Not My Heart to Break (Merciless World Book 3)

by W. Winters

  “This is too much. They’re too big. The collateral—”

  “Is my problem,” I say, cutting him off. “I can handle this.”

  His expression falls when I raise my voice. I can feel the words still ringing in my throat long after they’re spoken.

  Opening his car door, he tells me grimly, “Then, at least I warned you. You know where I am if you change your mind.”

  Laura

  I hear Seth before he says a word to me. The door isn’t shut quietly; it’s practically slammed. Gripping the edge of my nightgown, for a moment I wonder if it’s him or someone else since it was shut so hard. But then I hear the jingle of the keys as they hit the bowl we keep in the kitchen. It’s an old ceramic bowl my grandma gave me. At least he didn’t throw the keys in there hard. I’d have to kick his ass if he ever broke it.

  I must have dozed off; the clock on the nightstand tells me it’s nearly nine. When I check my phone, still hearing Seth slamming what sounds like the fridge door, I see a handful of messages Cami sent. Shit, we were supposed to go out. She gathered, in the series of texts I’m reading, that I forgot or that I was busy.

  Writing her a quick reply, I tell her I’m sorry. I never miss our dates. Ever. I feel like complete shit that I fell asleep.

  I answer the two questions she asked me as well. They’re questions about birth control. I promise in the next message I’ll make it up to her.

  She’s quick to tell me it’s okay. She’s already replaced our date with one with Derrick.

  I would feel relief, but Seth’s still out there.

  There’s a little nagging piece inside of me. Digging and clawing, making me feel that something really is wrong. It heats my skin; it sickens my stomach. It tells me to worry. This is what he does when I’m not looking. He bangs shit around and lets out his stress that way.

  As I’m walking in the hallway, not trying to be quiet, but quiet nonetheless, I hear the slam of his fist on the counter. My heart jolts in my chest, seizing for a moment until I peek out from the threshold and see my towering man hunched over, both forearms resting on the counter, his head laying between them. His broad shoulders stretch the white t-shirt he’s wearing tight over his muscular back. Every muscle ripples as he breathes in deep in what looks like an attempt to calm himself.

  “Everything okay?” I ask a little quieter than I’d planned, feeling that aching whisper scream inside. My fingers twitch with the need to hold him, to come up behind him and comfort Seth as he’s done for me so many times. But I wait.

  Some nights are bad and he doesn’t like to be touched then. Not when he first gets home. Maybe it’s because he wanted to throw shit around like he is now, but he couldn’t because I was home.

  He lifts his gaze to me and instantly softens. His exhale is short as he stands up straighter, running his hand over the back of his head. “Sorry, Babygirl. I didn’t know you were home. Thought Cami and you were going out?”

  Seth clears his throat and then opens his arms, urging me to come over to him. I don’t waste any time molding myself to the side of his body, feeling his heat. With one arm around my waist, he hugs me back and then lifts the beer on the counter to his lips with his free hand.

  “You okay?” I ask once the glass clinks on the counter, noting he takes his time with the swig, probably to get his thoughts in order.

  “Fine,” he breathes out although stress is prominent in his answer. “How did the studying go?” he asks me, changing the subject. He does that a lot, but I can still see the torment that clings to him. Maybe he thinks he hides it well, but he doesn’t.

  “So you don’t want to talk?” I ask him, hoping maybe all he needs is a push.

  All he gives me is a weak smile though. I already knew he wouldn’t confide in me. It’s just not who he is. Grabbing both of his hands and making him leave the beer on the counter, I tell him to come with me.

  His fingers barely grip mine until I give his hand a squeeze.

  “You all right?” he asks and a new worry rips through his expression. It’s fresh, not tired. And fear, not stress.

  I have to laugh a little when I answer him, “I’m better than you are.” I’m still walking him to the sofa in the living room when he gives me a huff of a masculine laugh in response. Seth’s house is larger than my grandma’s. Nicer in a lot of ways simply because it’s new and in an up-and-coming part of town. The sofa though, it’s my favorite. The entire living room really. Probably because I picked out every piece.

