Owned by the Mob Boss Page 9

  His voice fades, but that’s just because my heartbeat is taking over everything like someone’s pounding a bass drum in my ear. Everything sounds blurry and faraway.

  Boom-boom. Boom-boom.

  I have to focus hard when Erik puts his arm around me. “I was having a private dinner with my partner, Camille,” he says. “I had lobster, if I recall correctly, and I believe she enjoyed some chicken salad. Would you like to know what we ate for dessert, detective?”

  McCauley eyes me critically. “Camille …”

  Boom-boom. Boom-boom.

  “Greene,” I supply.

  “Miss Greene, can you confirm this?”

  I lick my lips. I somehow keep my gaze level. And, because I don’t know that Erik was involved in this, and because I need him for my mom’s sake, and because—the most depraved, illogical reason of all—despite everything, I can’t bear the idea of them dragging him out of here like a criminal, I say one squeaky little word:

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm.” His eyes flit between us. “We’ll call this a night, then. For now.” He offers his hand. “Mr. Ivanovich.”

  He looks back at me as he rounds the corner, sensing much more than I would like.

  The ride to dinner is tense and silent. Just before we step out to the restaurant, he touches my arm.

  “I owe you my gratitude,” he says. “You were willing to risk the wrath of the law for me. Obstruction of justice, to put a name on it. That will not go unnoticed, Camille, even if money was your primary motivator.”

  “It wasn’t the money,” I snap. “I don’t know what the hell they were talking about. Plus, you put me on the spot. And you’re going to be my baby’s father. What else was I supposed to do?” Again, the thought hits me that having his child is a dangerous proposition on so many levels.

  His eyes move over me appraisingly. “Interesting,” he mutters, as though I’m some exhibit.

  On a sudden urge I flip him the bird. “Yeah, and how about this? Is it interesting too?”

  He almost smiles, but he kills it. “Come,” he says. “It is time to eat. And please, Camille, remember your manners.”

  The restaurant is formal in the extreme. I feel like I’m on the set of Downton Abbey. White tablecloths, about thirty different forks, and waiters who have mastered the fine art of looking at you like you’re a piece of toilet paper stuck to the back of their shoe.

  “I don’t belong here,” I mutter under my breath as we walk in.

  “Of course you do,” Erik says quickly. I blush hard; he wasn’t supposed to hear that. “Prekrasnyy, remember?”

  “Pre-crass-knee,” I say back, smiling against my better judgment.

  I linger while Erik walks up to the hostess stand. I swear I see the hostess’s eyes bulge when he mentions his name, and immediately she starts tripping all over herself to greet us and welcome us to the restaurant. She scurries out from behind the desk and gestures for us to follow her.

  For the billionth time since the night of the auction, I wonder: Who is this guy?

  Erik takes my hand in his as we trail along behind the hostess towards a table set for two in the dead center of the restaurant. In some ways, it feels protective, the same way you’d hold a dog leash to make sure they don’t run anywhere they’re not supposed to. But in others, it feels warm, affectionate, caring. Things I’ve learned very quickly not to expect from Mr. Ivanovich.

  Two waiters in tuxedos appear from nowhere to pull out our chairs. I sit nervously, tucking my dress under my legs and glancing around. I can feel the eyes of the other patrons on us. I take it that this level of service is not customary for most people who come here.

  Once we’re seated, a third waiter steps up as the first two pour us drinks. “Good evening, Mr. Ivanovich and guest. It is a pleasure to have you join us to dine this evening. May I get you something else to drink?”

  “Champagne. The ’42. Donald knows the one,” Erik says brusquely.

  The server bows. “Of course, sir. I will be right back with your selection.”

  “The ’42, yeah?” I say sarcastically. Apparently, not even the city’s most extravagant pomp and circumstance can quell my innate need to be a sassy biotch in Erik’s presence.

  “It is the best,” he replies.

  “Oh, I have no doubt of that. Only the best for Mr. Ivanovich.”

  He studies me for a moment.

  “What?” I challenge. “I don’t like the way you’re ogling me. Feels like there’s something up your sleeve.”

