Owned by the Mob Boss Page 11

  I bite down. “I will not tiptoe around your delicate feelings, Camille.”

  She nods slightly, chastened. Or perhaps I am just seeing what I wish to see. Is it even possible for Camille to be chastened?

  “It’s just strange, seeing you there, acting all … normal. I almost expected you to say grace at one point. I mean, jeez, that was a whole other side to you. You seem really close to them. They seemed more like your parents than your aunt and uncle?”

  “Is that a question?”

  “How could you tell?” she smiles.

  “Would you care to be less vague?”

  “Are they—like parents to you?”

  I nod shortly, shocking myself. I have not talked about this for a long time. But there is something in her expression, drawing me out, the openness of it.

  I start talking, and it feels like someone else’s words coming out of my mouth.

  “My mother and father were killed in a home invasion,” I say, my voice dead. I am long practiced at pushing down whatever emotion the memory provokes. “Anatoly and Emily took me in and raised me. They are good people.”

  “Oh, Erik, I’m so sorry.” She brings her hand to her mouth, letting it drop a second later. “Were the killers ever caught?”

  “They met the fate they deserved.” I remember how the Italian’s eyes narrowed when I placed the gun to his forehead. How his friend panted and begged like a coward.

  But she does not need to know that.

  I jerk myself back to reality. “Are we done with the interrogation?” I snap. I should not have shared even this half-truth.

  “For fuck’s sake,” she hisses. “Do you always have to be a jerk? We’re just talking, Erik.”

  “Maybe I am tired of talking.”

  I fire the car to life and pull out, headed for home. We merge onto the highway, joining the rest of the traffic, anonymous.

  Or so I thought.

  But as I change lanes—left, right, right, left two; an old habit to check for tails—I see it. A black sedan, less than ten years old judging by the make and model, being driven with obvious intent.

  Someone is following us.

  I take a deep breath and let it rattle out through my clenched teeth. I can feel Camille’s eyes on me, wondering why there is now stress and focus rolling off me in waves. But I don’t have time to answer her questions.

  “Put on your seat belt,” I order.

  “What? Why—”

  “Now.”

  She bites back a response. Good. If only she did that more often.

  I cut off a pickup truck to my right to gain access to a hundred-yard stretch of open lane. I push the accelerator with my foot, feeling the low roar of the engine as it engages and propels us forward. Eyes glance down to the speedometer: seventy, eighty, ninety miles per hour. One oh five. One ten.

  Slide left. Left again.

  Glance in the window.

  The car is still with us.

  Its windows are tinted, so I can’t see much aside from the vague outline of the driver. Male and large, by the looks of it. Possibly wearing sunglasses. Ethnicity, impossible to say from here.

  I pull between an eighteen-wheeler and a minivan full of screaming children with inches to spare. I hear horns from both parties, but I ignore them. The chase car disappears from sight behind the bulk of the container on the back of the truck.

  Then, there it is again, zooming around from the other side.

  “Is your seat belt on?” I grit out.

  “Didn’t you already tell me to put it on? I’m not an idiot. Now are you gonna tell me why—”

  The bite of the car passing one hundred and thirty rips the words out of her mouth. That, and the thunderous cacophony of the rumble strip as I veer onto the left shoulder. The concrete partition separating eastbound and westbound traffic is close enough to plant a kiss on my left mirror. I keep the course straight as I pass another three, four, five cars, each of them staring at me slack-jawed.

  Let them stare. I would rather make the five o’clock news than be caught by my enemies.

  Finally, at long last, I merge back onto the regular lanes and find myself with an expanse of empty highway. I push the accelerator into the floor, and the numbers creep just a little higher. The frame of the car spasms with the speed.

  We are alone.

  Until, once more, the black car bursts through the horde of civilian traffic.

  “Erik!” Camille screams. “Slow down!”

  The car is at its maximum capacity. Even now, I can hear the audible squeal of rivets protesting, of the engine saying it can do no more.

  So be it. We will not outrun our pursuers. The next best option is to pull over and dare them to fight me on the side of the highway, with hundreds of witnesses.

