Booze and Bullets (Brooklyn Brothers #3)

by Melanie Munton

  I was hot for my husband.

  So. So. Hot.

  And I needed him to fuck me raw and dirty back here, like my pussy was the only one in the whole godforsaken world his cock could ever be satisfied by.

  “Because you admitted that you want me,” he answered, hips pumping against my center. “You can’t take those words back. I fucking own you now, legs. And I don’t like seeing my woman in the arms of another man. The next one who even thinks of trying that shit is going to die. You hearing me?”

  I barely had time to nod before he planted another bone-melting kiss on my mouth. I couldn’t tell whose groans were whose anymore. Couldn’t tell where my body stopped and his began. All that existed were our seeking hands, thrusting hips, and voracious kisses.

  I’d never felt lust like this before.

  I’d never felt anything so greedy, so filthy. So overwhelmingly demanding.

  He yanked me away from the wall again.

  Down another dark hallway.

  Deeper into the labyrinth.

  Slammed against a different black wall.

  Bodies totally in sync, our hands reached for his belt at the same time, fumbling to release the leather from the confining loops.

  “Hurry,” he urged. “This has gone on too long. I need to get in. Need to finally have that sweet cunt wrapped around me, suffocating the fuck out of me.”

  His hands frantically shoved my dress up over my hips. With a vicious growl, he tore my meager panties from my body, as if incensed they were in his way to begin with.

  “Don’t show me any mercy, okay? I don’t want it. You grip me as hard as you can.” He shouted up at the ceiling. “Ah, Christ. Hurry.”

  I hiked up my legs until I could feel the heat of his cock right at my dripping slit. When his fingers found my clit, they were shaking.

  He impaled me in one swift drive.

  My scream. His roar.

  Both echoed off the onyx walls of our cavernous hideaway.

  “Just as goddamn tight as I knew you’d be,” he hissed against my parted mouth. “So cramped in there, isn’t it? That’s my snug little pussy.”

  I couldn’t get close enough to him, even though I was so blissfully full of him. His thick girth would require some time to get used to. My inner walls having to stretch around him knocked the breath right out of me.

  But we were both too impatient to wait. I was wet enough for him to slip through my channel without too much burn.

  Our pleasure was too close to the surface.

  Our bodies were ordering us to move.

  He pounded me into the wall at a ruthless, punishing pace. Despite being in a silent, unlit hallway, my senses were on overload. His labored breathing in my ear, his beard running along my neck, his hands grasping my hips, and his cock taking me so hard.

  I needed it to stop.

  I needed it to continue for eternity.

  “I want you, too, Lexi,” he groaned. “Fuck, I’ve wanted you since I first saw you. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  Whether he truly meant it, or it was just something said in the heat of the moment, it was like he said—he couldn’t take the words back now that he’d said them.

  I owned him now.

  “I think about you, too,” I whispered. “All the time.”

  “All the fucking time.” He punctuated each word with a punch of his hips.

  Then I was spiraling into my climax so hard I got dizzy. My inner walls clamped down on him, my clit pulsating with my release. Seconds later, he shouted curses into my mouth as he emptied himself inside me. Burying his face in my neck, his hot breath fanned across my already feverish skin.

  “Mine. Mine. Mine.” He breathed those words over and over again.

  Before long, I was saying them with him.

  Because if he was going to demand that I belong to him, he was damn well going to belong to me, too.

  “It’s about time I see what my husband does at work all day.”

  I quirked an eyebrow at Lexi’s dry comment. “Thought you already had me all figured out. I’m just a megalomaniac who’s only in it for the money, right?”

  She ducked her head, hiding her blush. “I may have judged a tad harshly,” she admitted meekly.

  From my position behind the bar, I slid an empty Glencairn glass across the smooth wooden surface to her. “And it looks like I’m no longer drinking alone.”

  That particular barb had stung because she’d been right. She’d had me pegged a lot quicker than I’d wanted her to.

  “No, you’re not,” she conceded, rotating the glass around and around with her fingers.

  I reached for the unopened bottle of Saluzzo Reserve under the bar. “I may have been wrong about a few things, too.”

  Her eyes tentatively met mine. “Such as?”

  “You’re not a spoiled, out-of-touch-with-reality brat.”

  She scoffed. “Gee, that makes me feel so much better.”

  I opened the bottle, sniffed it approvingly, and poured a small amount of the whiskey into each of our glasses. “In fact, I think you’re far more in touch than I’ve been for the last ten years. All of the nonprofit work you’ve done since college is a huge accomplishment. And I can tell you do it simply to help others.”

  After hearing her story of growing up as a homeless orphan in Siberia, I could certainly understand why she’d have a particular soft spot for children. And I admired the hell out of her for it. She had no idea how much.

  Then why don’t you tell her?

  Just because we’d finally had sex didn’t mean we had to bare our souls to each other. Especially since it hadn’t even been a full twenty-four hours.

  Admitting that we wanted each other and could no longer stay away was enough for now. There didn’t need to be any talk of feelings or emotions. Quite frankly, I wouldn’t even know how to navigate a conversation like that. Agreeing to a sexual relationship was at least an improvement on the constant feuding from before.

