2. Savio
2
SAVIO
B eing back in New York feels strange, like shrugging on an old, familiar piece of clothing that’s grown a bit small. It’s been years since I’ve been back, and despite the fact that I’ve spent those years in other big cities, there’s something particular about New York that feels different from any other place.
It certainly doesn’t feel like home any longer. Even my sprawling penthouse feels foreign. It’s pristinely clean, kept that way by the staff that I’ve paid all these years to come monthly and keep it free of dust and cobwebs, but that cleanliness only adds to the feeling that I’ve stepped back into a liminal space, instead of my home.
The floor gleams—the housekeeper must have waxed it recently—and every countertop and surface is shiny. The furniture is covered with dust cloths. I toss my keys into the porcelain bowl on the entry table, moving through the living room as I pull the cloths off and fold them neatly, setting them in a pile to be tucked away.
Neat. Precise. Orderly. My entire life runs like a well-oiled machine, without a single thing out of place. There is no room for passion, spontaneity, or clutter. That’s how I’ve lived all these years, and it’s how I’ve survived.
How I’ve become wealthy in my own right, powerful enough to come back and finish what my father started all those years ago.
I walk through the rest of the penthouse, uncovering the rest of the furniture, reacquainting myself with a space that once felt so familiar. My bedroom, my office, the guest room, the sprawling loft-like space upstairs that serves as a library. And, once I’m in my bedroom, I press my hand to the panel in the wood-grain back wall that opens into another, secret room.
Walking into it feels like an exhale. I smell leather and wood, and my palms itch to feel the creaking handle of a riding crop, the silken trail of ropes over my fingers as I bind someone to one of the many apparatuses around the room. There’s a bed, of course, but also a well-cared-for padded leather bench, a St. Andrew’s cross, a grid of movable bars across the ceiling. As the door closes behind me and I stand at the entrance to the playroom, I feel a surge of adrenaline, my cock twitching with anticipation.
This, this is the only place where I can let myself go, just a little. All of my darker urges are still carefully honed, cautiously restrained…but here, I can feel . And soon I’ll have her here.
The woman that I plan to make mine.
Fuck . My jaw tightens, and I reach down to adjust myself as I walk through the room, checking to make sure everything is clean and in its proper place. The bed is freshly made, the leather surfaces are soft and supple, and in every cupboard on the wall, everything is just as I left it, cleaned and organized. In one, crops and floggers and canes and paddles are neatly lined up. In another, drawers lined in velvet hold an array of toys. With every single thing I touch, my cock stiffens, swelling to a near-painful hardness as I imagine what I’ll do to her very soon.
There’s an endless depth of pleasure to be had here—for me, and also for her, if she obeys. And she will obey…or I’ll break her until she does.
I’d almost prefer the latter option. Desire unfurls through me at the thought of breaking her to my will, of training her to serve my pleasure. For years, I’ve waited for the right moment to come back and make all of it mine. I didn’t expect a woman to be a part of that. But now, I can’t help the anticipation that blooms through me every time I think of her.
She’s been difficult to follow, to track. By now, I’d usually know all of her routines, all of her likes and dislikes. But outside of her work, she’s a ghost. She comes and goes from her father’s mansion outside of the city to the club, where she’s little better than chattel for the men who visit, and nothing more. She doesn’t leave. She doesn’t have friends. She has no social life to speak of, no errands that she runs, no appointments to keep.
It’s as if she lives in a cage. But that’s fine with me. If she’s already used to having her wings clipped, there will be no need for me to do it. She’ll already be used to living behind lock and key when she’s mine.
I rub my hand over the thick ridge of my cock again, and the urge to take it out and give myself the release I now desperately need throbs through me. But I resist. I’m saving all of that need, all of that hunger, for the first night that I have her here. I’ve leashed it, as I’ve learned to do with all of my desires over the years, and that first release with her will be exquisite.
Giving myself one final squeeze, I bite back a groan and leave the room, locking the door behind me before the panel slides closed. I need a shower and a drink, and then I’ll be ready for the night ahead.
I won’t take her tonight. Not yet. I want her to wonder about me a little longer. I want to occupy her thoughts, to be a mystery that she mulls over.
I saw the confusion in her face last night when I visited the Gilded Lily for the first time. It’s a filthy, disgusting place. If the urge to torment her didn’t outweigh my distaste for it, I’d go ahead and take her, so that I wouldn’t have to go back again. But my victory will be all the sweeter by building anticipation.