  I wrench the wheel all to the right and slam on the brakes.

  We come to a slow, bumping stop on the far right shoulder.

  I look to my right. The black car passes by. The front windows are down. I catch a glimpse of a young white kid, eighteen or nineteen at the most, smoking a blunt and bobbing his head to blaring rap music. Just a glimpse, then he is gone.

  So not a pursuer. Not an enemy.

  Just an idiot teen.

  “Erik, what in the fuck was that about?” Camille demands. “I mean, what the hell? You almost killed us!”

  I let out a sigh.

  “Nothing,” I growl. “Nothing at all. Let’s go home.”

  Camille stays pressed against the window on the way home, watching the city drift by. I just ignore the way she pouts and the heavy sighs she heaves again and again.

  But when she storms into the house and pounds up the stairs to her room, I find myself following.

  “You should remember what this is,” I tell her.

  She wheels on me. “How could I forget?” she snaps. “I’m a prisoner. You’re a monster. You’ve made yourself exceedingly clear on both counts there.”

  I catch her hand as she starts to spin away. She yanks back. I don’t let go. Instead, I pull her close and lean in to crush her with a kiss, but she turns her head.

  I don’t let it faze me.

  Pushing forward, I pin her between my hips and the wall. She refuses to look at me, but when I bite down—not too gently—on the soft base of her neck, she yelps, then moans and palms my shoulders greedily.

  She is desperate to hate me and yet she cannot. Maybe I am the same; she is far too skilled at scratching the surface to reveal the man beneath, something no woman has ever done.

  I spin her around and shove her face-first into the wall, my teeth still nipping at her collarbone, as my free hand finds her panties underneath her dress and yanks them down around her knees.

  “You’re an asshole,” she whimpers as I rake a fingertip between her lips. She bites hard, then sucks.

  Again, the war of emotions within her mirrors the one raging within me.

  My hand between her legs slips up hard and catches at her sex. She is soaking wet, as wet as I’ve seen her yet. There is one thought running through my mind again and again like a broken record:

  Fuck the rules. I want to hear her come.

  I swipe a thumb over her clit and the moans rippling from between her lips are exactly what I wanted. Music to my ears, and more fuel to the fire burning in my own cock. I’m hard and urgent, pressing against the zipper of my pants.

  But not yet. Hold out longer. First, I will break her.

  I plunge another finger inside and continue working her button frantically. Sweat beads on her forehead as she cries empty syllables into the wallpaper. I’m pressing against her, head to toe, swallowing her with my own bulk.

  And when I feel her tumble over the edge, I seize hold of her and force her to buck her orgasm against me. Her hips twitch and writhe, but I just lean harder against her. She has nowhere to go but to accept it, to ride out the waves coming from my hand against her sex.

  Camille’s moans rise, peak, and then fall to soft tremors. But I
am not done with her yet.

  I whirl her around and crush her with another half kiss, half bite. Our hands flying over each other are angry and purposeless. I’m not sure if I want to hurt her or hold her, and I know she is feeling the exact same conflict.

  I pull back for a moment to drink her in. Her hair is mussed and wild, bangs hanging over eyes that are staring at me with an intoxicating blend of hatred and lust. She looks like a wild animal, freshly caged, or maybe freshly released from captivity and not sure how or when to begin its revenge.

  She doesn’t blink as she pushes me away, then steps out of her panties one leg at a time.

  She doesn’t break eye contact as she bends from the waist to pick them from the floor, revealing a tantalizing slice of upper thigh in the process.

  She stares me dead in the eye as she tucks her panties into the breast pocket of my jacket, then grabs me by the wrist and drags me through the door into her bedroom.

  As we step through the doorway, she lets go and stalks to the foot of the bed. I shut the door behind me and stop short, one step into the room.

  We stare at each other for a moment. Unspeakable tension fills the room like lightning bolts lancing back and forth between us. The only sound is our heavy breathing, panting like we’ve just come straight from a battlefield. Maybe we have. Or maybe that’s where we’re headed.

