Chapter Two #2
“Well, I need more of your lingerie!” God, he’s a genius at making sexy, slutty, top-notch male undergarments. “Those body chains are my favorite. I’m wearing the one with rhinestones right now.” The feel of the cold little beads on my skin and chains around my neck and body makes me horny fast.
“I actually sent you a new one. Custom-made, just for you. It should arrive tomorrow.”
“Love you,” I sing-song, excitement finally awakening inside me.
I suddenly hear a gruff voice on the line. It’s Marco’s.
“Amore mio, who are you talking to? Give me my phone.”
“It’s not Luca, tell your inner possessive monster to chill!” Fly’s retort makes me snort.
“Why would you talk to Luca?” Marco growls.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
Luca Nero. All I know about him is that he is part of the Leone family. I think I saw him once many years ago from a distance, but I can’t really recall his face.
“Fuck. It’s Art, isn’t it? You are putting yourself at risk like this.” Marco is right, and I hate him for it.
“Don’t confuse me with rational facts, I’m going somewhere with this Luca thing…”
It’s like following a fucking soap opera. I should get some popcorn.
“Little Butterfly.” That’s a panty-wetting deep tone of voice. Fly is a lucky guy.
But having my dick twitching for my bestie’s fiancé is ugh even for me. “Hey, we are trying to have a conversation here, ‘Knucklehead’ Moretti.” I butcher his nickname on purpose.
“Knuckle,” he corrects me.
“Better than that unimaginative one.” He uses gold knuckles when he works on people, hence the lame nickname.
“How about I show you…” Marco’s words are cut off. Then I hear some muffled insults before Fly hurriedly says, “I gotta go. Be careful. Love you!” And he hangs up.
Pity, I wanted to talk more. I really do miss him, but it’s true, we need to stop talking, at least for now.
I slide the phone back inside my panties and move to the metal fence that surrounds the smoking area.
My forearms land on the rail as I stick my tushy out for no one to see.
Or so I thought. I hear a slight noise from my left.
In the dimmed corner, I see the tip of a cigar turning red as a giant of a man takes a puff.
Where the hell did he come from? At least it’s not the loser from the bathroom. This one has John-Wick-longish, dark hair tied in a short ponytail—some has fallen on one side of his face—thick eyebrows, and a three-day stubble which emphasizes a pair of perfectly defined lips.
Sweet Moses. He’s fucking handsome in a hot, dangerous way.
With a rocking body, literally made of rocks, popping everywhere under his suit jacket and jeans.
My bussy is clenching with enthusiasm at the prospect of whatever big size this hulk of a man carries inside his underwear.
Uhhh, maybe he goes commando. I bet he tastes good.
Yeah. This one looks like a five-star meal.
A quicky doesn’t seem so bad right at this moment.
Unfortunately, he only glances at me for a moment and then moves his uninterested gaze away.
Ouch. Well, I can’t be everybody’s type, plus kissing him after smoking one of those cigars would be like Frenching an ashtray.
I straighten myself, ready to go back inside, when he suddenly starts walking toward me.
With each stride, he exudes dominance and power.
I can feel it gliding all around him. I continue looking at him, unable to do anything else.
I nearly fidget under his penetrating gaze.
Those green eyes, deep and cold like a forest in the early morning, are now locked on me.
Is that a long scar across his nose? The dark locks of hair are covering part of his face, and the light is quite dim out here, so I’m not sure.
He stops right in front of me, three feet away.
His body is like a brick wall, and I have to tilt my head all the way back to look at his face.
He is big. Like, really big, with muscles on his muscles.
My instincts are telling me to run, but he positioned himself between me and the entrance to the club, making it impossible to leave.
Do I even want to do that? Right now, any kind of distraction from my current situation is welcome.
I cross my arms over my chest and wait for him to say something.
But he just takes another puff of smoke.
He doesn’t seem interested in me—not the way I would like him to be.
He’s staring with a stony expression and something else underneath, something dark.
It’s unsettling. Wariness fills my chest, but I force my lips to curl, reminding myself to never show weakness.
“I’m not in the mood for…whatever this is, sweetie,” I tell him, assuming a more confident pose.
“That’s not what I see.”
His growly tone reaches inside my body, down to my balls. Sweet mother of all that is hot and raunchy! He has a porn voice. Is that even a thing? Deep, gruff, rumbly.
