his.
I am branded by it.
I throw my knees over the thickness of Damon’s thighs, staring into his eyes as my fingers furiously work his belt buckle. I am drowning in a sea of lust. I need Damon’s cock inside me, my soft filled by his hard, our bodies joined together. I want to ride him as fiercely as I did the pole. I want to explode with pleasure, erupt with passion.
I am his and he is mine. Husband and wife.
31
DAMON
Aislinn Granville—no, Aislinn King—is many things. Beautiful, smart, passionate, honest, loyal. I can stack adjective on top of adjective all the way to the fucking sky. But, when she dances, she is completely captivating. I can’t pull my eyes away from her if I wanted to.
Not that I want to.
Her expression is one of fierce concentration, but there is joy too. Like the music and movement has freed something inside of her. Every action is graceful. And there is power within her dance. Strength.
It is a perfect encapsulation of Aislinn herself.
Why the fuck haven’t I asked her to dance for me before?
After tonight, I should have a goddamn pole installed in our bedroom.
Her skin is flush with exertion when she straddles me. Her mouth slightly parted, breaths coming heavy, her hair a lush blonde tangle that falls over her shoulders and down her back, errant strands clinging to her dewy skin.
The attraction and energy between us sizzles in the air. My dick is harder than it’s ever been, painfully swollen inside my pants, leaking against my thigh. And in this seedy room, in this shitty strip club … it feels as if we are the only two people in the world. Two tortured royals—an embattled, enraptured king and his captured queen. Everything that’s happened has brought us here, to this place, this moment. Into each other’s arms.
I suck in air through my teeth as she frees me, shoving my pants down my hips and fisting me just long enough to position my already cum-slick crown at her entrance.
“Christ,” I swear, my body rigid as the tight, wet, heat of her glides over my length until her bare ass makes contact with the fabric of my trousers. A satisfied grin pulls at Aislinn’s mouth as she throws her head back and groans, goose bumps spreading across her chest like a textured path directing me to her dusky pink nipples. I cup one breast in each hand, sucking and biting and teasing her nipples as she sets up a rhythm that starts slowly, sensually in tune with the music, and becomes frenzied and desperate. Her hips roll over me relentlessly, and I glance down at her sweetly winking belly button, knowing my cock must be just behind it.
We both come hard, needing relief. Desperate for it, actually. It didn’t take long—hell, ever
y second of her dance was foreplay. We were both so close to the brink that when she lowered herself onto my cock, it was almost painful, every second until she clenched around me, until I erupted inside her, excruciating.
Afterward, Aislinn slumps in my arms, her naked breasts heaving against my chest, her head pressed to my shoulder, her shuddering breaths fanning my neck. “Who needs a honeymoon?” she asks, the question mangled by a choked laugh.
“We do,” I reply, running my fingers up and down the notched ladder of Aislinn’s spine, her hair weaving between each knuckle. “And I promise you, the Lower East Side isn’t it.”
She moans as I grip her shoulders and push her upright. “Since I intend to give you the honeymoon you deserve, let’s get back out there. The sooner I strike a deal with the Albanians, the sooner we can get away.”
32
DAMON
I’m not surprised that the Albanians agree to my terms. They’ve wanted a stronger foothold in New York for years. I’ve resisted because of their involvement with the international sex trafficking trade.
Meanwhile, I’ve been charging the Albanians heavily for my protection. And although they haven’t lost a dime of their drug or arms sales, I’ve never given advance warning of any raid or warrant related to trafficking. They will expect more from our relationship now. More diligence regarding a segment of their business I despise.
They won’t get it.
I will use the Albanians to crush the Los Muertos cartel. Hugo Cruz will become a minor player in New York and the entire East Coast. I haven’t decided what to do about Sebastián yet, but I do know that I will not rest until I’ve hunted down Michael myself. When the dust settles, and Michael’s blood coats my hands, I will squash the Albanians like a fat tick.
“So, what now?” Aislinn asks once we are headed back to my apartment.
“Nothing tonight. Unless Michael’s location is pinpointed.”
The shiver that trembles through Aislinn’s bones at his name twists my stomach. “Do you expect that will happen soon?”
“I do. And princess, I’m not taking you with me. That man will never lay eyes on you again. I’ll see to it personally.”
“But—”
I lay a finger over her lips to prevent anything else from tumbling out. “It’s not up for discussion.”
Her eyes glint at me before she turns her head away, crossing her arms over her chest as her lips fuse into a tight line.
Aislinn is quiet as we undress and get into bed, offering no protest as I pull her against me. My cock instinctively stiffens again but I ignore it. What I really need is to hold Aislinn close as she falls asleep in my arms. I need to feel her pulse become languid, her breaths deep and even. I need to feel her ribcage rise and fall in a steady rhythm, her hair tickling my chest with each movement. I need her sweetness, her sunshine, her light eclipsing my dark.
Need.
I’ve never needed anything or anyone. And yet, I can’t deny that I need Aislinn in my life. That she has become as necessary to my existence as oxygen.
The knowledge isn’t a relief.
It’s uncomfortable, a weight I don’t trust myself to carry.
With a soft sigh, the last bit of tension leaves Aislinn’s body as she drops off into sleep. Clearly, she doesn’t share the same fear. Her trust is obvious.
Again, the knowledge isn’t a relief.
33
AISLINN
I knew Damon wouldn’t be beside me when I woke up, and I am right. He is gone.
