20
Luna
I jerk my face back from Cade’s and firmly steer my embarrassment into disdain.
I arch an eyebrow, “It’s called kissing, Tarzan. You know, that primal little dance people do when they’ve got the hots for each other?”
“No shit.” His voice stays maddeningly neutral. “Enlighten me on the mechanics.”
I fight back a smile. “Simple. When someone who makes your blood boil puts their lips on yours, you close your eyes and open your mouth.”
A furrow appears between his brows as he appears to contemplate this. “And why would I need to open my mouth?”
A laugh bubbles up my throat. “Well, believe it or not, Tarzan, it’s so I can shove my tongue in—”
I don’t finish.
Because his mouth is suddenly on mine, stealing the rest of my words along with my breath. And holy fucking hell, it’s like being hit by a tsunami. One moment I’m on solid ground, the next I’m drowning in pure sensation.
There’s nothing gentle about his kiss. He’s demanding, hungry, feasting on me like a starved man. He roughly yanks me to the edge of the counter, forces my legs wider apart, and then his hand fists in my hair, angling my head and holding me still while he devours me.
This isn’t a kiss—it’s a reckoning.
I try to keep up, to match his pace, but it’s like trying to wrestle a storm. His grip tightens, his fingers digging into my thigh. Every nerve ending ignites under his touch and an ache flares between my legs.
His tongue teases mine then he sucks on me. I moan, a desperate sound that he swallows down like sustenance. And then I feel the sharp edge of his teeth, and my body arches into him.
No doubt satisfied by my response, he does it again. And again.
In moments I’m hanging onto his nape, lifting my hips off the counter in a shameless plea for more, my control completely fractured by a single kiss. I didn’t know I liked this—this rough, primal handling.
He pulls back just enough for me to catch a ragged breath before diving back in, deep and hungry, each kiss pulling me further under.
Of course, Cade would kiss like this: Savage, ruthless, and designed to torch every restraint.
His mouth trails hot, open-mouthed kisses along my jaw, his stubble scraping deliciously against my skin. One flick of his wrist against my nape tilts my head back, exposing my throat to him. He finds a sweet spot and alternates between teasing bites and so othing licks until I’m incoherent. The ache between my legs transforms into full-on clenching, begging for relief.
My nails sink deep into his shoulder, wrenching a growl from him, the sound, a delicious vibration against my neck .
When he lifts his head, his eyes are black, pupils swallowing the green irises, and a flush stains his cheekbones. For the first time, the ever-controlled Cade looks . . . undone.
“Like that, princess?”
I try to remember how speech works. “Like that. I need, uh . . .” My tongue darts out to wet my lips, and his gaze tracks the movement like a predator. Then he’s swooping down and reclaiming my mouth. This time he slows down, his tongue exploring me with a thoroughness that makes me whimper.
“Cade,” I breathe, that single word laced with desperation.
“Go on,” he murmurs against my skin. “Show me what you want.”
His words short-circuit my brain. My thighs are already spreading before I can fully process what he said. His lips settle on mine again as his fingers slide up my thigh, stopping just shy of the place I want him.
Then the callused pad of his thumb strokes the edge of my panties sliding along that sensitive crease between my thigh and labia, making my breath hitch in anticipation.
He breaks the kiss to chuckle wickedly in my ear. “Fuck, princess, you’re dripping everywhere.”
I can only moan as my whole body hovers on a precipice. Begging.
He makes me wait. One heartbeat. Two. And then he rips the crotch of my panties and slides one long, thick finger deep inside me.
“Ah—!”
Cad e’s mouth covers mine, capturing the cry spilling out of me. He starts to thrust his finger deep and slow, ending with a deliberate grind of his palm against my clit. It takes an embarrassingly few strokes of a single finger to get me hurtling toward climax—not that I’m in any condition to care.
Still with that maddeningly slow pace, Cade changes the angle of his thrusts and curls his finger to press against the front of my walls. Goosebumps rise along my skin, and my thighs tremble. I’m primed, reaching, straining as the coil winds tighter and tighter.