  The sofa is a soft cream chenille with a pale blue paisley pattern on the outsides of the armrests and all the way around the back of it. When I picked it out, I was thinking of myself and thought for sure Seth would say no. Instead, he told me to get whatever I wanted to go with it. So I got a thick, plush royal blue rug to go with the sofa, covering the hardwood floors, solely so I could get on my knees like I’m doing now, unbuckling his pants and helping Seth relax.

  I can give him this. Freely. He gives me so much and never asks for a damn thing. So this? I can give him this.

  He spears his hand through my hair as the sound of the zipper mixes with my faint moan.

  “Laura,” Seth protests weakly and my response is to grip his jeans in both my hands, ripping his pants down as I stare up into his heated gaze. He’s already hardening. I can see his length get stiffer by the second through the thin fabric of his boxer briefs.

  “Sit down.” I give him the firm command while keeping our eyes locked, and he smirks at me. From this angle, he’s even more handsome, which doesn’t make any sense. He’s just towering over me. Maybe it’s the rough stubble, the way he smiles, or the lust in his eyes. But my heart does that little pitter-patter, the beat that’s out of rhythm. Maybe it really is all because of him. He makes my heart skip a beat.

  “Let me do what I want to you,” I whisper and inch my fingers up to the waistband of his boxer briefs. His hand is still in my hair, and he scratches his blunt nails against my scalp before wrapping my hair around his wrist. Pulling my head back, I’m forced to look at him, rather than his hardening cock that’s barely contained by the thin fabric in front of my face. He doesn’t pull hard, not enough to give me any pain, but it’s authoritative.

  I think for a moment he’s going to say something; his gaze is so penetrating and he stares for so long. All the while, my core heats, my heart flutters, and I can barely breathe.

  Seth releases me without a word, letting me strip him down, dropping slowly to the sofa, spreading his strong legs wide for me.

  His cock is ready, standing tall when I reach out and stroke him. My fingers nearly don’t wrap around the entire thing. I run my thumb up one of the thick veins all the way to his head. Spreading a bead of precum over the velvety top of him, I almost lick my lips.

  “I like it when you blush like that,” he murmurs. Looking up at him, I hold his gaze as I lean forward and let the tip of my tongue slip through his slit while holding him with both hands to keep him where I want him. He hisses and the S sinks deep into my heat, forcing me to clench around nothing.

  I wrap my mouth around the head of his cock and hum a sweet moan as I taste the saltiness of what little cum is there. Opening my jaw as far as I can, I sink down his length and feel his smooth skin massage my lips as I bob. It’s only a tease, only to get a little moisture on his cock. Releasing him with a pop, I look back up at Seth, whose lips are parted as he breathes ever so slowly. His hips thrust in my hand the next time I lean down, teasing his head with a gentle suck.

  I could worship his cock like this for hours, but he doesn’t let me.

  A squeal leaves me when he reaches down, grabbing me by the hips to sit in his lap. “Seth!” I object, but that doesn’t stop him from ripping my nightgown over my head. I’m mid-laugh when his open-mouth kiss lands on the dip in my throat. The giddiness in my voice is quick to morph to a strangled moan when he touches me. His hands grip my flesh, and his mouth devours my sensitized skin.

  I anticipate him
maneuvering me onto my back upon the sofa, with him on top. That’s how he likes it most of the time. But he doesn’t. Instead he places my back to his chest, still kissing my neck, and spreads my legs so my thighs are resting over his.

  “Seth,” I moan as his cock presses against my folds. The head slips against my clit and I writhe against him, my breath hitching.

  He’s not merciful as he pushes himself inside of me with a single stroke. My back arches, and my front feels cold without him here. Seth keeps my neck at his lips by gripping my throat with his hand. I’m staring at the ceiling, wide eyed, feeling the sweet stretch that lingers with pain when his other hand meets my throbbing clit.