A sense of foreboding scratches at my nerve endings, a knot of worry pulsing inside my stomach. Whatever deal Damon brokered yesterday is no doubt being carried out today … but a feeling that things won’t go as planned nags at me.
I can’t pinpoint the reason, and I have no basis for it. But it’s there.
With a muffled groan, I throw off the covers, and a piece of paper soars into the air from the nightstand, landing on my chest.
I’ve told Finley to expect you.
I read Damon’s words once, twice. Trying to figure out if he’s telling me to go downstairs, or merely implying I shouldn’t let Finley scare me away.
He’s left things open to interpretation. Maybe even deliberately vague.
I take my time in the shower and then dress slowly, blow-drying my hair until there’s not a trace of dampness left behind. If not for that note I would have rushed downstairs, snapping at Finley’s heels for any information she has, watching her every move. I still want a clear understanding of what she knows and what she does—but I’m through acting solely on impulse. It hasn’t served me well.
No, I need to be deliberate. Strategic.
Yesterday I created dossiers on half the men in King’s organization. Today I will work on the women. Starting with Finley.
If Hugo Cruz wants access to Damon’s accounts, his best bet would be to recruit Finley as his mole.
I leave Damon’s bedroom and step into the corridor. The men waiting outside escort me downstairs without a word of protest.
Finley’s expression is inscrutable as I walk toward her. “Aislinn.”
I nod politely. “Good morning.” I look away from her and gesture at the screens lining the cement walls. “How are things going?”
“Things?”
“I would be more specific if I could.” But I can’t, and Finley knows it.
“Well, there’s not much to report, I’m afraid. Damon hasn’t checked in yet.”
“Is that …” My voice trails off as I swallow heavily, “unusual?”
Her shoulders lift in a barely there shrug. “Not really.”
“Oh.” It’s a soft puff of air, and I look around for something else to talk about.
“Why don’t you go hang out in Damon’s office? I’ll let you know if anything comes up.”
Hang out? The dismissiveness of the phrase grates on my nerves. “Actually,” I step around Finley to the empty workspace at her right, “I think I’ll just hang out right here.”
I notice a tic in her jaw, but she merely averts her eyes. “Suit yourself.”
She spends the next hour ignoring me, but I don’t bother pretending to do the same. It’s interesting, watching Finley in her own environment. She’s confident and decisive, and everyone speaks to her with respect.
It’s also frustrating, because I don’t know what I should be looking for. She could be sabotaging Damon right in front of me and I wouldn’t have any idea.
But if I can’t find something to expose Finley, maybe I can learn something from her.
I take notes on the laptop Damon gave to me, paying particular attention to the women on Damon’s staff. There aren’t many, and two of them are now at my parent’s townhouse. That is, if my father hasn’t thrown them out yet.
Gina and Nancy seem solely focused on Damon’s global financial interests. Karen works on a team covering the NYPD database. And Juliana monitors Los Muertos communications between New York and Mexico, reporting directly to Finley.
My mind keeps returning to the secrets my parents have kept from me. “Do you know a man named Ace?” I ask the question during what feels like a lull, expecting another shrug and an irritated blow-off.
Instead, Finley’s body goes entirely still, and she takes a full minute to turn her head in my direction. “Who?”
I blink at her. I know she heard me. More importantly, the name was clearly familiar to her. But I repeat it again. “Ace.”
She rubs her chin and pretends to consider. “Maybe, I’m not sure. Why do you ask?”
I’m not about to blurt out that he’s my father. “Apparently he’s an old friend of my mother’s. She mentioned his name the other day.”
“Oh?” She looks intently at something on her computer screen. “What did she say about him?”
“Not much,” I answer honestly.
She huffs an affronted breath, her fingers a sharp staccato on her keyboard as she mutters something inaudible.
“What?”<
br />
She lifts her hands suddenly, like a pianist after her solo. “I said, ‘that’s not surprising.’” Her words are clipped, her face flushed.
“How so?”
“Ace was in prison for years, just upstate. Your mother never visited him. Not even once, even though it was her fault he was there.”
My head spins at Finley’s angry tirade. “I don’t—I don’t understand. My mother sent Ace to prison?”
Her wry laugh has several heads spinning in our direction, but either Finley doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. “Technically, it was your father that sent Ace to prison. When he found out that he wasn’t actually your father. Your mother did nothing to stop him. So, I guess it doesn’t surprise me that she doesn’t have much to say about him.”
The fact that Finley knows the intimate details of my parentage—something I’ve only just learned myself—abrades my composure. I clear my throat, trying not to overreact. “The reason my mother can’t talk to me about Ace is that she has Alzheimer’s. She barely speaks at all anymore.”
Finley blinks several times, the color in her cheeks fading. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“I guess that’s not surprising, either,” I reply, holding her stare. Assuming familiarity based on half-truths and innuendos is for slackers and fools. Finley is neither.
34
DAMON
I learned how to pick a lock in prison and have improved my skills significantly over the years. Whether a simple cylinder mechanism or a more advanced electronic one, there are few I can’t handle.
In less than two minutes I am inside the apartment. Normally I would have Burke with me, but not today. Today is for me.
I’ve learned quite a lot about Michael, whose full name is Michael Clark. The man is no dog walker, although his cousin ran a business training guard dogs. Until recently, Clark was Cruz’s East Coast money launderer.