  “You know, Camille … I am not your enemy.”

  I almost spit out the sip of water I was taking. “No? What are you then?”

  “That is for you to decide.”

  “Well, I already decided you’re an asshole. And the detectives at the house seemed to decide that you’re a suspect in a double homicide, too. So, are you just looking for more titles on top of that, or what?”

  He chuckles. Before he can answer, the sommelier, Donald, returns with the champagne and offers the label to Erik for inspection. He nods, the cork is popped, and the pleasant fizz of the drink splashing into our glasses fills the air. The man places the bottle in the ice bucket to the side of the table and retreats.

  “The detectives made a mistake,” he says when we’re alone once more.

  “Then why did you make me lie?”

  He sighs thoughtfully. “I am in the business of people, Camille. I have found that sometimes, innocent details can be weaponized into something that bears little resemblance to reality. And in some cases, such as this evening, it is best for everyone if certain information is kept out of the hands of those with an agenda.”

  “I don’t suppose you’re going to give me much more info than that, are you?”

  “You suppose correctly,” he smiles. He raises his glass. “To new partnerships.”

  I raise mine and clink it against his as obnoxiously as I can manage. “To business,” I counter.

  “Business,” he repeats, that same smirk spreading across his face. “Yes, to business indeed.”

  The head waiter comes over and lists the specials for the day. “We have this evening an amuse-bouche of tuna tartar and elk carpaccio, a lobster bisque soup with cilantro oil and cherry finish, a filet mignon with bearnaise and truffle oil, and a delectable side of the chef’s interpretation of tagliatelle carbonara.”

  I look at Erik. “Does any of that appeal to you?” he asks.

  I gulp. “I don’t know what any of that is,” I admit.

  For a moment, I’m one thousand percent sure he’s going to make fun of me. Then he nods solemnly and turns to the waiter. “Two of each,” he orders.

  “Very good, sir,” says the man before backing away and disappearing once more.

  I’m fiddling with the napkin in my lap. “Not much experience with the fancy food,” I mumble. It sounds even stupider out loud than it did in my head, no matter how true it is.

  “What did you eat growing up?” he asks. His voice is free of judgment. It’s a simple question, no more and no less.

  “Whatever Mom could find time to cook, mostly. Lots of spaghetti. Frozen dinners. Casserole for weeks. I can’t even look at lasagna to this day. I had enough of that for three lifetimes.”

  “She was a working single mother,” he says.

  I nod. “Yeah, big-time. Worked three jobs for as long as I can remember. Whatever it took to keep us alive and cared for.”

  “And your father?”

  I shake my head. “Gone. Left when I was little.”

  He tsks, and I notice his fingers drumming on the table. “A man who leaves his family is no man at all,” Erik rumbles.

  I look at him. There’s a fire in his eyes that I haven’t seen much of before, if any. I’m not sure yet what to make of it.

  “What about your family?” I ask.

  He shakes his head curtly. “I don’t talk about my family.”

  “Oh,” I say meekly. “Yeah, okay, got it.”


  We fall into an awkward silence, saved only when the first course of food comes. It hardly looks like food to me, but Erik gestures for me to take a bite at the same time as him. I poke it hesitantly with one finger.

  “What animal are they claiming that this is?” I ask.

  He laughs, a deep sound emanating from his chest, soothing and carefree. “Elk and tuna,” he answers. “It’s very tender.”

  “If you say so,” I groan, before closing my eyes and popping it in my mouth. I’m expecting a horror show of weird flavor, but to my surprise, it’s one of the best things I’ve ever tasted. I groan out loud before I realize I’m making a scene and clap my hands over my mouth in shame.

  “That is—and I’m not exaggerating even one percent here—the literal best thing I’ve ever eaten. Holy crap.”

  “I’m glad you like it,” he says. “There is much more to come.”

  He isn’t lying, either. By the time we get to dessert, I’m fairly certain I’ve doubled my bodyweight, and my tongue has gone through one culinary orgasm after another. I don’t even think I can handle a single bite more, but Erik insists on me at least tasting the baked Alaska that they’re serving as a finale.

