Owned by the Mob Boss Read online

Page 5


  He offers a hand down to me. I reach up and take it with trembling fingers.

  His palms are warm and callused. I can see the faint sheen of scars crisscrossing the backs of his knuckles.

  He helps me to my feet. I keep hold of his hand, because I’m suddenly not so sure that my legs are capable of bearing my own weight.

  He’s close to me now. So close. I can smell him. It’s rich-guy smell—dark, clean, woodsy, hints of spice and musk on the very edge of the scent. And beneath that, something more. More raw. More authentic.

  Slowly, he pulls me closer to him. He’s invading my nostrils and my vision and my world. His hand is strong on mine, not tight but unyielding. He touches my chin to tilt my eyes up to meet his.

  Then he brings his lips to mine.

  I gasp into his kiss and reach behind me for support, accidentally knocking my hand into a glass in the process. It clatters to the ground and explodes. Crystal shards skitter across the hardwood floor.

  But Erik doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even notice, really.

  His lips are soft and aggressive and magnetic in a way I do not understand. He opens his mouth and his tongue caresses mine. A moan escapes me despite my thrumming nerves, despite the way my legs quiver as though I am walking across a ship at storm.

  He pivots, lowering himself into my seat and pulling me on top of him. My legs settle in on other side, so that I’m straddling his lap, and the heat of his core and mine mingle between us.

  His hands trace over my body, cradling my shoulders. I feel so small in his embrace. Slowly, we find a rhythm, our hands and heads and lips learning each other’s patterns.

  But always, always, I can feel him hungry for more. He threads his fingers through the hair at the back of my head and forces our lips closer together. His tongue sends tingles around my mouth, buzzing. I grab onto his shirt, unsure if I’m trying to push him away or pull him closer.

  Then he stands up again, hooking one arm under my legs and bracing my back with the other.

  I let out panting breaths as he lifts me with him. All thoughts have vanished immediately. I never was much good as a multitasker.

  And then he carries me towards the door.

  His bedroom is a wide-open suite with a bookcase on one wall, a bar against the other, a seating area with a large table with papers scattered across it, art hanging from the walls, and a record player in the corner.

  It is not the sort of place a man builds as a home for a couple, except for the bed, which is a four-poster with heavy golden curtains tied with golden tassels.

  He drops me down.

  I look up at him, this man I am supposed to hate.

  “It is my first time,” I whisper, even though he knows that. I feel myself drifting into that nervous state where it might just paralyze me.

  He looks down at me from what seems like a million miles above. His eyes are dark and stormy. Fierce with lust. I see his hands flex, relax, flex again. I can almost touch the energy rolling off him in powerful waves.

  “I know,” he says, and in that simple sentence there are so many more things left unsaid that I could spend years analyzing them and still miss a few.

  But we don’t have years. All we have is now. Right now. Tonight.

  He shrugs off his jacket and lets it fall to the floor, revealing shirtsleeves stretched taut by bulging biceps. The hint of chest at the throat of his shirt is a broad shelf of muscle, too.

  Then, leaning forward, he slides his hand up my thigh, past the hem of my dress, towards my sex. When his finger presses against my panties, I let out a gasp, my voice catching. Pleasure mixes with the fear. He moves his finger in small circles, tracing my lips through the fabric.

  He moves his fingers even quicker. New lust awakens in me as I writhe with the motion, twisting my hips here and there. When he pushes my underwear aside and his bare fingertip presses firmly against my lips, I almost shove him away. But the pleasure goes to war with my anxiety and I kiss him harder.

  He takes my hand and moves it down to his manhood. He is already rock-hard. I had a few experiences in high school—mostly fumbling around and dry humping in the dark of a movie theater—but nothing like this, this wild ride. He’s huge, an outline bursting through the fabric of his pants.

  “Oh fuck,” I whisper when he breaks off the kiss.

