by S. E. Lund
Why would he even want to? He could have sex with any number of pretty young things. He was rich, gorgeous, and powerful in the city. He'd have his pick.
Why bother with someone who you hated?
Was a hate fuck as good as he suggested?
I didn’t hate him. In fact, I liked him too much. Even after these past five years, I still wanted him. Even though he had become some tough guy. I tried to tell myself that loyalty to his father had made him do the one thing he never wanted to do. I'd always thought he was noble, but the fact that he would take advantage of my misfortune for something as base as sex made me question that.
I remembered what my mother had told me soon after Hunter returned to Boston after Sean's death.
"Spencer says Hunter's just as bad as everyone else in his family. He's already in the pocket of the Romanov family. Not even six months after he took over and he's as corrupt as the others."
"I can't believe it," I said, my heart squeezing at the thought that Hunter had become one of the bad guys.
"You have to believe it, Celia," my mother said, her eyes heavy from her medication. "Spencer says it's in his genes."
"That's bullshit," I said, furious that Spencer was talking Hunter down—even now. "It was also in his genes to go to Harvard to do an MBA and graduate at the top of his class. It was in his genes to become a Marine officer and do two tours of duty in war zones. It's not in your genes to be a criminal. It's circumstances."
If I told myself that enough times, I might believe it. In the end, it was a choice. Hunter had made a choice to come back, and to get dirty when he did.
Whatever his reasons, I knew Hunter was dirty now. He was in deep. How would that have changed him in the intervening years since that one night we were together—the last night I considered myself his friend?
I paced the apartment, walking from one room to the next, examining things, trying to get a sense of who Hunter was and who he'd become over the past five years. Everything in the place seemed picked out by a designer.
The decorations and furniture were nice but none of it seemed personal. His clothes were all neatly hung and folded in his huge walk-in closet. His kitchen was perfectly stocked, and all the dishes were done and neatly stacked in the cupboards.
Hundreds of books filled the shelves in the library, where his desk sat in front of a ceiling-to-floor window overlooking the bay. None of them looked like they'd been read. His desk was immaculate, but empty.
There was nothing there that said "Hunter." Pens and paperclips, blank paper, steno pads, thumbtacks—all of it neat, like some housekeeper had been there and straightened everything out.
The faint scent of a masculine cologne permeated the apartment—not strong, just enough to make me think of him.
There were no family photos, nothing personal.
This wasn't his home. Not his real home. It was an apartment, complete with everything he'd need, but I had the sense he didn’t really live here.
When the front doorknob turned, I practically jumped out of my skin from nerves.
Hunter had arrived.
He entered the apartment and right away, I could see that he'd been in a fight. His cheek was bloody and his hands were, too, his knuckles red and bleeding.
"Can you help me with this?" he asked, trying to shrug off his jacket. I went over to where he stood beside the front closet and helped him remove his jacket, gingerly slipping it off each hand.
"What happened?" I asked, frowning as I hung up his jacket in the front closet. "You were in a fight."
"Good deduction," Hunter said, deadpan. "Can you do a bit of nursing for me? There's a first aid kit in the main bathroom under the sink."
"Sure," I said, surprised at the turn of events. Hunter had been in a fight before coming to the apartment to hate fuck me?
I was surprised but said nothing, attributing it to his new lifestyle of heading a family with mafia ties. I retrieved the first aid kit from the well-appointed bathroom, which was all done up with white marble and brass fixtures, the towels thick and plush, beautiful photographs of the ocean on the walls. I took the kit back to the kitchen where Hunter sat at the island on a stool, trying to unbutton his cuffs.
"Can you?" he asked, holding out one bloodied hand.
I put the first aid kit down on the granite countertop and took his hand in mine, unbuttoning the cuff as he asked. Then, he gave me his other hand, all the time watching me intently. I felt his gaze on me, and I wondered whether he was already thinking of how he wanted me. On my knees, like I'd been when I begged for his help? On the bed? On the floor?
I had no idea but even trying to imagine where and how aroused me, in spite of myself.