Not for me. Mine is already at a fever pitch, after all of the years that have passed since I was last here. For her.
I shower quickly, so I’m not tempted to give in to the arousal that’s still pulsing through me. My cock is still half-hard, swollen with unsatisfied need, and every time I brush against it, small, aching jolts of pleasure shoot through me.
But the wait for satisfaction, I’ve found, can be as good as the pleasure of release itself.
I don’t bother to dress right away after I get out of the shower. I wrap a towel around my waist, running my hands through my wet hair, and head downstairs. I rarely walk around like this half-naked and relaxed, but it feels like reclaiming this space for my own. Here, while I’m entirely alone, I can let down my guard the smallest bit.
Soon, she’ll be here. And while I have no intention of letting her out of her room except at my whim, I know I’ll feel the compulsion to remain composed at all times. Having another person here will make it impossible for me to feel what I do right now—like I can breathe for a moment, now that I’m in my own home again.
It’s why in any place I’ve lived over the past years—Chicago, Boston, Miami—I’ve never taken a woman home. Never had one in my own bed. I’ve always taken them to hotels, kept those brief nights of pleasure entirely separate from my own sacred space. I had half a mind to keep this woman in some luxurious hotel room under guard, too. But if I did, it would be too easy for her to slip my leash.
No. I need her here, for all that it will be the first time I’ve ever kept any woman so close. I need to make sure that she doesn’t escape me.
She’s the first thing that he had that I’ll take. And god , it will feel so fucking good.
At the thought, my hand tightens around the cut-crystal glass that I’m pouring cognac into, and my cock immediately pushes against the towel wrapped tightly around my waist. Fuck. I feel my control slipping, and I press the heel of my other hand down against it as I continue making my drink, fighting off the arousal. I’ll see her tonight, in just a few hours, and I’m struggling to control my need.
I add vermouth and bitters to the drink, lifting it to my lips and taking a sip as I walk to the huge windowed wall that overlooks the city below—floor-to-ceiling glass, providing one of the best views in Manhattan. Standing here, the burn of the cognac sliding down my throat, I feel like a fucking king. Like a ruler come home to make his claim.
Isn’t that exactly what I’m doing?
She’s the first part, but my carefully laid plans go far beyond her. For years, I’ve broken myself of carelessness, taught myself discipline. I want her because I want all of it. Everything that was once his, everything that he wanted. He failed, and now I’m going to take it.
They should have listened to me from the beginning.
Lust curls through me, thick and hot, and I take another sip of my drink as I stand at the glass, looking out over the city that I plan to make mine.
A piece of it, at least.
The sunset is fading, the lights of the city flickering to life. I still have hours before I plan to head back to the Lily and see Nicci again, but my pulse quickens—an itching, anxious feeling fluttering through my veins at the thought.
Maybe I should take the edge off. Just so I’m in control when I see her.
It’s an excuse. I know that. But that doesn’t stop me from loosening the towel at my hips as I raise my glass to my mouth again, letting my thick cock spring up hard and eager as I wrap my hand around it.
Mine . I think as I start to stroke. Her. This piece of the city. The legacy I left behind. Mine, mine, mine.
My hand jerks along my length with each punctuated thought, my arousal rising hot and fast as I look out over the skyline while I stroke myself to a quick, messy release. A feeling of power rushes through me, a high that burns through my veins like the cognac burns down my throat. I gulp down the last of it just as the heat unfurls up my spine and I feel my cock harden and throb in my fist.
“ Fuck !” I snarl the curse aloud as I come, angling my cock towards the towel at my feet. I think of fucking her up against this same glass, of letting the whole fucking city watch as I take her. The thought only intensifies my orgasm. I groan, gritting my teeth as I milk the last drops of cum from my still-aching cock.
It only barely eases my lust. Nothing will sate me until I have her here, on her knees, on her belly, at my mercy. But for now, it will give me back the control that I need.
I pick up the towel, set the glass aside, and head upstairs to get ready.
—
When I arrive at the Lily, it’s just as fucking depressing as it was last night. The entire place goes beyond cheap sin—the girls look used and miserable, every surface feels as if it could never be fully cleaned, and even the music is years out of date. The bartender looks bored when I walk up, her eyes ringed with raccoon-black makeup, and I feel a surge of disgust. No one here is worth my time, except for Nicci. And it’s a good thing I came back when I did. Too much longer in this place, and even she might have been used beyond what I can stomach.