  “You have to try it,” he says. “It’s the chef’s specialty.”

  “I’m about to blow up like Violet Beauregard in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory,” I warn. “I swear, if I eat anything else, you’re gonna need a wheelbarrow to get me out of here.”

  “Nonsense,” he dismisses, waving his hand. “You must.”

  I let out a sigh. “Fine, then, have it your way. Can’t say I didn’t warn you though.”

  Just like everything else, it’s amazing beyond description. But I can only stomach one little morsel before I throw my fork down. “That’s it, I’m crying uncle. No more, please, I’m begging you.”

  Erik’s eyes twinkle. “Begging me? I like the sound of that.”

  I can feel the flush rise to my cheeks. “I bet you do, perv,” I mumble.

  He laughs again, for the thousandth time that night, more laughter than I ever expected to hear from him in a million years. I could get used to that sound. He’s so serious all the rest of the time that every time his lips part in a smile is a miracle to me. It’s like seeing a bear walk on his hind legs, then you blink and all of a sudden he’s climbing mountains and running marathons.

  I watch him as the waiters clear away our plates and use some little tool to scrape the crumbs from the tablecloth. He really is stunningly handsome. A jawline you could slice bread with, high cheekbones that any runway model would kill for, and those eyes—those eyes that undress me and restrain me and rile me up all at the same time. He could send men to war with those eyes. He could tempt any woman to bed.

  I am damn sure that he’s done both.

  The chauffeur drives us back to the mansion as Erik sits silently beside me.

  In the house, he takes my hand and leads me upstairs to my bedroom. My belly immediately starts thrumming with butterflies, my throat getting tight. It’s not my first time, but it almost feels like it.

  I expect him to pounce on me the moment he closes the door, but instead he swallows, looking almost … awkward? That can’t be right. He’s been a portrait in extreme self-control since the moment I first laid eyes on him. King of his world, master of his surroundings, yada yada yada.

  But now, leaning against the closed door, he looks like a bashful high school kid who isn’t sure how to make the first move. I’m not sure if it’s weirdly endearing or just plain weird.

  “I really am grateful for what you did early this evening,” he says, voice quiet and exposed. “Not just for risking the obstruction charge. But you put yourself out there for me, Camille. You proved we could be …” He pauses, mouth tightening.

  “Could be what?” I urge.

  He shakes his head. “I just wanted to thank you,” he finishes.

  It’s like a new Erik has taken his place. I’m not even sure how to interact with him anymore. Maybe he is capable of being vulnerable after all. Maybe he doesn’t always have to be this detached and analytical tactician, this frosty, emotionless kingpin.

  But then his face hardens. “We still have business to take care of, however.” Whatever small flame of feeling was flickering in my chest, it extinguishes at this sudden change.

  Things are made even more confusing when he takes me by the shoulders and drags me toward the bed. My heart pounds, not just with nerves. The memory of the last time we had sex is still hot and tingly on my skin.

  He tosses me down, standing over me as though he owns me. Maybe he does. That should make me angry, surely, but as his eyes move over me with that air of unchallenged ownership, I feel my sex get warm.

  That’s so fucked up, isn’t it?

  He slides his hand up my leg toward my underwear. I moan involuntarily, twisting and letting my thighs open for him. He is just about to slide his fingers beneath my underwear when he pauses, eyebrows knitted.

  “Oh, I must apologize,” he says.

  “Apologize?” I gasp, breath coming quickly.

  “I was about to touch you,” he mutters, removing his hand. “But, of course, that would violate your rule, wouldn’t it? Touching is not strictly necessary for procreation, so …”

  He stares a challenge at me, his lips twitching in a smile that tells me he knows he’s caught me in a trap. My sex is aching with desire, screaming at me for his touch.

  But if I cave now, I will be going back on everything I laid out. I sit up, tossing him a challenging look of my own.

  “Of course,” I say breezily. “I don’t want to break the rule, either.”