"Help me with this?" he asked and pointed to the front of his shirt. I nodded and began to unbutton it. He was still looking at me intently. "I see you went all out with your clothes and makeup trying to impress me," he said, his voice flat.
"I—I…" I stuttered, "I didn’t know what to expect."
He said nothing, but I felt his gaze on my face while I finished unbuttoning his shirt. Was he going to have me undress him completely?
I pulled it gently over each hand, revealing his torso in all its naked glory.
And it was glorious. While he'd been a mafia thug for a year since returning from Virginia, he'd also apparently kept in top shape, with bulging biceps and a washboard abdomen. Once more, I noticed his tribal tattoo and remembered running my hands all over it that night we were together.
I saw a bruise on his rib, and another on his other side along with a huge abrasion.
"Why were you fighting? I thought you were a finance and management type, not some kind of enforcer."
"I'm a man of many talents, Celia," he said and bit his bottom lip.
It made me want to kiss his mouth, so I glanced away.
"Who did this to you?" I asked, unable to stop myself.
"This?" he said and shrugged. "This is nothing. You should see the other guy."
"You beat someone up?"
"Yeah," Hunter replied, amusement in his voice. "Just a bad guy. Name's Stepan. You might know of him."
My eyes widened at that. "You beat up Stepan? The Stepan who beat up Graham?"
"The very one." He said, his blue eyes hooded. "There are some photos on my cell in my pocket."
I shook my head. "You fought some guy and took pictures?" My mouth was open, wide. "I don't want to see them."
"Indulge me. Get my phone for me."
I sighed and checked in his inside jacket pocket, which had been thrown onto the back of a chair. I took out his cell and handed it to him. He unlocked it and opened his image folder, then scrolled through some images. Finally, he held one up for me.
I glanced at it carefully, afraid of what I'd see.
Sure enough, it was the face of a man I didn’t know but who looked very much like Graham had when I’d first seen him in the ER—eyes black and swollen shut, nose bloody.
"You did that?"
He glanced back at it and nodded, saying nothing for a moment. Then he took in a deep breath.
"Yes," he said and turned off his cell, placing the phone on the counter. "I gave him what he gave Graham. A good beating. He's in the hospital now. I called the ambulance before I left the back alley behind his apartment."
A shock went through me. He beat up Stepan? Left him in the back alley?
That's what Stepan had done to Graham. It was then that I realized how dangerous Hunter had become. He was willing to exact revenge against Graham's attacker. An eye for an eye…
"Isn’t that a big risk? Won't his boss come after you? I thought he was a Russian. You said you don't mess with the Russians…"
Hunter glanced at me and shook his head. "I don't mess with the Russians," he said, his voice sounding tired. "I had Victor's permission. We're good buddies now, Celia. Didn't you know that? I thought for sure Spencer would have filled you in on all the gory details."
I said nothing in rep
ly. I did know it, only too well. Spencer relished the chance to tell me all about Hunter. He reminded me every chance he got.
I looked at Hunter's cheek. "You've got a cut there," I said. It was open and oozing blood. It wasn't too serious but it needed attention. "You might need stitches."
"Nah, it's nothing. You can fix it." Hunter shrugged like having me administer to his cuts was a normal thing. "There are some steristrips in the kit. I've had worse than this. No need for stitches."
"Whatever you say," I replied and removed a bottle of peroxide and some cotton swabs. Then, I proceeded to tend to Hunter's cut cheek, and the abrasions on his knuckles. It wasn't what I had thought would happen to me that night—nursing an injured Hunter.
"So, Stepan's boss just said okay? Beat my guy up?" I asked as I wiped peroxide on his cheek to clean up the blood.
He shrugged. "He was fine with it. He and my uncle go back a long way. He was pretty generous—especially after I paid off Graham's debt."
I felt my cheeks heat at that. "Thank you," I said softly. "I can't thank you enough."
"Oh yes you can. I expect a lot of thank yous from you, Celia. A lot."
