by Skye Warren
“Shh,” he murmured. “I love your sweet voice. I want to hear everything you can tell me. But not right now. Now I need a good little whore to use. You can do that for me, can’t you?”
He pressed his thumb on my tongue. My eyes widened, my heartbeat raced. But I didn’t fight him. Just let him invade my mouth, tasting the faint tang of soap on his skin. I nodded.
He didn’t need the coarse ropes or chains to bind me. He found a silky rope tying back the curtains in the kitchen to bind my wrists behind my back. My cheeks heated painfully when he dug through my nightstand and found the purple vibrator that fit inside me perfectly. The dishtowel I’d used to dry the dishes served as a gag, damp and thick on my tongue. Most of my clothes stayed on, but he opened the buttons of my sheer pink blouse and pulled my breasts from the peach-colored camisole. The feather-light ruffles framed my breasts, their color matching my nipples.
As I lay on the couch in his arms, his heart beat steadily beneath my cheek. He stroked my breasts and pinched my nipples with lazy movements, staring into the distance. I would have thought him completely unaffected, except I could feel his thick erection at my hip.
On a particularly cruel twist of my exposed flesh, I whimpered against the damp fabric.
“You like that, don’t you, pretty girl.”
Not really a question. I wasn’t fully a person like this. I was an object for him to use, to see. I was like the vintage milk jug on the mantel with its potted daisies. Something nice to look at. Something to care for.
“No,” he continued, “I don’t think it will be much of a sacrifice for you at all. I bet you’re already wet for me, aren’t you? Already drenching that smooth plastic. Getting yourself lubed up like a good girl.”
Remote in hand, he flipped on the television. My eyes closed in mortification. God. I wasn’t even enough of a distraction for that. He needed more entertainment than me, tied and bared to him. We watched a few minutes of a cooking competition where the chefs put modern twists on ethnic classics. I could have been interested in it if he weren’t constantly touching, plucking, smoothing my sensitive skin.
His hands were skilled, knowledgeable, and they brought me to a fever pitch with a few flicks. Not only that, I had to admit. The way he tied me up, the way he used me—that turned me on as well.
He glanced down at his watch and changed the channel again. He didn’t check with me to see what I wanted to watch. I wasn’t even in the equation. Just a thing, with no preferences, no wishes of my own. It was an old action flick this time. We watched a few minutes while he rolled my nipple between forefinger and thumb.
Slowly, I got the impression he was waiting for something. The clock beside the daisies showed eight seventeen. Not really a time that something typically happened. But then, Ian was far from typical.
When the minute hand moved once…twice…an interruption came over the screen.
Breaking News, it said in block letters across the top of the screen. A pretty reporter spoke seriously into a microphone. Behind her, swarms of people crowded a podium set up beside the courthouse. And at the bottom of the picture, a blue information bar claimed, ‘International Criminal Presumed Dead in Aggressive FBI Raid.’
In smaller letters beneath it, it read: Laguardia has been on the Most Wanted list for 10 years.
My body jerked in place, unable to move, unable to think. Dead? Of course, he was warm and very much alive beneath me. His hands continued to stroke me but their tenor changed. More calming now.
Soothing.
The woman’s voice finally registered, authoritative and clipped. “The alleged drug lord was caught in a massive explosion aboard a steamer just off the Houston Ship Channel after a confrontation with a joint task force involving the FBI, the DEA, and the Coast Guard. Critics are already questioning the lack of due process in regards to the sudden raid, but the FBI spokesperson claims that this is a major win for the Bureau.”
The video switched to a row of metal rooftops. Above them, a plume of black smoke suddenly rose up. It hung in the air, a hot air balloon made of soot instead of cloth. The newsreel flipped again to a closer shot of the podium. Brody stood behind the microphones, looking smug, speaking nonsense about impressive planning and foresight.
God. Foresight. As if they could look into the future, when they hadn’t even seen what was right in front of them.