  I shift my hand up and down, letting instinct take me. I can’t afford to think. If I do, I won’t allow myself to keep going. I’ll probably run screaming, actually. But this is so far outside of any reality I ever thought I’d be living in that, instead of running, I stroke his manhood harder through the silk of his suit pants, settling into the warmth of his groans filling the room and the way his mouth twists when I rub faster.

  He slides his finger down and then presses softly at my opening. I make to kiss him again but he keeps his eyes fixed on me, drinking me in. I lean back, closing my eyes and seeing nothing but feeling everything.

  Then he pushes his finger inside of me. Oh God … I am so wet, wetter than I’ve ever been in my life, wetter than any half-remembered sex dream or midnight fantasy.

  But when he pulls his finger out of me, I clench again.

  “Stop,” he growls. “Just relax.”

  He separates from me and I moan out loud, almost against my will. It feels cold when he’s not touching me, although part of me knows that’s all in my head. The distance between us—just a few inches—that once felt far too close for comfort, now feels like a world apart.

  Erik sees me mewling like a cat in heat and laughs under his breath as he undoes the buttons of his shirt one by one. It falls open, revealing a tanned, smooth chest and abs like granite cliffs, offset by a tattoo of some kind of bird of prey. Veins ripple across his lower abdomen. When he undoes the buckle of his pants, they fall to the floor and he steps out of them, discarding his shirt at the same time.

  He’s naked.

  I want to push him onto a pedestal and admire him. I’ve read enough smutty romance novels to know that calling a man a Greek god is as overdone as it gets, but if there is a single man on earth who truly deserves that description, it’s the one standing in front of me.

  Every inch of him is sculpted and chiseled. The tattoos tracing over his wrists and shoulders—abstract lines following the flight pattern of the bird of prey inked on his chest—are stark and beautiful in a sinister kind of way. My eyes follow their winding path, the rise and fall of muscle, and—when I can’t resist it anymore, the manhood hanging between his thighs.

  My jaw drops. Literally, not figuratively. I know this because he steps forward and pushes my mouth closed with two gentle fingers, laughing again.

  “It’s impolite to stare, kitten,” he drawls.

  But how the hell am I supposed to not stare? The cock attached to this unfairly gorgeous man is so thick and massive, like a blunt weapon, that all at once I’m scared.

  Surely that can’t fit inside me … can it?

  I don’t know whether I’m more eager to find out or terrified of what is about to happen. But we’re way too far along to turn back down. And seventy thousand dollars is enough to change the course of my sad little life.

  I have to do this.

  And on a deeper, more primal level—I want to do it, too.

  “Sorry,” I whisper through dry lips.

  He leans down and presses a soft kiss on me. At the same time, his hand circles up the inside of my thigh, finds my opening, and pushes a finger inside me once more. He works slow circles, like he’s winding up a toy, bit by tiny bit.

  I bite down on my lip as we pass some sort of threshold: my sex floods with warmth, everything tingling as I open up for him.

  “Fuck—fuck,” I whisper, opening my eyes.

  He looks like an animal now, eyeing me as though I am his prey. I want to be that. To be his. It feels so good not having to think. He knows it, too.

  “You want this,” he says. It is not a question.

  I nod.

  He moves
his fingers quicker, adding another. I groan and part my legs more. My heartbeat is not fear anymore, or anxiety. It beats in time with the movement of his fingers. I move my hand up and down his naked cock, slick with pre-come.

  “Come for me, Camille,” he says firmly.

  I almost laugh. Does he think I’m some sort of machine? Press the right buttons and she orgasms on demand! Get yours today!

  But my laughter cuts short as my pussy floods and clenches all at once, like he said that magic word. Tingles dance through me. My moans catch and my legs stiffen. I throw my body back, letting out a scream.

  “Erik!” I whimper. “F-f-fuck!”

  The orgasm hits me with the force of a strike. I let go of his cock as my body twists. I tremble and shake. The whole freaking room seems to tremble and shake.

  Eventually, it passes through me. To be honest, I have no idea how much time that took. Have we been in here for minutes or for days? I couldn’t say for sure.

  All I know is that we are far from finished.

