by Sarah Piper
Behind it, Dorian fussed with glasses and drinks, ice cubes clinking into a bucket, liquid sloshing from bottles. Without her sense of sight, every sound took on a mysterious, erotic subtext that filled her with red-hot anticipation.
She’d wanted to tease Dorian for being such a sore loser at Midnight Marauder, but now that she was under his command again, she didn’t dare speak out. She knew the rules—no talking without permission—and she was happy to submit.
All. Night. Long.
She felt as free and giddy as a teenager whose parents had just gone out of town. Sasha was staying at Darcy’s tonight, and for the first weekend in months, Charley had no scheduled events, no auctions, no roles to play but the ones she chose.
Now, she bit back a smile and forced herself to remain silent, giving herself over to whatever dark, delicious plans her dominating, sexy-as-fuck vampire had in store.
“Are you ready to play?” he asked, cool and commanding as he stood beside her. She couldn’t see him through the blindfold, but she could feel his powerful presence.
“Yes, Mr. Redthorne.”
“Good girl.” He smothered her with a devastating kiss. Eagerly she parted her lips, coaxing his tongue with deep, soft strokes. He tasted like scotch and sin, his hungry moan making her ache with need.
Finally breaking the kiss, he pulled back and said, “The game is called Hot or Cold. I’ll guess something about you, and you’ll tell me if I’m hot…” He wrapped his warm lips around her nipple, tonguing her in an all-too-brief tease. Then, without warning, he pressed an ice cube to her other nipple. “Or cold.”
Charley gasped, thighs clenching in a vain attempt to staunch her throbbing desire.
“That’s… not a fair game, Mr. Redthorne,” she panted. “You’ve got complete control.”
“Yes, that’s the idea. Let’s begin.” He skimmed his hand across her abdomen, his touch smooth and electric, bringing every nerve to rapt attention. “You’re originally from New Jersey.”
“How did you—”
“Hot or cold, love?”
“Hot.”
He rewarded her with another deep kiss, his mouth warm and silky. But it didn’t last.
“It’s the accent,” he admitted softly. “Despite your polished exterior, a bit of New Jersey slips in when you’re under duress. I find it very intriguing. Now, let’s see…” He traced his fingertips from one hipbone to the other, back and forth, his touch as hypnotic as his voice. “You went to Catholic school.”
“I’ve already told you that. I—”
“Hot or cold, Ms. D’Amico?”
“Hot. Definitely hot.”
Another kiss, another soft moan. This time, he dipped his fingers lower, teasing her clit before sliding them inside her with slow, deliberate strokes.
A sigh of pleasure escaped her lips as she melted beneath his touch.
Charley was really starting to like this game.
“You studied art history in college,” he murmured.
“Cold. I never went to—holy shit!”
Dorian ran an ice cube between her breasts, down to her bellybutton. His other hand was still occupied between her thighs, fingers stroking, the twin sensations of hot and cold driving her wild.
“You studied art history, though,” he said. “That much is certain.”
“Yes! I mean, hot. So fucking hot.”
Removing the ice cube, he lowered his mouth to her flesh, following the trail of the cold water, lapping it up with his tongue.
With a soft sigh, she writhed on the bar, hips rocking, blood simmering. She reached for his hair, longing to touch him, but he pulled back, removing his mouth and fingers both.
“Don’t stop,” she begged, reaching for him again. “Please, Dorian.”
“Dorian, is it?” He lowered his mouth to her ear and licked the edge, his breath hot. “Awfully familiar for a woman lying naked on my bar, subject to my every whim.”
“Mr. Redthorne,” she corrected. “Please don’t stop touching me.”
“You are extremely sexy when you talk back, Ms. D’Amico. But it’s also highly distracting, and absolutely against my rules.” He slipped a fresh ice cube between her lips, his tone dark and commanding. “Suck.”
With a soft moan, she followed his orders, wrapping her lips around the ice, working it with her tongue. Slowly, he dragged the dripping cube from her mouth and trailed it down her chin, past the hollow of her throat, between her breasts, down to her belly, skating over to her inner thigh.
She parted her legs, and he skimmed the ice cube back toward her center, finally reaching her clit.
Holy. Fuck.
The feeling was electric, and Charley gasped and arched her back off the bar, cold water dripping down in slow, erotic rivers as he circled her sensitive flesh. Each time she feared she’d go numb, he pulled back, lowering his face between her thighs, teasing her with his hot breath before returning with the ice.
She’d never played like this before, never felt anything so intense. The orgasm was already building inside, her nipples stiff and aching, her body humming like an electrical wire after a storm.
She wanted to feel him sink inside her, owning her flesh.
“Please,” she begged again. The ice cube had finally melted, and she couldn’t take another minute of his incessant teasing. “I need you inside me. Now.”
“What did I tell you about talking back?”
With no more than a whoosh of air as warning, he was on top of the bar, hands gripping her thighs, pinning them down as he blew another soft, hot breath over her clit.
“You’ve been a bad girl,” he said, “and now I’m taking a taste before I fuck you the way a bad girl deserves.”
He spread her legs wider, then licked her clit, swirling his tongue against her flesh.