“Whiskey and ginger,” I tell the woman behind the bar. “Top shelf. Best you have.”
She eyes me, her gaze drifting over my Armani suit as if she’s calculating how much she might be able to get out of me. “Best we got here is Jack,” she says, grinning, her black lipstick garish against the bright white of her veneers. “But I’ve got something top-shelf I can give you if you’re interested. I’m on the early shift, so I’m out of here in an hour. Let one of the other girls warm you up and then?—”
“Forget it.” I straighten, uninterested in her proposition and put off by the lack of anything decent to drink in this place. Nicci must have really pissed someone off, to end up here. It’s clear to me that she’s being punished in some way, though I don’t know why, and I don’t really care. Whatever punishment this is, it will be nothing compared to what I have planned for her.
Although, if she complies, there might be some pleasure in it for her, too. I doubt she’s felt even a flicker of pleasure in this place since she’s been here.
There’s no sign of her out on the floor, so I head to the back. That same lazy-looking man is leaning up against the wall, puffing out a cloud of candy-scented smoke. He sees me stride towards the curtain and straightens up, holding out a hand.
“Can’t go back there. Rooms are full. But you tell me what girl you want, and soon as she’s available?—”
“Nicci Armand.” I grit out the name. “Is she back there?” Annoyance surges through me, but I hold it back. I’ve spent years cultivating control. Discipline. I remind myself that my life is orderly and precise. That I don’t lose my cool any longer. That hasn’t been me for years. Not since I saw the consequences of it.
“I don’t know who the fuck that is. But you can pay me the door fee, and soon as there’s an opening—” He holds out a palm. “Two hundred for access.”
My jaw tightens. I happen to know he doubled the price. He did the same to me last night, but he clearly doesn’t remember that I was here before, or that I knew he was trying to screw me.
“Don’t play games with me. You know very well who the boss’s daughter is. I don’t know what fucking trash name she goes by in this place, but I’m looking for Nicci.”
Slow down. Be calm. I can hear the anger in my voice, the irritation at being denied. My adrenaline is running too high. I’m too eager. I should have gone to the gym, found someone for a quick fuck, anything to work out this feeling buzzing in my veins, so I could be aloof and disinterested. But I’m struggling, and she’s the reason.
She’ll pay for that. I’ll punish her for it until this feeling is wrung out of me, and the thought of the relief that will come after makes me ache.
“She’s busy,” the man says, clearly annoyed that I’m still pressing the issue. “She’ll be done when she’s done.”
That anger surges through me again, and before I can breathe through it, before I can stop myself, I shove past him, flinging the curtain back as he yells something behind me. I stalk towards the room where I found Nicci last time, only to see her on her knees in front of the couch, her face buried in the lap of a short, fat man who has his hand knotted so tightly in her hair that I can see it must be painful from here.
I feel that anger flood me again, threatening to drag me under like a wave, and that one word pounds through my skull. Mine. I suck in a breath, trying to calm myself, because no woman should have this effect on me.
Least of all her.
I force myself to stand there, sucking air into and out of my nose like an angry bull, watching her suck the man’s cock. He’s too far gone to notice me at first, and she can’t move her head enough to look, so I have no idea if she knows I’m here. But he whips his head around when the floor creaks as I shift my weight, possessive anger flaring into his lust-glazed eyes.
“Hey! Who the fuck are you? Get the fuck out—” He snarls the words, only for them to break off as Nicci rears back, lifting her mouth off of him as she tries to look at me as well. “Fucking put your mouth back on it, bitch.”
He shoves her head back down, and my hands curl into fists. Every muscle in my body goes rigid, and I have the sudden vision of lunging forward and dragging the man up from the couch by his collar, slamming his head into the wall until the dingy off-white paint is stained red with his blood and his face is unrecognizable. He’s touching what’s mine. Insulting what’s mine. I should kill him for it, and yet I force myself to remain perfectly still, nails digging into my palms hard enough that I can imagine them drawing blood.
I shouldn’t care enough to react like this. She deserves this humiliation—all of her past actions have made that clear. And I haven’t laid claim to her yet. I shouldn’t want to defend her. To kill this man for daring to even look at her.