  He’s relentless as he strums my swollen nub and pistons his hips up to fuck me just like this. My screams of pleasure are as ruthless as his touch. He doesn’t stop until my throat is sore, my limbs are trembling and I’ve orgasmed more times than I can keep count.

  Seth

  There are two platform stages in the basement of Club Allure. The one in the center, a sixteen-by-twenty-foot rectangle, has bright lights shining down on it. They’re highlighting two men as they circle each other. The drop is only two feet if one of the hulking men falls off. It’s the platform of a professional boxing ring, minus the ropes. It looks like Jameson might fall off the edge. The blood from the cut above his eye is dripping down his face and he can barely keep up with protecting his body with his fists, let alone keep the blood from blinding him.

  If he falls, he’s still fair game. Just harder for everyone else to see the ass beating he’ll take. Judging by the cheers and the frown on Cade’s face, this match isn’t an upset. There are four more after it though, and regardless of how this match turns out, these men will keep betting. For the thrill, for the entertainment. For the addiction of being a part of something so primitive. All of which is good for us. We haven’t had a fight yet that didn’t line our pockets. This is the first one down here; the first of many.

  In front of where Derrick and Liam are standing on top of the second stage, the one against the back wall, I approach Fletcher. Derrick and Liam are watching it all go down while Cade takes the bets. At least sixty bodies form a swarm around the ring, filling the room with their cheers and yells. It’s all white noise. The real money is made away from the lights, in the shadows of the room while surrounded by the chaos.

  With men like Fletcher. He runs things up north of here. He has for years and when shit got rough the first year of taking Tremont back from Vito’s men who wanted it just as much as we did, Fletcher took our side.

  Back then, he said he was rooting for the underdogs. I wonder if he bet on Jameson tonight.

  “King,” Fletcher greets me and I grip his hand firmly, keeping my gaze on anything but his pocket square. He always wears a suit I can’t stand.

  Ostentatious is one way to describe the pale blue suit that’s wrapped around his body in a slim fit. With the yellow patterned handkerchief tucked in his pocket, garish is the word I’d use for this one. Fletcher is flashy, from his heavy gold watch to the diamond stud in his ear. His look comes outfitted with a lit cigar. Money talks, but the wealth he has, he decides to make scream. I may not prefer his attire, but he’s just the man I want to do business with tonight.

  “Good to see you, Fletcher.”

  “Your bar is coming together nicely,” he says, starting with small talk. Upstairs isn’t finished, and it won’t be for another few weeks or more. I want it perfect when we open the doors to the public. Down here is just fine. No furniture, nothing that can be stained with the blood that will most certainly be spilled. These heathens would be fine with cardboard boxes.

  “Thanks. I heard you’re building one uptown?” I question him and he shrugs.

  “Not like this,” he says.

  “Wasn’t asking because I’m worried about competition,” I say to reassure the worried look on his face.

  He huffs from his nose before straightening the gaudy handkerchief. “I just want you to hear it from me. I’d never step on your toes.”

  “Likewise,” I say with a nod and move on to business. “The next shipment has been moved up a week. Leroy has extra product, and he’s happy for me to hand it on over to you.”

  “You want me to cut out Mathews?” Fletcher questions, a glint in his eye. He’s had to deal with Mathews because there was no one else. It’s what led to that fucker getting closer to Tremont. This is one more blow to Mathews while giving me favor with both Leroy and Fletcher. It’s a win on all sides and both of them know it.

  If I need an ally against Mathews, Fletcher is my man.

  “Who’s that?” I ask with a smirk and he lets out a bellow of a laugh. Fletcher sells what Mathews sells. All the heavy shit. Pushing Mathews back by destroying his stash only helps Fletcher keep his territory. Stick with the devil you know, comes to mind when I think about the last conversation Fletcher and I had.

  “Know what I love about you?” he asks me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “You treat your friends well.”

  I give him a tight smile and nod. “I take it you’re happy to not have to rely on the man cutting into your turf?”

  “This last week has been less bloody,” he tells me with a seriousness that chills my spine. “I want to keep it that way.”

  “It’s been coming to that. A war on the streets.”