Lance stood in the background, wearing a suit and appearing very serious. I hoped he got a promotion out of this. At least someone had done been doing his job.
The TV flicked off, leaving only a black screen. I could still see the images on the dark reflective surface.
The anchor woman.
Thick smoke hanging in the air.
FBI agents, smug and misguided.
“I did that for you,” Ian murmured in my ear. “That’s what I gave up for you. My whole life. My past. But you’re going to make up for it, aren’t you?”
I whimpered, unsure what he wanted. Unsure what I could take.
I couldn’t comprehend the magnitude of what I’d seen on the news. He’d cut off part of himself, just now, with a staged explosion designed to ensure the FBI left us alone. They had no incentive to keep looking, now that they had their closure. Their fucking commendations.
That criminal part of him had been hurting him, decaying. But even though he was better off without it, losing it had to hurt. His pain echoed through my body. His loss became my own.
I expected his anger. I would have preferred it, but his hands were gentle. He turned me so I faced down on the sofa. Implacable and tender, he flipped up my skirt and tugged down my panties. Exposing my ass.
“Yes,” he murmured. “You’re going to make it all better.”
He smacked me on the ass with an open hand, causing more shock than pain. Too soft, really. I deserved worse, and he knew it. I heard the snap of leather as he took off his belt. He pressed my wrists to the base of my back. The first blow was fire across my skin, embers underneath. I screamed into the dishtowel, blow after blow.
I fought him too, but it was too late for that.
When he worked one slippery finger into my ass, then two, I stilled. It was the least I could do, a small penance for the sins I had made. The pillow dried my tears. I was ready for him when he finally mounted me. I breathed through the burn and bore down on him—and let him in deeper. With my pain and my patience, I soothed him, the way he’d done for me. In the process, I soothed myself, because my heart was still pounding after seeing those news reports. After imagining, for a split second, they were true. That he wasn’t alive and hurting me. Imagining he had died.
I had to remind myself he was safe. Scratch that. He was mine.
I may have been the one with my hands tied behind my back. I may have had thick cock pressed inside my ass, pushing and pushing to the rhythm that he liked. It may have hurt, and fuck, it did, it did. But he was mine. I’d caught him. And I was going to keep him.
Chapter Twenty
I saw his shadow first, a wavery blur from beneath the water. With a kick and a burst of speed, I broke through the surface of the water and breathed deeply. Island air felt sharper. Cleaner, after spending most of my life in the inner city. We had travelled since leaving Houston. Mexico. Argentina. Egypt. Always staying in warm places.
Ian stood on the porch, elbows resting on the porch rail. He wore only loose slung pants made from a linen local to the area. The sun kissed the golden skin of his back, the dappled silver-brown of his hair.
Even from here I could see one eyebrow rise. “What are you wearing?”
I swam to the edge of the pool. “Funny thing. I couldn’t find my swimsuit anywhere. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“I thought we agreed you weren’t going to wear that anymore.”
He liked to watch me swim naked. I would have simply obeyed him…but sometimes disobeying was more fun. Watching his eyes darken in displeasure. Having him use the offending swimsuit to bind my ha
nds. Knowing he got rid of it after that.
I never did find it. Now I wore a thin tank top instead with thin lace straps. My darker nipples were visible through the wet ribbed fabric. It was a taunt, really. And he knew it.
“Come here.”
Flashing him a cowed look, a fake one, I climbed out of the pool. Scratch that. I glided. The gliding part came naturally in the glittering pool with its infinity edge, a steeped plane like a crystal white beach of concrete. The pool was the one nod to overt luxury here. That and the hot tub inside. Otherwise, the house was small and rustic, built with local timber and filled with handcrafted rugs. He’d brought me here for a getaway and I hadn’t yet been able to leave. It was too beautiful, too safe. Someday soon we’d travel again, but I always wanted to return here.
Lush foliage blocked us from view. Island security took care of the rest. He hadn’t owned a whole island. He owned part of one. He shared it with an ex-Hollywood director and some sort of oil baron from the Middle East, both of whom were more concerned about aerial snapshots being taken than we were.