I stiffen my shoulders, shrugging them as I lean back against the door. “I’ll wait until you’re done,” I tell the man carelessly, smirking as if I’m completely unbothered by the scene in front of me, and not as if I just imagined his brains leaking all over the scuffed floor. “Don’t mind me.”
The man’s eyes narrow, but he shoves Nicci’s mouth back onto him. The beat of the music pounds a relentless hammer against the back of my skull, and impatience rears its ugly head again—but I don’t have long to wait. For all the man’s protests, it’s clear having an audience gets him off. It’s all of twenty seconds before he shudders, gripping Nicci’s head with both hands, and then he shoves her off of him, sending her sprawling to the floor as he tucks himself back in and zips up.
“Was gonna tip you,” he slurs, standing up unsteadily from the couch. “But since you stopped, you don’t get nothin’.”
A look of frustrated anger crosses Nicci’s face. I watch as she pulls herself up from the floor, and I stand aside just enough that the man can push past me out the door before I elbow it closed again. Outside, I hear the doorman yell something about me needing to pay, but I ignore him.
She looks wrecked. Her lipstick is smeared at one corner, faded from rubbing off on that man, and the black makeup around her eyes is smudged. But where the woman at the bar looked ridiculous, like a feral raccoon, something about the messy makeup only makes Nicci look that much more enticing.
That man was an amateur. A drunk, sloppy waste of air who can’t begin to imagine the many ways that it’s possible to break a woman like this. Nicci might look wrecked now, but once I get my hands on her, I’m going to fucking ruin her.
“You were here last night.” Her words are thick, and she wipes at the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, retreating to a table on the far wall where there’s a basket of water bottles. She grabs one, twisting off the top as she takes a deep drink, and I smile, calm washing over me again. I’m here. I’m looking at her. No one will bother us until I’m finished. I’m the one in control.
“You remember me.” I glance at the couch. “Are you going to clean that off? I’d rather not sit down where that sweaty lump of flesh was a moment ago.”
Nicci eyes me. “Depends,” she says slowly, taking another drink of water. “Are you going to want something? Because last night you just walked out.”
“I told you what I want already. You.”
She rolls her eyes, and lust surges through me. When she’s truly mine, when she’s in my playroom on her knees, she won’t roll her eyes like that at me. If she does, she’ll find out the consequences. My cock hardens, and it takes everything in me to remember that I want to do this a certain way. I’m not going to enjoy her for the first time here, where countless other low-class men have had her.
I’ll do this the way I want. In my own way, in my own time. And no one—not her, not even my own restless body—will change that.
“You talked back to me last night.” I meet her gaze coolly. “And now you’re doing it again. Do you think I’m the kind of man you can speak to that way, principessa ?”
I see her flinch at the endearment, at the way my accent thickens as I say it. She swallows hard, setting down the water bottle, and I see tension ripple through every inch of her slender body.
‘Slender’ is almost an overstatement. She’s waifishly thin, to the point that I can see her hip bones pressing against the edge of her short black skirt. I’d guess the small, rounded edges of her cleavage are from a push-up bra; I can’t imagine her breasts are that large. And yet, she’s arousing to me all the same. I imagine stripping her clothes away—ripping off that tiny skirt, the ridiculous black fishnet shirt that she has on, and tearing off that bra to reveal her breasts to me. Small or not, I can imagine her on her knees with her nipples pinched by clamps, tears in her eyes as I tug on the chain and drag her to my waiting cock. The surge of lust that rushes through me is dizzying.
“Clean the couch,” I tell her flatly, and she nods with a jerky motion, walking towards it. I watch impassively as she gets a wet wipe and slides it over the leather, enjoying the sight of her bending over, the peek of the curve of her ass beneath the skirt. She’s only wearing a thong, a tiny one at that, and I get a glimpse of the bare, smooth folds of her pussy as she bends over fully, at the edges of the thong.
My cock leaps again, and I grit my teeth. In tormenting her, in drawing this out, I’m clearly also torturing myself. But if it’s this difficult to maintain my control, then I need to do exactly that. I need to remind myself of who is in charge here. Not her, and not my cock.
When the couch is cleaned and dry, I sit down, sprawling back on it with my legs wide. Nicci’s gaze covertly sweeps over me, and I can see her taking me in. The look on her face tells me that she recognizes wealth and power, but that’s nothing that I didn’t already know about her.
Her gaze drops to my groin, and I see her looking at the thick ridge of my cock, pressed against my zipper. I reach down, a smirk on my lips as I adjust it.