  Although my world was certainly changed forever.

  Fucking Lexi had been nothing short of transformative.

  There was no matching that. For the rest of my life, I’d have to live with the knowledge that anyone or anything lesser than Lexi would be unfulfilling. Insufficient.

  My satisfaction now lived and died with this woman.

  She grabbed her chest and gasped. “Was that an actual compliment? He’s complimenting me now?”

  Shaking off my disturbing train of thought, I shrugged. “Just stating facts, legs.”

  She grinned slyly. “Uh-huh.”

  Since I’d learned that she actually appreciated good whiskey—one of the three sexiest qualities a woman could have, in my opinion, right behind a sharp sense of humor and a healthy sex drive—I brought her to my new distillery in downtown Brooklyn that was scheduled to open next month.

  From the ground up, Brooklyn Armor House was all mine.

  Of all the distilleries and breweries I owned, this was the only one I’d created from scratch. All the others had been previously owned and operated and served as investments for me. Smart business. But BAH had been a dream of mine for years. A place that I could put my own personal touch on that was right in my backyard. I’d never before felt the rush of achievement that I did when I looked around the empty taproom, ready to receive visitors in no more than thirty days.

  Short of actually laying the bricks with my own two hands, I’d built this place.

  The architecture, the logo design, the décor, the overall vibe of the building itself, was all me. I’d chosen to use a lot of weathered, reclaimed wood in the décor, including with the rafters in the vaulted ceilings. Much of the wood the bar itself was made out of was taken from some of the first barrels of whiskey that BAH ever produced. There was even a metal spiral staircase in the back corner that led upstairs, where my personal office was, that I thought added a special note of character to the place.

  I’d also hung my own personal pictures of m
yself with friends, business partners, and members of the alcohol manufacturing community from all over the world. The old man I purchased my Scottish distillery from was on the wall. The brothers who managed one of my breweries in North Carolina. The father-son team who ran operations at my Kentucky distillery.

  The Brooklyn Armor House had a brand all its own.

  I’d chosen the location specifically because it was in a working-class neighborhood with a variety of family sizes, ethnicities, and socio-economic classes. I wanted this place to appeal to everyone. Wanted it to feel like the kind of laidback, relaxed bar that everyone went to for a drink after work, to watch a ballgame, for a Saturday night date, or for parties. It wasn’t high-class or ritzy because that wasn’t what the Brooklynites of this neighborhood looked for. They could cross the bridge over into Manhattan if they wanted glamour and flash.

  This was about creating an environment where customers could be comfortable and appreciate a damn good glass of whiskey.

  It also didn’t hurt that we would be the only establishment in a ten-block radius that offered whiskey tastings. And since our in-house labels were not being mass produced yet and were only sold at BAH, those tastings would be unique and, I hoped, highly popular. My plan was to see how well the bottles sold at the distillery before I started channeling them through my distribution company.

  For all the wealth I’d amassed that I didn’t necessarily think I deserved, at the end of the day, I drank the same damn whiskey as everyone else. They say education is “the great equalizer,” but I disagreed. From what I’d seen in my line of work over the years, alcohol was the one great equalizer of mankind.

  She glanced at the bottle. “Why Saluzzo? Where did that name come from? It’s certainly not Scottish or Irish.”

  “Saluzzo is the name of the very small village in Italy where my family is originally from. My father’s father and so on grew up there until the family briefly relocated to Sicily, just before coming to the United States.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “That answers my second question, but not my first one. Why Saluzzo?”

  My next breath got stuck in my throat. I’d never had to explain this before. “I wanted to preserve where my family came from. What and who they were before coming to the U.S. and getting caught up in everything with the five families. My ancestors’ legacy has gotten muddied over the generations, thanks to all the mafia rumors and our recent involvement. My father used to tell us that his grandfather worked his ass off every day of his life to defend our family’s good name. To convince people that he wasn’t a criminal but an honest, hard-working man who was only trying to provide for his family like everyone else.”

  Lexi propped her chin in her hand, seeming enraptured.

  I ignored the dreamy look on her face and pressed on. “My father eventually said to hell with everyone else. They can think what they want because he shouldn’t have to defend anything, which I agree with. So, I guess this is my small way of paying tribute to what my family has stood for over the years.” I shook my head, chuckling mirthlessly. “By naming a whiskey after the birthplace of my ancestors.” What a gesture.

  There was clearly a reason why I hadn’t shared that with anyone before. It sounded ridiculous.

  She leaned over the bar, lowering her voice. “You should be proud for honoring your family like that, Nico Rossetti.”

  My breath sawed in and out of my lungs as my gaze slammed into hers.

  Clearing my throat, I eventually picked up my glass and propped my elbows on the bar. “Okay, let your first lesson begin.”

  Hunkering down on her bar stool, a smile played on her lips as she waved me on. “Teach away.”

  Apparently, today was all about lessons and instruction. Earlier at the house, I’d demonstrated how to properly hold a dagger and strike with it in close contact situations. Obviously, she didn’t need to be told how to handle a gun. She’d taught me more Russian words and phrases, as well as how to cook some of her favorite Russian dishes. When I’d taught her a bit of Italian, she’d gotten dewy-eyed and kissed the hell out of me. That ought to come in handy in the future.