  The softness Erik showed at first seems to be dissipating. It leaves an animal in its wake. He rips my dress over my head in one sudden, fluid motion.

  Then he stands up, naked, his torso covered in tattoos and heaving muscle. His cock is solid steel now, jutting out from his hips. He reaches calmly to the bedside table, opens a drawer, and takes out a condom.

  My throat gets tight despite the aftershocks of my orgasm on Erik’s fingers still coursing through me.

  So this is it. My big moment.

  Not exactly how I pictured it.

  I watch as he tears open the packet with his teeth and then slides the condom down his cock. I lie back, spreading my legs, looking at him through my knees. He prowls to the bed and leans over me, reaching down to guide his cock to my pussy.

  I dig my fingernails into his shoulders, feeling exposed without the protection of the dress between us. My hard nipples graze against his firm chest muscles.

  Then the tip of his cock presses against me.

  “Go slow,” I gasp.

  He doesn’t respond as he props his hands on either side of my head. I grab one of his arms, the muscle tight and huge. I have the feeling I’m gonna need something to hold onto.

  He arches his back and half of him slides inside of me.

  “Jesus,” I gasp. “Oh, Jesus.”

  I feel like I’m being split apart. It’s too big, I knew it. He’s way too huge and he’s going to rip me apart like a piñata and I’ll spend the rest of my life walking around like I just got off a horse and and and …

  “Relax,” he orders.

  That’s all it takes to make me aware of how tight I’m squeezing every muscle in my body. My nails are cutting into my palms and my teeth are grinding together.

  Relax.

  Once again, it’s like he has the owner’s manual to my body, and his words bypass my brain altogether. I feel like butter melting in the pan.

  He owns me now. I’m his. Utterly. Literally. Metaphorically.

  In every single way under the sun, I belong to this man.

  For tonight, at least.

  Erik’s smile twitches. He can read me far too easily. He knows I am enjoying this. He knows I am slowly letting my nerves go.

  Achingly, he slides the rest of his cock inside of me. He pushes deep.

  He holds it there for a moment, both of us poised, and then pulls out just as slowly.

  For I don’t know how long, we rock like this. I am starting to get scared that I won’t open for him—that the whole thing will be too much for me to relax—when that same flooding wetness fills my pussy.

  “Ah,” I whisper, letting my hands drop. “Oh fuck.”

  His smile twitches again, as though in victory. He grabs my shoulders and moves me to the center of the bed, my head cradled by expensive cushions.

  I wrap my hands around his neck and buck up in rhythm with his thrusts. It is slightly awkward at first as we try to match each other’s speed, but then we sink into a steady back and forth. His cock grinds against the walls of my pussy, so big I feel completely filled. Sweat coats us both, the sheets sticking to my bare skin.

  He leans back and cups my breasts, grabbing one nipple with his finger and the other with his thumb, squeezing them together. His eyes are locked on me as he drives somehow, impossibly deeper. I wrap my legs around his thighs, pulling him toward me. I am trapped, yet it is not a terrifying feeling.

  I am losing myself with him.

  Then he lets my breasts go and hunches over, sucking on one nipple until it feels red-raw. All the while his cock pounds into me. The room fills with the sound of our sex.

  He lets go of my nipple and I let out a shuddering gasp. Everything is so sudden, so sharp, that all I can do is ride the constant thrumming euphoria.

  “Ahh!” I cry, my pussy getting so tight he has to push hard to thrust within me again.

  “Yes, kitten,” he growls, pushing harder. “Fuck, Camille, yes, fuck.”

  We stare into each other’s eyes, though he is blurry with sweat. My pussy is so tight now. I feel the release about to explode any second, my whole body alight with anticipation. All the winding-up he did of me is about to erupt in a major way.

  He falls on top of me, grabbing my shoulders and pulling me roughly toward him, forcing our bodies together.

  And then it happens.

  I bite down on his shoulder as my pussy releases all the pent-up energy. Sizzling sensation courses through me, my toes curling as I let out a stifled scream into the muscle of his shoulder. I am biting deep, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

  My whole body trembles, my eyes closed tightly as I listen to his animal moaning in my ear.

