So innocent, yet so crafty. Beautiful and feisty. The kind of complication I don’t need in my life.
I prefer the straight and narrow. Gray and black, that’s how I choose to define my world. She, with her flashes of color—pink hair and lips that threaten to drive me to the edge of distraction—is exactly what I hate.
Give me a female who has her priorities set in life. To pleasure me, get me off, then walk away before her emotions engage. Yeah. That’s what I prefer.
Not this… this bundle of craziness who flings her arms around my shoulders, thrusts her breasts up and into my chest, tips up her chin, opens her mouth, and invites me to take and take.
Does she have no self-preservation? Does she think I am going to fall for her wide-eyed appeal? She has another thing coming.
I tear my mouth away and she protests.
She twines her leg with mine, pushes up her hips, so that melting softness between her thighs cradles my aching hardness.
I glare into her face and she holds my gaze.
Trains her green eyes on me. Her cheeks flush a bright red. Her lips fall open and a moan bleeds into the air. The blood rushes to my dick, which instantly thickens. Fuck.
Time to put distance between myself and the situation.
It’s how I prefer to manage things. Stay in control, always. Cut out anything that threatens to impinge on my equilibrium. Shut it down or buy them off. Reduce it to a transaction. That I understand.
The power of money, to be able to buy and sell—numbers, logic. That’s what’s worked for me so far.
"How much?"
Her forehead furrows.
"Whatever it is, I can afford it."
Her jaw slackens. "You think… you—"
"A million?"
"What?"
"Pounds, dollars… You name the currency, and it will be in your account."
Her jaw slackens. "You're offering me money?"
"For your time, and for you to fall in line with my plan."
She reddens. "You think I am for sale?"
"Everyone is."
"Not me."
Here we go again. "Is that a challenge?"
Color fades from her face. "Get away from me."
"Are you shy, is that what this is?" I frown. "You can write your price down on a piece of paper if you prefer." I glance up, notice the bartender watching us. I jerk my chin toward the napkins. He grabs one, then offers it to her.
She glowers at him. "Did you buy him, too?"
"What do you think?"
She glances around. "I think everyone here is ignoring us."
"It’s what I’d expect."
"Why is that?"
I wave the tissue in front of her face. "Why do you think?"
"You own the place?"
"As I am going to own you."
She sets her jaw. "Let me leave and you won't regret this."
A chuckle bubbles up. I swallow it away. This is no laughing matter. I never smile during a transaction. Especially not when I am negotiating a new acquisition. And that’s all she is. The final piece in the puzzle I am building.
"No one threatens me."
"You’re right."
"Huh?"
"I’d rather act on my instinct."
Her lips twist, her gaze narrows. All of my senses scream a warning.
No, she wouldn’t, no way—pain slices through my middle and sparks explode behind my eyes.
To find out what happens next read Summer & Sinclair Sterling’s story HERE
Read Michael and Karma’s story in Mafia King HERE
Read an excerpt from Mafia King – Michael and Karma’s story
Karma
"Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day…"
Tears prick the backs of my eyes. Goddamn Byron. His words creep up on me when I am at my weakest. Not that I am a poetry addict, by any measure, but words are my jam. The one consolation I have is that, when everything else in the world is wrong, I can turn to them, and they’ll be there, friendly, steady, waiting with open arms.
And this particular poem had laced my blood, crawled into my gut when I’d first read it. Darkness had folded within me like an insidious snake, that raises its head when I least expect it. Like now, when I look out on the still sleeping city of London, from the grassy slope of Waterlow Park.
Somewhere out there, the Mafia is hunting me, apparently. It's why my sister Summer and her new husband Sinclair Sterling had insisted that I have my own security detail. I had agreed… only to appease them… then given my bodyguard the slip this morning. I had decided to come running here because it's not a place I'd normally go… Not so early in the morning, anyway. They won’t think to look for me here. At least, not for a while longer.
I purse my lips, close my eyes. Silence. The rustle of the wind between the leaves. The faint tinkle of the water from the nearby spring.
I could be the last person on this planet, alone, unsung, bound for the grave.
Ugh! Stop. Right there. I drag the back of my hand across my nose. Try it again, focus, get the words out, one after the other, like the steps of my sorry life.
"Morn came and went—and came, and… and…" My voice breaks. "Bloody asinine hell." I dig my fingers into the grass and grab a handful and fling it out. Again. From the top.
"Morn came and went—and came, and—"
"…brought no day."
A gravelly voice completes my sentence.
I whip my head around. His silhouette fills my line of sight. He's sitting on the same knoll as me, yet I have to crane my neck back to see his profile. The sun is at his back, so I can't make out his features. Can't see his eyes… Can only take in his dark hair, combed back by a ruthless hand that brooked no measure.
My throat dries.
Thick dark hair, shot through with grey at the temples. He wears his age like a badge. I don’t know why, but I know his years have not been easy. That he’s seen more, indulged in more, reveled in the consequences of his actions, however extreme they might have been. He’s not a normal, everyday person, this man. Not a nine-to-fiver, not someone who lives an average life. Definitely not a man who returns home to his wife and home at the end of the day. He is…different, unique, evil… Monstrous. Yes, he is a beast, one who sports the face of a man but who harbors the kind of darkness inside that speaks to me. I gulp.
His face boasts a hooked nose, a thin upper lip, a fleshy lower lip. One that hints at hidden desires, Heat. Lust. The sensuous scrape of that whiskered jaw over my innermost places. Across my inner thigh, reaching toward that core of me that throbs, clenches, melts to feel the stab of his tongue, the thrust of his hardness as he impales me, takes me, makes me his. Goosebumps pop on my skin.
I drag my gaze away from his mouth down to the scar that slashes across his throat. A cold sensation coils in my chest. What or who had hurt him in such a cruel fashion?
"Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light…"
He continues in that rasping guttural tone. Is it the wound that caused that scar that makes his voice so… gravelly… So deep… so… so, hot?
Sweat beads my palms and the hairs on my nape rise. "Who are you?"
He stares ahead as his lips move,