“You’ll have to earn this cock, principessa ,” I tell her, rubbing my thumb over the tip through the fabric before pulling my hand away. “Change the music. Something less abrasive. This shit is giving me a headache. Dance for me.”
She narrows her eyes. “That’s all you want? A dance? You can get that out on the floor. Or are you just going to jerk off while you watch me?”
A dry chuckle slips out at that. “Don’t worry about what I plan to do. Learn to follow instructions, principessa . Dance.”
I see her jaw tighten, anger flaring in her eyes. She wants to fight back, to spit vitriol at me, to tell me exactly where I can shove my instructions . She’s biting back all of that with the greatest of effort, and I wonder if she’ll continue to hold back when it’s just the two of us, alone in my playroom.
A part of me hopes that she doesn’t. That she fights. The surge of blood that races to my cock tells me that every part of me is on board with that thought.
She starts to move to the music, though anyone could see that her heart isn’t in it. Her movements are practiced, rote—as if she’s trying to detach herself from what’s happening—and a growl rises in my throat, one that I barely manage to bite back.
The last thing in the fucking world that I want is for Nicci to see that she affects me in any way.
“Focus,” I snap. “Eyes on me. Watch me as you dance for me. Don’t go off somewhere else.”
I see bitterness rise up in her expression. “What do you care, as long as you get off?” she snaps, and I feel my muscles bunch under my suit. I have the urge to get up and close the distance between us, to grab her by the back of her neck and drag her down over my knee for a spanking.
Instead, I stay where I am. “Do you see me getting off?” I ask her coolly, and she presses her lips together, her hips still moving to the music.
“I don’t know what you’re doing here, honestly. You paid all of that money just to come back here and watch me dance alone?”
“Aren’t you happy to not have a cock shoved in you?” I chuckle drily, and I see her face pale a little. Her jaw tightens, and while I have some idea that she should be closer to me by this point in the song, dancing on me, she keeps her distance.
That’s fine with me. I ignore my raging erection, watching her as she moves to the music until the song ends, and then I get up, fishing a twenty out of my pocket and flicking it to the floor at her feet. When she’s mine, I won’t be paying her for what I’m owed, but for now, I can play their game—I got back here for free, after all.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I tell her, my voice inflectionless.
And then I turn and leave.
—
I’d planned to wait a week to take her, to draw it out. But by the time night falls the following evening and I’m shrugging on my suit jacket, I know that’s not going to happen.
I barely slept last night, my dreams feverish and full of her. I woke halfway through the night, so hard that I had to jerk off just to get back to sleep. Even now, I can feel the throbbing pulse of arousal, tempting me to take the time to get off again before I leave.
I spent the day scouting. I tried to get some idea of her routines again, but there was nothing to see. She doesn’t leave the Armand estate until it’s time to go to work, and even then, I haven’t seen her . All I ever saw, in the days leading up to the first night that I visited the Gilded Lily, was a blacked-out SUV leaving at about the time that Nicci would be headed to work. She’s a ghost until she’s there. But that doesn’t matter to me so much any longer. After tonight, I’ve decided, I’ll know what she does regardless—because she’ll be under my roof.
Instead, I spend most of my afternoon looking for information and scouting the perimeter of the estate of the don of the Italian mafia here in New York City. Antony Gallo is a man that I once knew well, and I once knew his property well, too. But a lot can change in the number of years that I’ve been gone, and I have no intentions of underestimating my enemy.
Or his allies.
I spent time looking into the Yashkov family, too, and the Gallaghers, to find out what they’ve been doing in these past years. The Yashkov family, especially, seems to be a mess—in considerable upheaval recently. The pakhan is dead. His eldest son has taken over after marrying a woman with no family connections. The younger son returned and married a disgraced senator’s daughter. It’s clear that they’ve lost touch with the old ways, and I wonder if I can use that to my benefit.
After all, what I want to do isn’t in line with the old ways any longer, either. I have no rightful claim to what I plan to take, and yet, I don’t give a fuck.
I’m going to take it, all the same.
I head to the Gilded Lily, anticipation buzzing in my veins. When I walk in, the too-loud music assaults my senses. I’m both gratified and irritated to see Nicci out on the floor, grinding on the lap of a man wearing a baseball cap backwards and a thin mustache, his clothes too big for him. I’m glad that she’s not in the back room with someone—I’m not sure if I’d be able to keep from killing any man who I caught fucking her tonight. But I’m irritated to see her preoccupied with someone else at all, as if she should have somehow known that I was coming for her—and should have been waiting.