She fisted his hair, arching closer, desperate for the friction, the heat, all of it. “God, I love the way you touch me,” she breathed. “I’m so close. I can’t wait, Dorian. I—”
“You can.” He pulled back, slapping her on the outer thigh, then soothing the sting with a kiss. “And you will.”
He landed another light flick against her clit, then kissed her, slowly moving his mouth up to her belly, up to her breasts. She felt the heat of his bare skin hovering over her, though she’d never even heard him strip. Between her thighs, his rock-hard cock throbbed, hot and ready.
God, he was a fucking marvel. Everything about him left her spinning and desperate.
He grazed her nipple with his teeth, then sucked it between his lips, his stubbled jaw scraping against her skin.
“Open your legs,” he ordered.
Her knees relaxed and spread wide again, inviting him in.
Dorian didn’t hesitate. He buried himself inside her, finally giving in to her pleas, remembering exactly how she liked it.
He fucked her hard and furious, driving into her again and again, the glassware rattling beneath them. After all the ice play, the friction between her thighs was so hot and intense, Charley thought she might burst into flames.
She didn’t care.
Incinerate me, she thought. Burn me to ash.
“Charlotte,” he growled, low and guttural in her ear, his control quickly unraveling.
She was losing control too, her muscles taut, aching for the release he’d so far denied her.
Still buried deep inside, he rocked forward against her clit, pounding her harder with every stroke.
The blindfold slipped from her eyes, and he grabbed her face, his gaze boring into her, right into her fucking soul.
In his eyes, Charlotte saw her whole life spinning out from this moment, exploding like a newborn galaxy, then collapsing again, bringing her right back here.
Right back to him.
He stilled between her thighs and gasped as if he’d sensed it too—some vast, inexplicable thing passing between them. Binding them.
“Mine,” he whispered.
That was all it took.
Her body clenched around him, and she screamed his name, the hot rush of pleasure shuddering through her, tremor after tremor, wave after wave, and suddenly Dorian was thrusting inside her again, groaning against her flesh as he came hard, both of them falling and spinning and exploding into an endless sea of stars, their souls flickering in the distance, illuminating the darkness.
Chapter Forty-Five
It was true what they said about absence making the heart grow fonder.
It also made for hotter sex.
Being with Dorian felt so perfect, so right, Charley could hardly remember a time without him—a time when he didn’t own her, body and soul.
She was playing a dangerous game, but whenever her brain fired off a warning, she dismissed it, distracting herself with another tantalizing kiss, another deep thrust of his smooth, satisfying cock.
With every hour they shared, teasing and kissing and fucking their way through every room in his gorgeous Tribeca penthouse, Charley was falling deeper into the fantasy that this really was her life—that it didn’t have to end.
And for a little while, she succeeded in forgetting about all the shadows, the secrets, the lies, the inevitable goodbyes.
But then, as they lay face-to-face in his bed beneath the skylights, naked and warm from the shower after another hour-long sex-a-thon, Dorian cupped her cheek and sighed into the darkness, and the heaviness descended upon her like rain.
Before he spoke another word, Charley knew everything was about to change.
“What’s wrong?” she whispered, frantically searching his face in the moonlight.
“I followed up on the artwork, like you asked.”
Her eyes widened, her heart jackhammering.
“I contacted my buyer,” he said, “and from there, I followed a trail of contacts. There were several buyers in between, but you were right—the paths converged onto a single source for both the Hermes and the LaPorte painting. A man named Vincent Estas.”
“Vincent Estas,” Charley repeated. She knew a lot of art dealers, criminal and legitimate, but this one didn’t sound familiar. “Did you contact him as well?”
“No.” Dorian closed his eyes, his muscles tensing. “Charlotte, Vincent Estas is a demon.”
“A demon?”
“And not just any demon, I’m afraid.”
“What do you mean?”
“Most demons operate in bonded crews similar to human crime families. There are several large organizations headquartered in the region, typically working out of Brooklyn and Queens, with a few scattered across Long Island.”
“Seriously? A demon mafia?” She shook her head, trying to process it all. “How powerful are these guys?”
“Quite, and growing more so by the day. The most powerful organization is run by a demon called Nikolai Chernikov—he controls nearly fifty percent of all demon-held territory on the east coast.”
“And this Estas guy? He’s part of Chernikov’s organization?”
“No. Estas is bonded to the second most powerful crew—Chernikov’s main demonic rival, Alexei Rogozin.”
Alexei Rogozin.
Charlotte swallowed a gasp, squeezing her eyes shut as a rush of hot, terrible memories assaulted her.
Where you off to, little girl?
Not so tough when Daddy’s not around, are ya?
Don’t struggle, D’Amico bitch…
She remembered it like a dream—hazy and nonsensical in parts, sharp and inescapable in others. It was her birthday, and her father had promised they’d spend the whole day together. But before they’d even ordered breakfast at their favorite diner, Uncle Rudy called. He’d forgotten it was her birthday—so sorry!—and had promised an important client on Long Island they’d make a special delivery.