Royalty. That’s how Mia had described his parents’ lifestyle. Glittering parties with la familia. And though Carlos had money, he’d always preferred things understated. He purchased things he’d never been able to get as a child. Privacy. Safety.
Comfort.
I understood about that. I climbed the cedar porch steps to reach him. He waited for me with hooded eyes, his body taut. Droplets slid down my skin, caressing me. His gaze dipped to my breasts. He wasn’t unaffected by me. I could tell by the way his hands clenched. And from the impressive tenting of his pants.
I remembered the grainy black and white photograph from the Bureau. The way he’d stared at the camera. The way he’d stared at me. He looked at me the same way now, in challenge, with wanting.
“Strip, love.” His voice was low, guttural.
Flashing him a look beneath my lashes, I reached down and pulled the damp fabric off. My breasts bounced lightly in the sunlight.
“No more swimsuits. No more anything. When you’re swimming, I want to see those pretty breasts in the water. I want to see them get tan in the sun. Understand?”
My nipples tightened beneath his hungry gaze, under the lash of his words. I nodded, unable to speak.
“Turn around.”
As soon as I faced away, he grabbed me. He maneuvered my body so I faced the pool, and he put my hands on the railing. Hold on, he told me with a squeeze of my wrists. He kicked my legs apart while his broad hands pulled my hips up. In seconds, I was positioned for him. So ready for him.
He might have spanked me then, in pretend punishment for my transgressions, but he was further gone than I realized. The blunt head of his cock nudging me was my only warning. Then he thrust inside, to the hilt, a sudden stretch that had me on my tiptoes, crying out.
His growl filled the air and vibrated his chest behind me. “Does it hurt? It’s your fault for being that way. So beautiful I have to take you.” He slapped the soft underside of my ass, and I clenched around him. “And so fucking tight.”
He pulled back and pushed back in, so hard and fast I felt invaded. I ached with him, so full and so tender. He told me how he felt with every punishing thrust, how angry he was and how dark. How hard it was to love to me, but he did it anyway. He couldn’t have helped it. We were trapped together in these bonds of our own making.
With a rough pull, he tilted my hips up. His cock hit a certain point inside that made me moan. My mouth opened around the sound, helpless and hungry. I could do nothing in this position except take it. I could only wait for him to speed up, to move inside me faster and harder, to reach around and pinch my clit so I came around him, wet and hot.
His body stiffened. His hands tightened on my hips. A rough, guttural sound rumbled behind me as he came. His cock pulsed against my walls, and my sex tightened around him in response. We communed that way, while he rocked through the last of his climax.
The slow slide of his cock pulling out was enough to make me whimper. He turned me around and pushed me onto the deck. On my knees, I knew what to do. He’d trained me well. I leaned forward and mouthed his half-erect cock, licking it clean.
“How do you taste, love? Sweet, aren’t you?”
I closed my eyes as a flush heated my cheeks. He still knew how to embarrass me, and he wielded that knowledge like a weapon. I was forever slayed around him, bleeding and raw. I wouldn’t have thought it possible just six months ago, when I’d been wrapped up in so many layers. He’d carefully ripped down each one.
I licked every trace of our come from his cock and regretfully covered him up. With gentle hands, he gathered my wet hair and used it as a leash to guide me into the shade. He sat down in the rough Adirondack chair while I knelt on the plush cushion in front of him. I rested my cheek against his knee, curled up at his feet.
His dark gaze warmed me, because I knew I’d returned his gift of peace. Other people wouldn’t understand. They’d only see the control he used with me, the violence he wreaked. But that was only the outside, the drawbridge and cannons of a fortress heavily guarded. I’d been inside. I knew the truth.
He took me roughly because it was the only way he could. He spoke to me cruelly because he knew I liked it best. And he held my hips so tightly, he left those finger-shaped bruises on my skin, because he couldn’t bear to let me go.