Ignoring all else, I stride towards the table, where just the one man is sitting as Nicci bounces on his lap, cooing something in his ear. As soon as I reach them, I wrap my hand around Nicci’s arm, pulling her off of the man’s lap and towards me.
She lets out a startled yelp of surprise, teetering in her heels as she nearly crashes into my chest. For a moment, I’m overwhelmed with the scent of faux apple and sugar—a stomach-turning smell—and yet I’m flooded with the desire to pull her closer to me, to feel her slender body pressed fully against mine.
“What the fuck?” Nicci tries to twist away from me at the same time that the man she was grinding on echoes the sentiment. He starts to get up, and I hold up a hand, a silent command for him to remain where he is.
He gives me a belligerent look, and I reach into my pocket, pulling out my billfold. I take out three hundred-dollar bills— pocket change, as far as I’m concerned—and throw them onto the table in front of him.
“Pick another girl,” I tell him flatly. “Any one of these whores ought to do. This one is mine.”
Nicci squeals in protest, yanking at my grip again. “What the fuck are you talking about?” she snaps—then her face pales as she realizes that she’s talked back to me in front of not only me , but another customer. She swallows hard, and I see the resentment written clearly across her face as she apologizes.
“I’m sorry.” She tilts her chin up. “What do you want?”
“Take me to the back.” I let go of her, and she shoots the other man a pleading look, as if begging him either to intervene or not say anything. Neither of those things will happen, I think—he’s stuffing the bills into his shirt pocket and already looking for a different girl. Nicci seems to realize there’s no help for her situation and stiffens her shoulders, walking as quickly as she can in those ridiculous heels as she leads me towards the back room.
This time, I pay the kid at the door. I don’t want to waste time, so I hand him a folded hundred-dollar bill, giving him a look that dares him to try to protest and cheat me out of another hundred.
He lets me through, and I follow Nicci into the room, closing the door firmly behind me. She looks at me with narrowed eyes, and I see that the spark of a fight is still in her.
“Something you want to say, principessa ?” I ask with a smirk, and her jaw tightens.
“What do you want?” she bites out. “And don’t say me . You can’t possibly be throwing money around like this just to watch me dance for you. You could do that out there.” She jabs a finger towards the door. “Are you a spy for my father? Are you supposed to report back to him if I’m doing my job well enough? Is that why you watched me suck that guy’s dick last night—so you could go back to my father and let him know I swallowed it all like a good girl?” She spits the last words out, and despite myself, I’m faintly impressed with her backbone.
“Surprising that you’d talk to me that way if you think I’m supposed to observe you and report back,” I retort, and I see the flicker of fear in her eyes. She’s worried about exactly that, and yet, for some reason, she can’t bite her tongue around me. Excitement curls through my veins at that thought. If she can’t control herself, she’s going to invite punishment, and I’m going to enjoy teaching her every lesson.
“I told you the truth,” I tell her simply. “I want you. And you’re coming with me tonight, principessa .”
She balks at that, physically flinching back. “No,” she spits out. “I have to do a lot of shit here, but I don’t have to do that. I don’t have to leave with customers. You take what you want here, or you don’t—but I’m not going anywhere with you?—”
“I’m not a customer.” I cut her off.
She stiffens. “Then who are you?”
I shift, making sure to stand in front of the door so that she can’t make a break for it. “My name is Savio Valenti.”
Recognition flares instantly in her eyes. All of the blood drains out of her face until her dark makeup looks garish, like paint splashed over bleached-white bone. She takes an unsteady step backwards, shaking her head.
“Get out,” she barks, and I laugh.
“I’m not going anywhere. I’m not surprised you know my name. Actually, I’m glad—it will shorten the explanations before we get to the more…enjoyable part of our time together.” I smile at her. “I know you worked with my brother, Nicci, not all that long ago. I know more about you than you could possibly imagine. And you will be coming with me.”
“Why the fuck would I do that?” she spits out, and the smile on my face only deepens.
“Because, Nicci—” I pause, watching the anger in her eyes flare, every moment that I’ve been waiting for this simmering through me with delicious anticipation of what I’m going to say next.
“You belong to me now.”