  Then, like someone uttered a silent command, the tension breaks, the stillness shatters. I take two powerful strides across the distance between us, savoring the fear that swells in her eyes, before grabbing her throat in one hand and pinning her on her back on the bed.

  I am rumbling with hunger as I unbuckle my belt and free my already-hard manhood.

  My manhood throbs and aches. I flip up the hem of her dress, knock her thighs apart, and guide myself to her sex.

  She throws her hands back on the bed, gasping and clawing at the sheets as I slide inside of her. Her body tells me how badly she wants this: she is wet, hot, shifting her hips to urge me closer.

  I melt into her and lean back to watch the pleasure that flits through her. Her whole body contorts as I fuck her, her mouth making an ‘O’ as moans escape.

  She grabs my face, claws down my shoulders, and braces my back.

  “Oh fuck,” she whispers.

  So soon? Her body shivers and her pussy gets tight like she is about to come. Then she is coming, her pussy pulsating on my cock, her legs moving in spasms as she lets out a primal scream.

  “Fuck,” I echo, burying my face in her neck, breathing in the scent of her as I come, all the sensation in me fixated on the end of my cock.

  For long seconds, I know nothing but this woman.

  Then I roll aside and she shoots me a vague look, biting her lip, her chest rising and falling like a bellows.

  “You’re still an asshole,” she whispers, but she is smiling.

  After a moment, I realize I am smiling, too.

  9

  Camille

  Mom is clawing at me, begging me to help her, screaming at the top of her lungs so that her voice echoes tortuously around my head.

  I try to run, but vines coil around my legs. I lash at them, cursing myself for leaving her, and now I am screaming, my voice hoarse—

  I wake with a jolt. Sweat coats my body like a thick blanket.

  I reach for my phone and call Jackie. She tells me that Mom is okay. She is sleeping.

  “Is everything all right with you, hon?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I lie. “I just … I’m fine, just checking in.”

  I pull on the plush robe that Erik gifted me. Maybe I should feel like a princess, but right now it’s more like I’m a prize poodle. I wonder if he’ll take me to a dog show and make me strut around. Look, everyone, isn’t she well-behaved?

  I still find it weird to wake up with nothing pressing to do, so I grab my textbook and get a good hour of studying in. Then I go downstairs, searching for breakfast. If he’s going to keep me here, the least I can do is take advantage of the five-star cuisine.

  I’m shocked to find Erik in the kitchen, smoke rising from the pan as he sears a steak.

  He hasn’t noticed me, so I lean against the door, watching. So this guy actually cooks for himself? I took him more for the waited-on-hand-and-foot variety. He even hums a tune as he flips the eggs over-easy.

  It’s downright surreal.

  “Hungry?” he asks without turning.

  I almost pee myself. I didn’t realize he’d noticed me. It’s spooky how he does that, the clairvoyant asshole. Of course, when we have a kid, super hearing will be a bonus, I guess. Kids get in trouble when no one overhears them. Like Rob did.

  “Starving,” I answer. “Where’s Ashley?”

  “Is my cooking not good enough for you?”

  I sigh loudly, not gracing that with a response. He accuses me of starting arguments and yet he treats me like we’re on Dr. Phil half the time.

  “I’ll take some eggs,” I say, sitting down at the kitchen island.

  He’s shirtless, his broad back shifting as he turns the steaks over. I try not to let that habit of wanting him resurface, but no matter how much I remind myself of reality—that this bastard bought me like a horse at auction—it’s difficult.

  He brings over a plate of eggs and sits across from me. It would thrill me to tell him they’re overdone, maybe give him a nice vindictive glare to go along it, but, annoyingly, they are perfectly cooked.

  “I’ve been thinking—”

  “Then we are in trouble,” he says with that hint of smile.

  “Ha, fucking, ha.” I roll my eyes.

  “What have you been thinking about, Camille?” He stares down at his food, cutting it methodically. Jeez, this guy even eats in an ultra-controlled way. “How to instigate another argument?”