My face grew even hotter at that. "You're really going to make me have sex with you in repayment?"
"That's a rhetorical question, right?" he replied with the smallest quirk of his mouth, obviously enjoying himself at my expense.
Then he frowned. "I haven't decided what I expect from you, or what I'm going to make you do in repayment," he said, his voice suddenly thick, deep. "The jury is still out, counsellor. You'll find out. Don't worry about it."
"Then why am I here?" I asked. I met his eyes, and felt a surge of desire race through my body. God, he was still so damn gorgeous. His blue, blue eyes, thick eyelashes. Dark hair, now long and tucked behind his ears. Chiseled jaw with just the right amount of scruff. And his buff body so close to mine…
I tore my eyes away and continued to work on his cut, applying the steristrips and pulling the edges of the wound together with them so that the bleeding stopped.
"There," I said and stood back, admiring my work. "It looks pretty good."
Hunter nodded and held up his knuckles. "Maybe just some peroxide on these."
I complied and wiped each knuckle off, his hand in mine, our heads bent close together. When I finished, I glanced up and our faces were only inches apart.
He reached up and pulled me closer, kissing me, and I let him, kissing him back without a thought.
The kiss was warm, but brief. He pulled away, his eyes moving over my face. He brushed a strand of hair from my cheek and then shook his head.
"I need a drink," he said, his voice husky. "There's some whisky in the bar over there," he said, pointing to a credenza at the side of the dining area. "Pour us each a drink and join me in the living room."
I nodded, surprised that he stopped but I was, for all intents and purposes, his for the night. He was calling the shots. I left the kitchen and went over to the credenza, opening the cupboard to find crystal glasses and a bottle of George Dickel, a good whisky I recognized from circulars we received at the pub.
"George Dickel?" I said while I examined the bottle. "You buy the high-end stuff now."
"It was a gift from a sponsor," Hunter replied. Then he came up behind me while I poured an ounce or so into each glass. In fact, he stood right behind me, so close I could feel his body heat, almost touching me but not quite. He lifted a strand of my hair and sniffed it, and then leaned in, pulling my hair to one side, smelling my hair and neck. It sent a shiver through my body.
He pressed his body against mine, his hands on either side of the credenza, trapping me against it. There was no doubt in my mind that he was aroused. I felt his hardness against my butt, his breath warm on my neck. I closed my eyes, unable to deny my desire for him. My body warmed, my flesh swelling, already wet.
His hand slipped around my body to caress my belly, my hip, while he breathed in deeply, his nose beneath my ear.
Just when I was going to turn around in his arms, he inexplicably pulled back and left me, taking a glass and walking down the hallway.
"I'm going to have a shower," he said, his voice deep. "You can go and sit on the sofa. I'll be right out."
"You shouldn't get the steristrips wet," I said.
"Don't worry about me."
I nodded, wondering what would happen next. I took my glass of whisky and did as he ordered, sitting on the sofa, which faced a huge panoramic view of Boston's city lights. Hunter was going to have a shower? He'd probably want to have sex afterward, and I squirmed a bit on the sofa, trying to get comfortable. I was a little breathless as I waited for him to return, needing a drink to relax me. I drank down my glass of whisky and then tiptoed back to the credenza to refill it.
I needed the liquid courage.
Finally, about ten minutes later, Hunter returned, wearing only a large white towel wrapped around his waist, his nice bulge visible underneath it. As if he were used to parading around half naked in front of women, Hunter refilled his glass of whisky and sauntered over to the sofa, plopping down beside me. He turned to me and eyed me up and down, his expression unreadable.
"Let's toast," he said and held out his glass of whisky.
I picked up mine in response.
"To revenge," he said.
"To revenge," I replied, and together, we shot back the whisky. I was completely surprised that he was being so undemanding. When would he make his move?
When would he order me onto my knees or to lie back on his bed?
Why wasn’t he making me fuck him right then and there?