  After that, I’d wanted to show her more.

  I held my glass vertically upright and examined its contents. “First step, as with wine, is to inspect the whiskey’s appearance. The color, clarity, viscosity, can all be observed before you ever take your first sniff. Unlike wine, however, you never want to swirl the liquid around in your glass. You’ll get the best and most accurate taste if the aromas remain concentrated, and swirling it around ventilates the whiskey.”

  She stared at her own glass, listening avidly. I weirdly appreciated that she actually seemed interested. A lot of people would find the subject matter dry and boring.

  Her bare ring finger continued to glare at me.

  Goddammit, I needed to put something on that. If nothing else, a ring should keep anymore half-naked strippers from shoving their junk in her face. I didn’t have to put any more significance on it than that. It was merely a statement of fact that she was legally married to another. That her pussy belonged to only one man and that was fucking me.

  Jesus. Slow your roll.

  I shook my head, clearing my throat. “Now, tip your glass horizontally, until it’s nearly perpendicular to your face.” She mimicked my action as I demonstrated. “Now, bring it back vertical. The droplets running down the inside of the glass there”—I pointed with my finger—“those are called legs, or tears. The slower they run down the glass, the higher the alcohol content. The longer the whiskey was aged in cask, the more the legs tend to separate and spread out. And the more fatty acids the whiskey contains, the thicker the legs will be.”

  She snorted. “Definitely no vodka.”

  “You’re right, legs.” She laughed at the double entendre. “Unlike your vodka, my whiskey actually has flavor.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, same story, different verse. Continue.”

  “Okay, tip your glass back into the horizontal position.” She did. “Now, put your nose right over the lip and sniff.”

  She followed all my instructions attentively, even paying attention when I went through all the extra boring bullshit about how this technique engages one’s olfactory senses. How she should alternate nostrils when sniffing because they each sniff at different rates, and one might have a higher propensity to detect and convey certain aromatic molecules over the other. When her eyebrows climbed higher and higher up her forehead, I couldn’t tell if it was from what she was smelling or if she was actually impressed.

  “Did you go to school for this?” she asked. “You said you went to Columbia, right?”

  I inhaled deeply from my glass. That bottle came from a damn good barrel. “Yeah, but I got my business degree. I’ve learned all of this along the way. Real world experience, I guess you could say.”

  “The student as well as the teacher,” she mused.

  “We’re all students at some point. The ones who never become teachers of something never learned anything.”

  Her lips parted. “That was pretty profound, Nico.”

  I winked. “I’m a cornucopia of wisdom, legs. Take notes. There will be a test on this.”

  When her face softened and her eyelids shuttered, I figured it was time to move on. “All right, it’s time to awaken the palate. Tiny sips are important. As much as you’ll want to chug this shit down because it’s so damn good, try to refrain in the beginning. Transfer it from the front, center, and back of your tongue to open up your taste buds and really experience all the flavors.”

  I watched her reaction carefully as she took her first sip of my pride and joy whiskey. After holding it in her mouth for several seconds, she eventually swallowed.

  Her eyes bugged out of her skull. “Holy shit.”

  I flashed my teeth in a goofy ass smile. “Right?”

  “I’m not just saying this…but that might be the best whiskey I’ve ever had.”

  My chest swelled wit
h pride. “William Faulkner once said there’s no such thing as bad whiskey. Some whiskey just happens to be better than others.”

  “I’m getting the sense you don’t agree with that.”

  I scowled. “Hell, no. That implies that there’s no standard. That anyone can just make a shitty mash and slap the name whiskey on it.”

  “Well, I think it’s safe to say this is far from a shitty mash. And I’ve never been a huge fan of the smoky flavor. But this is really smooth.”

  “This is the only label we make that uses a percentage of sherry casks in the ageing process,” I explained, sipping from my glass. “The smoky flavor comes out softer and slightly sweeter as a result.”

  She took another, bigger sip. “I mean, wow. You could market this to women just as easily as you could to men, you know. Obviously, the demographics show that a majority of whiskey drinkers are men, but I think most women just have preconceived notions about it. Or they haven’t branched out and tasted enough.”

  I scratched my chin, contemplating. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”

  She pointed to her glass and adamantly stated, “I’m telling you, women would drink this. And if you mix it up in a good cocktail?” She snapped her fingers. “You’re golden. It’ll sell like pancakes.”

  I pinched my lips together, fighting my smile. “Hotcakes, legs. It’ll sell like hotcakes.”

  “Hotcakes, then.”

  “You really think so?”

  She nodded eagerly. “Absolutely. You just have to market it right. How about this… ‘Saluzzo Reserve: The whiskey for her and for him.’”

  My mouth inched up in degrees until it consumed my entire face. “That’s pretty good. I hadn’t thought about marketing that specifically targets the female population.”

  Her brilliant blue eyes lit up with excitement as she reached inside her purse and pulled out her phone. “Here, I’ll show you.”

  She opened an app, picked up her glass, and spun around on her stool. I watched in fascination as she held the phone and glass up in front of her in selfie mode.