“And what do you see?” I can’t stop myself from flirting. I want to invite him in, but also push him away. Never felt this way about a guy.
His smirk sends icy shivers down my spine.
“Loose and easy,” he states, filling his words with indifference.
Thank God I didn’t indulge in the five-star meal in front of me, or I’d be having indigestion right about now.
Did I step into the asshole twilight zone?
Or am I really sending cheap ho vibes out in the world tonight?
I’m not that easy, I’m actually quite picky and expectant.
Either way, it’s my choice to have a lot of fun.
There’s not even a hint of shame in me. His unfazed demeanor annoys me a little, though.
So I give him my best bedroom eyes while declaring between gritted teeth, “Loose? I’m quite tight, cupcake, I’m not a… dille de joie!”
“A what?” The dickface blows smoke almost into my face, making me cough.
“A call girl,” I explain, waving my hand to clear the air.
“A whore.” Apparently, he feels the need to add.
To which I mutter, “A misogynist wacko, how delightful.”
“You always this chatty?” He tosses the cigar on the ground.
“It’s a gift,” I counter, keeping my smirk on.
“Return it.” The rumbly growl is back, but I’m too vexed by him to feel anything but irritation.
It urges me to hiss, “I think you misplaced your gangsta look, send it back to nineteen fifty. Now move unless you are interested in the loose and easy,” I taunt him.
His gaze hardens, like I just said something incredibly insulting to him.
“Interested? Never!” he articulates each word.
Sweet suffering Jesus! I wipe my face clean of any smile.
“That’s the dickiest thing I have ever heard,” I bark. “Actually…you are the dick!”
“You would know that since you’ve seen tons, Enzino,” he spits out my surname like he just tasted piss. If his glare could incinerate me, I’d be ashes in the wind.
I suddenly frown. He knows who I am. What the fuck is going on?
“Who the hell are you?”
He doesn’t give me an answer, but continues to look at me, tilting his head to the left and letting his hair slide off the side of his face.
His scowl makes the scars wrinkle on his cheek, nose, and forehead.
They are long and jagged. Ominous. Something is knocking in the back of my mind, but the urge to run away overtakes it.
The danger I saw before in those dark pools was… directed at me.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand. I move to the side and try to push past him, but he stops me by placing his very large hand on my chest. It makes my body tense.
“Don’t hurt me!” I use my weakling act—which has helped me get out of many hot situations. I make my body tremble while taking a step back until the cold metal of the fence touches my spine. Shit, I’m trapped! His face fills my vision again, looming large and threatening above me.
“I could have let my men do it, but this feels much better.” He sounds satisfied as shit in a very creepy way.
“Please. I’m scared…” my voice breaks. I keep the phony, trembling persona up—well, part of me is fucking scared.
Mostly because I don’t know what he wants, but it’s nothing good, judging by the emptiness in his eyes.
My heart is turning into a pounding mess.
Dark memories attempt to crawl back and cloud my senses. But I can’t let that happen. Fuck that.
I raise my hands, palms up, to distract the wacko.
“Take my wallet if you want but…” I don’t finish my pitiful pleading as I let out the real me instead, delivering a hard kick to his shin and trying to give a shove to his unmoving chest. Is he made of marble?
All I seem to do is majorly piss him off.
He grabs my wrist in one hand and fists my hair with the other, painfully pulling my head back.
The sting! The survivor inside me doesn’t let me back down, though.
I turn my face—surely leaving some torn strands in his fist—push his forearm near my lips, and as I claw the fabric of his sleeve down, I sink my teeth into the bare skin.
Blood fills my mouth, but I don’t let go, not even when he growls, “You just bit into something you can’t chew. ”
You want to bet, you demented lunatic?
I loosen my jaw for a moment when he forces my arm behind my back. But feeling the burn in my shoulder only makes me chomp harder.
“Let go or I’ll pry your mouth open with my knife,” he snarls next to my ear. The threat floats heavily over my head, while the word knife echoes inside it.
When he twists my arm, the pain decides, and I open my mouth to let out a whimper.
Cold anger. That’s all I see. His face has morphed into an ugly mask of undiluted hate directed right at me.
I don’t know who this man is, and I don’t care.
All I feel is that if I don’t run away, I’m going to be totally fucked.
In a last attempt at escaping, I shift my weight, ready to knee him right in the balls, but before I can even lift my leg, he lets go of my hair, and his palm wraps around my neck. He squeezes.