  He nods shortly and steps back. “We shall do it your way, then. Undress.”

  He unbuttons his shirt slowly, revealing his chest rippling with muscles. A light bead of sweat slides down between his pectorals. I watch it, biting my lip, mind full of all we could be doing. The memory of his hand on my leg is too potent to ignore.

  I stand up on shaky legs and undress in front of him, slipping my shoes off and pulling my tights down. He tries to keep up his cold demeanor, but his eyes flit to my bare legs and his jaws get tight.

  When I pull my dress over my head, I’m almost positive he lets out a growling breath. But it is too quiet to be sure.

  I unclasp my bra and let my breasts spill free. There is something even hotter about not simply pouncing on each other. About maintaining distance. Tease and denial.

  My body is alive with anticipation. He lets his shirt flutter to the floor and then undoes his belt. Soon we are both standing there completely naked, the air pricking my nipples.

  His manhood is rock-hard and neither of us has even touched it. He nods at the bed.

  “Let’s make a son,” he says.

  I suppress a laugh. “Is that your idea of dirty talk?” I shoot.

  He tilts his head. “I do not want to cross any boundaries,” he says, seriousness on his face but mischievous light dancing in his eyes.

  He is playing with me.

  I go to the bed and lie down. Then, as he makes to stand over me, I shake my head and flip myself over, sticking my ass out at him. A rumble comes from deep within his chest, animal and hungry.

  He likes it, I realize. He likes it a lot.

  I look at him over my shoulder, his tattooed torso bulging as he struggles to restrain himself. Above the bird of prey I see words etched in an unfamiliar language—Russian, I assume. He might have the power out there, in the house, but right now, I feel like I’m in charge. It is a new, intoxicating sensation. I wriggle my hips from side to side, tempting him.

  “Well?” I goad.

  He steps forward, placing his hands on my ass. Even that is technically breaking the rule—touching my ass won’t get me pregnant—but I do not have it in me to stop him. His touch is too confident. He grips my ass cheeks hard and pulls me down the bed toward him.

  When he guides his manhood to my clit, I bite down, suppressing the scream that
tries to escape me. He massages it with the massive head of his cock, moving up toward my sex and then back down, stroking along my lips.

  “Fuck,” I whisper.

  “Excuse me?” he says.

  I almost slap him. “I said do it already!” I cry.

  He chuckles lightly. “Of course you did.”

  He keeps toying with me, his cock nearly slipping inside of me, but then skirting back down to my clit. My pussy is pulsing now, sending urgent signals through me. I want him bad and he knows it. Does he want me to beg? I won’t, I promise myself. I can do this all day.

  But the desire is building to unbearable levels. He presses my ass cheeks together, staring down at me as though he has waited his whole life for this moment. I push myself toward him insistently.

  I am about to snap at him when suddenly he slides easily and deeply inside of me. I fall forward, biting down on a mouthful of sheet as his cock pushes deep. I close my legs around him hard, and almost draw blood trying not to cry out. I reach back, grab onto his side, and tighten my hand around the immovable muscle.

  “Ah, ah.” He removes my hand. “Do not break your own rules, Camille.”

  He slides out of me slow, and then pushes back into me with all the power in his body.

  “Fuck!” I cry, juddering forward. My whole body is ablaze with the pleasure. The end of his cock finds places within me the last time did not. Maybe it is because he is not wearing a condom. There is nothing between us now.

  I grip onto the bed and push backwards the next time he thrusts inside of me. He makes a snarling noise that urges me on. He’s not the only one who can direct the flow of our sex. I writhe up and down on him, my ass cheeks flattening against his sheet-rock belly. He leans over me, angling his cock, the engorged head sending tendrils of sensation moving through me.

  “Fuck,” he whispers, as though barely able to restrain his voice. “Fuck, fuck.”

  “Yes, Erik,” I moan, losing myself now. “Fuck.”

  My pussy is impossibly wet, the pressure building so hard that I can’t think anymore. I just grind up and down on his cock. He fucks me even faster, his hands squeezing my ass cheeks so hard he must be leaving imprints.