He leaned closer to me, burying his face in my neck, once again breathing in deeply like he couldn't get enough of my perfume. He pressed closer and I lay back on the sofa until my head rested on the arm. He leaned over me, his arms on either side of my body, and stared down at me, his eyes intense.
I closed my eyes and waited for him to—to do whatever he would. Whatever he wanted, I was ready. Part of me blanked my mind, resigning myself to whatever he wanted. The other part was giddy, almost dizzy with desire for him, wanting to fuck him, the sooner the better.
Then he sighed and rose, standing in front of me. I glanced up at him, my eyes moving over his body, over his bulge, and up over his amazing abs to his beautiful if slightly injured face.
"In the morning, I'll need a hot bath," he said and lifted up one arm, grimacing a bit. I saw his bruise and realized he was right. He'd have an even bigger bruise in the morning. "Then, I like my coffee and eggs. Fried eggs with bacon. There's food in the fridge. I'm sure you can find your way around a kitchen."
"I have a class early in the morning," I said, slightly insulted that he was going to make me be his cook.
"Nine o'clock," he replied. "I checked. I get up at seven so we're fine. My driver will take you to Harvard when I'm done with you. You'll have enough time to change your clothes, get your books. Whatever you need."
When he was done with me… Was he going to bed now? He wasn't going to make me fuck him now?
He was going to make me stay the night, fix him a bath and breakfast, and then fuck me in the morning? After his bath or before?
My mind was whirling with questions and possibilities. I was shocked that Hunter hadn't ordered me onto my knees to deliver a blow job.
In fact, part of me was disappointed that he hadn't. At least then I'd know what to expect.
"Then I want you back here tomorrow night at ten."
"I can't stay here every night," I said, frowning. "I have a job. In fact, I'm on the schedule for double shifts and tomorrow night, I'm working late."
He frowned. "Why are you working? I thought Spencer promised you wouldn’t have to work if you threw me over. Wasn't that your thirty pieces of silver?"
My mouth fell open. "Who told you that?"
Of course, it was true. Spencer had promised me that. How Hunter must hate my guts…
"Graham told me. So, my questi
on remains, why are you working?"
"I told you, Graham lost my inheritance. I can't pay for my dorm at Harvard."
"Oh, yeah… that's right. He lost the entire fucking inheritance? How much was it? Half a million?"
I nodded. "The interest was paying my room and board."
He stood there, his hands on his hips, considering. "Tell you what," he said, his eyes narrow. "I'll pay your room and board. But I want you here every night that I'm not working. You'll stay the night. You'll do whatever I ask. Whatever I ask." He raised his eyebrows suggestively. "In the morning, you'll make my coffee and breakfast, run my bath, and then you'll go to your classes. Rinse. Repeat. I think repaying your debt this way might be a pretty good deal. Sound fair?"
"For how long?" I asked, swallowing back my nerves at the ‘whatever’ comment.
"Well, let's see… Eleven hours a night, three hundred hours to work off just on the interest alone. If we add in the room and board, which is…"
"Fourteen thousand," I said.
"Fourteen thousand, that makes one hundred sixty-four thousand—"
"A hundred fifty-four," I said. "Graham already paid off ten thousand."
"I stand corrected," Hunter said, his hand on his chin. "So, that comes out to about four weeks of work. If I paid off your entire inheritance? That would be…" He paused and mimed calculating. "A lot of days, Celia." He smiled.
"I said anything," I replied. "I meant it."
"Good. Just so we know where we stand."
He stood there looking at me, and I didn’t know what to do or say in response. I felt relieved that he'd pay back my inheritance. In truth, being paid five hundred dollars an hour was way more than I could make in a week at the pub as a bartender, even with twice the number of shifts. It was a deal, I realized, except that I was pimping myself out like some call girl.
"Is five hundred an hour cheap or expensive?" I asked, my eyes filling with tears.
"Cheap," he said, his face expressionless. "But consider yourself lucky. It's usually a thousand an hour with the really top-of-the-line girls." He glanced at me, his eyes moving up and down over my body. "You'll have to work a little harder if you want to compete with them."