* * *
Thank you for reading the Dark Nights series! I hope you enjoyed these dark and twisty books. Want to find out when I have new releases and sales? Sign up for my newsletter at skyewarren.com/newsletter.
If you loved the Dark Nights series, you’ll adore the sexy + dangerous USA Today bestselling Stripped series! You can read the prequel novella, Tough Love, now for FREE…
He’s the son of a mafia foot soldier. My father is the boss. I shouldn’t even know Giovanni. And I definitely shouldn’t kiss him. Our relationship is doomed to fail, but not every girl wants to be a princess. I just want to be free.
Or you can discover revenge and seduction in the game of love with The Pawn, a full-length dark contemporary novel that kicks off the dangerously sexy ENDGAME series.
“Edgy, provocative and deeply erotic, The Pawn is one of my top reads of the year! Skye Warren brings you a sensual battle of wills guaranteed to leave you gasping by the end.”
– New York Times bestselling author Elle Kennedy
And here’s a sneak peek at Gabriel Miller…
* * *
Wind whips around my ankles, flapping the bottom of my black trench coat. Beads of moisture form on my eyelashes. In the short walk from the cab to the stoop, my skin has slicked with humidity left by the rain.
Carved vines and ivy leaves decorate the ornate wooden door.
I have some knowledge of antique pieces, but I can’t imagine the price tag on this one—especially exposed to the elements and the whims of vandals. I suppose even criminals know enough to leave the Den alone.
Officially the Den is a gentlemen’s club, the old-world kind with cigars and private invitations. Unofficially it’s a collection of the most powerful men in Tanglewood. Dangerous men. Criminals, even if they wear a suit while breaking the law.
A heavy brass knocker in the shape of a fierce lion warns away any visitors. I’m desperate enough to ignore that warning. My heart thuds in my chest and expands out, pulsing in my fingers, my toes. Blood rushes through my ears, drowning out the whoosh of traffic behind me.
I grasp the thick ring and knock—once, twice.
Part of me fears what will happen to me behind that door. A bigger part of me is afraid the door won’t open at all. I can’t see any cameras set into the concrete enclave, but they have to be watching. Will they recognize me? I’m not sure it would help if they did. Probably best that they see only a desperate girl, because that’s all I am now.
The softest scrape comes from the door. Then it opens.
I’m struck by his eyes, a deep amber color—like expens
ive brandy and almost translucent. My breath catches in my throat, lips frozen against words like please and help. Instinctively I know they won’t work; this isn’t a man given to mercy. The tailored cut of his shirt, its sleeves carelessly rolled up, tells me he’ll extract a price. One I can’t afford to pay.
There should have been a servant, I thought. A butler. Isn’t that what fancy gentlemen’s clubs have? Or maybe some kind of a security guard. Even our house had a housekeeper answer the door—at least, before. Before we fell from grace.
Before my world fell apart.
The man makes no move to speak, to invite me in or turn me away. Instead he stares at me with vague curiosity, with a trace of pity, the way one might watch an animal in the zoo. That might be how the whole world looks to these men, who have more money than God, more power than the president.
That might be how I looked at the world, before.
My throat feels tight, as if my body fights this move, even while my mind knows it’s the only option. “I need to speak with Damon Scott.”
Scott is the most notorious loan shark in the city. He deals with large sums of money, and nothing less will get me through this. We have been introduced, and he left polite society by the time I was old enough to attend events regularly. There were whispers, even then, about the young man with ambition. Back then he had ties to the underworld—and now he’s its king.
One thick eyebrow rises. “What do you want with him?”
A sense of familiarity fills the space between us even though I know we haven’t met. This man is a stranger, but he looks at me as if he wants to know me. He looks at me as if he already does. There’s an intensity to his eyes when they sweep over my face, as firm and as telling as a touch.
“I need…” My heart thuds as I think about all the things I need—a rewind button. One person in the city who doesn’t hate me by name alone. “I need a loan.”