There was no way around it, so Charley tagged along. When business was done, her dad said, they’d drive out to Montauk at the very tip of the island, comb the beach for sea glass, and eat their weight in saltwater taffy.
When they got to the drop-off point—a dingy, second-floor apartment above an abandoned pizza place—her dad and Rudy parked around back and ordered her to stay in the car while they made the delivery. A rusty metal staircase led up to the second floor, and she watched as they hauled a few nondescript boxes up top.
Ten minutes, they’d said. Fifteen max.
Twenty minutes passed. Half an hour. One hour, and suddenly, two men emerged from the back of the abandoned restaurant, heading right for the car. Charley sunk down into the seat, but it was no use.
They knew she was there.
They were looking for her.
What happened next is part of the haze, mixed up in her mind after years of reliving it in every nightmare, of scrubbing herself raw in the shower, of trying to outrun the ghosts that always seemed to track her down, no matter how much time passed.
But what she remembered clearly, even now, was the smell of garlic and sweat and cheap booze as the men climbed into the backseat and surrounded her, slamming the car doors behind them.
She remembered trying to reach for the door handle, desperate to escape.
Where you off to, little girl?
She remembered crying and begging as one man pinned her down on her back, the other shoving a hand up her shirt, squeezing her tiny breast.
Not so tough when Daddy’s not around, are ya?
She remembered screaming and kicking, remembered biting the meaty hand that clamped hard over her mouth.
She remembered the man yanking off her jean shorts, her underwear. When she wouldn’t stop kicking, he pulled out a knife.
Don’t struggle, D’Amico bitch. I will make you bleed in more ways than one…
She did struggle, though. Knew if she didn’t, they’d kill her.
Or worse.
She kicked and fought and scratched and bit for all she was worth, landing a hard kick in the balls.
The man groaned and grabbed her thigh, then shoved the knife into her abdomen, the pain eating through her body like acid, like teeth, like claws.
Stars danced before her eyes, and she thought it was the end. Death was breathing on her neck, waiting to take her.
But seconds later, she felt the rush of air as the car doors flew open. She heard two pops, felt the warm spray of blood on her face. The bodies slumped on top of her, making her gag. Her father stood behind one of them, his face ashen, the gun trembling in his hand.
She’d never seen such fear in his eyes.
Such ice-cold rage.
Such shame.
The next thing she remembered, she was waking up in a hospital bed thirty miles away, her father filling out a fake police report about a random attack in a random town they’d never even visited. When they finally left the hospital, it was in a different car.
Charley was fifteen years old.
In all the years that passed, she never had the courage to ask her father or uncle about that day, and they never had the courage to bring it up.
It existed only in her memory, the story written above her hip in a silver scar.
She never found out what happened to the bodies.
She never found out what happened to the car.
She never found out why they’d taken so long with the delivery.
She never found out whether Rudy had killed the second guy, or whether he’d just opened the door before her father shot them both.
She never found out who the men were, or why they’d targeted her.
It was the worst day of her life—worse, even, then the day her father died. And all she had left of it now—aside from the ghosts and the scar—was the name of the client who’d asked for the special delivery.
Alexei Rogozin.
Chapter Forty-Six
city streets run red with blood; ‘crimson city devil’ eludes authorities
August 11, 1972 - The mutilated body of a thirty-nine-year-old Manhattan father of two was found in a service alley on Canal Street in the early morning hours of August 10th. Witnes
ses who made the grisly discovery claim the man was lying in a pool of blood, with severe lacerations on his neck and shoulder. Police have not made an official statement, but an NYPD officer who agreed to speak on the condition of anonymity confirmed that the death has been ruled a homicide and shares many of the same markers as the previous twenty-seven murders attributed to the so-called Crimson City Devil. Authorities are urging extreme caution and have asked anyone who has information about this or any of the previous crimes to contact them immediately…
Sitting at his desk in the den, Dorian tipped back his scotch and flipped to another article in the bound leather book, each headline carving a fresh wound in his heart.
summer of slaughter earns new york ‘crimson city’ moniker; no end in sight for grisly crime spree.
crimson city devil strikes again.
police exhausted after three-state, six-month manhunt brings no closure on unsolved murders.
Every article had been meticulously clipped and mounted—a gruesome scrapbook created first as a souvenir and saved, later, as a reckoning.
No matter how many times Dorian forced himself through this particular punishment, the gnawing, acidic burn of his endless guilt never receded.
Nor should it.
He opened the top drawer of the desk and removed a spiral notebook, scanning the list of names and related notes he’d been keeping for four decades. He found the one he was looking for on the third page.
Marshall Goldman. Curator, Jewish Historical Society. Son of Landon Goldman, DOD Aug. 10, 1972. Whitfield painting — possible interest?
With a red pen, he made a small check mark next to Marshall’s name, then closed the notebook, slipping it back into the drawer.
One more name, he thought. One more deed.
He tossed the pen onto the desk and reached for his bottle of scotch, pouring himself another drink.
Charlotte D’Amico was a deep, dark well of secrets, but how could Dorian pass judgment when his closet was full of more blood-soaked skeletons than a hundred cemeteries?
His chest tightened with shame. Why had he pushed her so hard tonight?