  “No,” I say, pushing down about a hundred biting responses. “This …” I wave my fork at the modern kitchen. “The mansion, the cars, the servants. What is it you do again? I know Anatoly said you’re a proprietor, but that isn’t exactly specific.”

  “I invest in businesses. I take a percentage of the profits. It is not complicated.”

  “Like what?”

  “Nightclubs, mostly,” he sighs, as though asking a simple question is the worst crime I could commit. “You have been to many of them, most likely.”

  “There’s nothing uglier in a man than bragging,” I say.

  He shrugs. “You asked.”

  “And these nightclubs make you enough to afford all this?”

  He nods. “I invest wisely,” he says. “I chose you, did I not?”

  I think about the whispers I’ve heard over the years about the Russian Mafia, the bane of the city, as well as the pieces I’ve put together myself. He’s Russian, he’s scary, he buys virgins, he drives like the devil himself is on his trail … there could easily be something criminal going on here. And the odds are looking better by the minute.

  Plus, he’s acting all cagey, staring at his eggs like they’re the key to life’s greatest mystery.

  “Hmm,” I mutter.

  “What?” He scowls. “Not satisfied?”

  “Really, I don’t give a damn,” I lie. “But I wanted to tell you, I’m going to need to visit Mom soon. It’s been too long already.”

  “I will have to consider that,” he replies carefully.

  “Consider what?” I snap. “Letting a daughter see her sick mother? That’s a new level of sadistic, Erik.”

  “Then I suppose I am a sadist. Small wonder I do well in business.”

  “Again with the bragging. Did your mother raise you to toot your own horn all the time?”

  He fixes me with a cold glare. “My mother is dead. And no one taught me how to do anything. I taught myself. Now, are we going to continue with the inquisition, or would you like to enjoy a pleasant breakfast?”

  He wants me to be writhing uncomfortably in my seat, and for a moment, that’s exactly what I do. The eggs don’t taste as good all
the sudden. More like ash in my mouth, actually.

  “What do you do for fun?” I say after a while.

  He sighs, mouth full of steak, before washing it down with a gulp of coffee and looking at me with his head tilted. It’s kind of a cute affect, if I’m being honest. Like how a dog looks at you when it’s after some table scraps.

  “I don’t.”

  “Oh, c’mon,” I insist. “Everybody’s got some hobbies. What do you do when you’re not being Mr. Big Bad Businessman, or a wannabe NASCAR driver?”

  He chuckles softly. His laugh is rare enough that I’m a little startled by it. “I read. Histories, mostly. Biographies of great men. I work out.”

  “You strike me as the Zumba type.” I bite my lip, waiting for a laugh, but instead he just stares at me blankly.

  “Zumba?”

  I clap my hands to my cheeks in faux-shock. “You’re joking! You don’t know what Zumba is?”

  “Assuming you’re not having a stroke right now, then I’m fairly certain you’re making up words to get a rise out of me,” he drawls.

  “Nope, if only you were so lucky. Stand up!” I pop out of my seat and prance over to him. “I know you’ve got a stereo system in this fancy house, right? Play some music!”

  He resists me for a moment, then lets loose another sigh and points to a remote nestled in a hidden compartment in the wall. I bop over there and mash buttons until I get a dance playlist cued up. The rhythmic bass streams through the speakers. My hips are wiggling already.

  I can’t help it. I’m a big Zumba fan. They used to host free classes at the rec center when we were kids, and I’d try to drag Rob there with me when he was still drunk enough from the night before to be in a highly suggestible mood.

  “Now, I’m quite sure you’re having a stroke.”

  I throw my head back and laugh. “You can’t snide your way out of this one, Sourpuss. Get up and dance with me.”

  To my surprise, he lets me pull him out of his seat. I lead him in a little side-step number. I may be physically pushing his hips from side to side, but my God, the man is actually—well, calling it ‘dancing’ might be a bit of a stretch, but he’s definitely doing something in time to music, and that is a sight I never thought I’d see in a million years.