  “Fuck,” he breathes, his voice getting hollow. “Fuck.”

  “Come,” I hear myself cry, letting go of his shoulder. “Come for me, Erik. Come for me.”

  He jerks once, twice, a third time, and then collapses to one side, his face twisted in savage pleasure.

  Just like that, I’m no longer a virgin.

  And I’m seventy thousand dollars richer.

  For minutes, we stay like this. With him sitting like that, broad back facing me, my pussy throbbing, as reality comes crashing down.

  What happens next? Is there, like, a barbershop quartet or something that comes and sings me a special song about finally getting laid? Do I get a certificate in the mail?

  Why does it feel so special and so insignificant, all at the same time?

  Part of me wants to cry—not from sadness or from anything bad that happened. Just from—something. I don’t know, exactly.

  I sit up and reach to the floor for my underwear. I have just slipped on my bra when my cell phone buzzes from my handbag.

  “Do you mind if I answer that?” I ask.

  He walks nakedly across the room, pouring himself a drink at the bar. “Be my guest.”

  It’s Jackie. My heart drops. Jackie never calls unless something has happened.

  “Hello?” I say. I can feel my heartbeat hit the accelerator again. This isn’t good.

  “Camille?” she says, voice taut.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “Your mom—she’s in the ER again. She took a fall and broke her hip.”

  Fuck.

  “Is she going to be okay?”

  “Yes, yes,” Jackie hurries to say. “I just wanted to let you know. She is sleeping now.”

  I massage my forehead. As messed up as it seems, I am already doing the math in my head. Along with the ER bills from a few days ago, plus her other expenses, plus nursing school … I shake my head.

  “I’ll be right there.”

  When I hang up, Erik is sitting in a chair in the corner of the room in his pants, studying me.

  “It’s my mom,” I explain, although he never asked me what was going on. “She, uh, she fell, I think. She got hurt. I’m not sure. I have to go, though.”

  He nods. His expression is unreadable. “I understand. I’ll have
one of my men drive you home,” he tells me.

  I wipe at my face, telling myself the budding tears are still pleasure, just leftovers from the sex. That might be true. But it might not be.

  “And remember, that offer is still on the table,” he says, as though reading my mind. He points at the bedside table. “You will find your check there.”

  I nod a short thanks. Whatever brief magic was once here is long gone.

  My thoughts turn back to Mom, as they always do. I feel like bursting into sobs but I fight them off long enough to get dressed, pick up the envelope with the check, and have Erik’s man, Oleg, lead me out to the car.

  Only then do I let my pain go, burying my face in my hands. By the end of the journey, I have gotten myself together.

  I have to be strong now.

  5

  Camille

  Funny how time works. Some days are way, way longer than others.

  The next evening, I am sitting at Mom’s bedside. She’s been sleeping since I arrived, courtesy of enough pain meds to tranquilize an army. I’ve hardly left the hospital, except to grab a few things at home, and underneath the flicker of fluorescent lights, the events of yesterday seeming like nothing but a crazy dream. But I can’t stop replaying them in my head.

  I still don’t know what to make of everything. It was a doozy of a day, that’s for sure. I got sold at auction, lost my virginity to one of the wildest, most mysterious men I’ve ever met, and had the whole insane ordeal interrupted by one of Mom’s worst health crises yet. That’s enough therapy material for a lifetime, although I obviously can’t afford therapy and I wouldn’t even know where to begin explaining that spiel.

  So where to start with analyzing things myself?

  Well, I guess Erik himself is the only logical beginning. How the hell do I put him into a neat little categorization? He defied labels by his very nature, it seemed. He was arrogant yet approachable, condescending and kind all at once. Was he rough in bed? Yes and no. Was he hard to talk to? Definitely, and yet also not at all. I’ve been doing mental laps around these questions and a billion more since the moment I left his house, but I still can’t land on any kind of satisfying answers.

 
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