  Fletcher nods and says, “That’s what happens when a new dealer moves in.”

  “I heard he’s moving out,” I’m quick to comment as Fletcher lights up a cigarette. He takes a long puff and exhales as the men surrounding the stage to our right, let out the kind of roar that comes with disbelief. Looks like Jameson’s coming back. That’s what happens with the Irish. You can’t count them out until they’ve hit the ground.

  “He can sell his shit elsewhere,” Fletcher says, practically spitting the words out. “It was a mistake to ever buy from him… This Leroy… he’s all right?”

  “Been with him for a while, he’s better than all right.”

  “What have you been buying, though?” Fletcher questions me and I don’t like it. “That soft shit isn’t the same type of deal.”

  I level him with a hard stare. “You don’t have to worry about Leroy.”

  He’s slow to nod, then drags on his cigar before saying, “Tremont has some good shit. The pot, the coke, the E…. but when are you going to expand, Young Buck?”

  Young Buck. I hate the nickname he has for me even more than the suit I’m currently forced to look at.

  “We’re stable, controlled, that’s how I like it,” I tell him and then I put my arms up, gesturing to the room and the stairs as I add, “Money’s flowing. That’s what counts.”

  “You’re growing into what was already here—there’s so much more to be done,” he says, giving me the hard sell.

  I made a deal with Jackson years back. Back when I was selling for Vito and he knew and he was in the academy. I’d keep things as they were. The cocaine, the pot, there’s a demand for it from certain people in this town and the surrounding areas. I fill it, but keep it contained to just that.

  Meth and heroin aren’t an option. We both agree on that. It’s how Jackson’s mom died. I think it’s the only reason the two of us work. He needs me keeping that shit out and I need him to keep the cops off our back.

  Uptown, Fletcher makes a pretty penny from that shit. As does Mathews. As does Leroy.

  They can sell, split and fight each other for it.

  “Not interested at the moment,” I answer Fletcher as I have for the past two years.

  He lets out a low whistle, and I watch him watch Jameson land an uppercut against his opponent’s jaw. The blood splatter only fuels the audience to scream for more. Even if it is an upset.

  My eye catches sight of my men. Derrick and Liam are still surveying the room from the platform stage. Roman’s in another corner, making another deal. Cade’s got a grin from ear to ear as he’s taking more bets.

  “I like the
system I’ve got going,” I tell Fletcher, but I didn’t need to give him that. He doesn’t need or deserve an explanation. I wish I could pluck the statement from the air when he looks back at me. I’m taller than him, but it still feels like he’s looking down at me.

  “You’re still learning,” he says as he squares his shoulders and faces me. “There’s more money to be made. You haven’t even scratched the surface, my friend.”

  He puts his hand on my shoulder and I keep my expression firm. A moment passes, and anger swells inside of me. I won’t repeat myself, and I won’t humor him with more of this conversation.

  “Are you good for the drop next week?” I ask bluntly and he drops his hand from my shoulder.

  “Always open for your business,” he tells me, and I offer him a tight smile, leaving him where he is and telling him to enjoy the show. He still urges me to “think about it” and I reassure him that if I’m in the market, I’ll turn to him first.

  The part that irritates me the most is that there’s too much truth to Fletcher. The real money is in the harder shit. I’m the youngest leader of any crime organization for thousands of miles. And I do have a lot to learn. I picked up the pieces after a year of grappling for power. I took the deals I knew were already in place because we needed the money and the connections. Someone was going to take them, and I literally killed for it to be us.

  Men like him, they aren’t my friends. They don’t need explanations. They’d get rid of me if they thought they could get away with it. I’m more than aware of that little fact.

  “You look pissed,” Derrick comments as I step up onto the stage to stand next to him.

  The collar of my shirt feels tighter as I swallow down the rage. “What’d he say?” Derrick asks, referring to Fletcher.

  “Everything’s fine and set,” I answer him and add, “Just pissed at myself.”

  “What happened?”

  “I’m too fucking friendly,” I tell him and the grin I give him makes him shake his head.