The moment his thumb glides over my swollen clit, my walls clamp down on his thrusting finger. Hard.
I tear my mouth away as pleasure crests with brutal intensity. My palm slams against the marble counter as my head falls back and I cry out, shuddering. “Oh my . . . God, Cade! I’m going to—!”
An answering noise splits the air—part roar, part snarl, reverberating through the house like thunder. I flinch at the sound, even as my body ripples on the brink of climax.
Cade freezes.
My hips buck instinctively, chasing the sensation, that final bit of friction to send me hurtling over. But it’s not enough. I want—need him to do it. I grit my teeth in frustration as the pleasure begins to ebb.
I cannot fucking believe this guy is edging me.
My eyes snap open, expecting to meet his infuriating smirk, only to see that Cade isn’t even looking at me. He’s staring at the source of the thunderous interruption.
I whip my head around to find Saint filling the doorway, a vision of fury. His fur bristles like iron filings drawn to a magnet, cropped ears pinned flat against his skull. The growl rumbling from h is chest seems to shake the very air and his red eyes burn with primal threat.
“Cade,” I gasp, gripping his shirt. “What’s wrong with him?”
Cade stays eerily still as he withdraws his finger from me. “He thinks I’m hurting you.” Then in a voice much like Saint’s growl, he commands, “Stand down, mate.”
Saint wavers, his gaze darting between us. Something almost human flickers in those blood-red eyes—conflict, as if he’s weighing loyalty against protective instinct.
After a few moments, Saint’s growl softens to a worried whine as he sinks back, but those unnerving eyes never leave my face.
My eyes widen in disbelief as it occurs to me that Saint was—is protecting me.
Saint, the one creature Cade controls without question, was ready to challenge his master because of me. I glance at Cade, searching his face. His jaw is tight as he watches Saint with a strangely thoughtful expression.
“Why . . . why would he defend me like that?”
Cade shrugs. “Because he takes his orders seriously. And because he’s a little sweet on you.”
I rear back in shock. “H-He likes me?”
Cade says nothing; he only flexes his fingers on my thigh, and apparently, that’s all it takes to derail my mind off the subject.
My gaze is helplessly drawn to the contrast between my smooth thigh and his large, inked hand. The skin around his wrist is scarred but cleverly covered with ink.
Bonds? They must have been tight enough to cut. Or he struggled so hard to get free he’d sawn his skin off. What the he ll happened to this man?
As if he knows I’m gawking at his hand, he spreads his fingers wide, this way and that, until I realize what he’s showing me: his middle finger—still glistening with my juices.
Heat rises up my neck as I glance up to meet his knowing gaze.
A dark smile lifts the corner of his mouth. I watch, transfixed, as he raises the finger to stroke my bottom lip.
“Beg me, princess,” he murmurs as he slowly coats my lip with my wetness. “And maybe I’ll make you come.”
Desire surges hard, and my core tightens. Please. One word, and I could be back in that swirling vortex of pleasure. But does my pride let me?
With a saccharine smile, I spread my thighs meaningfully. “Get on your knees and kiss me, and maybe you’ll get your wish.”
A single eyebrow arches, heat and something dangerously close to approval flaring in his eyes. For one heart-stopping moment, I think he’ll actually do it. But that dangerous grin flashes across his face, and he steps back, leaving nothing but a cold draft against my wet center.
“Good answer.” He picks up his glass of scotch and moves to the opposite side of the kitchen. Taking a measured sip, he schools his face into that impenetrable mask. Only the fine tremor in his hand tells me I managed to rattle him.
It feels like a victory, though I’m paying for it—with the taste of my pleasure lingering on my lips and a pulsing emptiness between my thighs.
I would kill for Bliss Xtra and a closed door right now.
“Now,” he says into the charged silence. “About your Russian could-be fiancé. How attached are you to the idea of marrying him?” His tone is flat, but I hear the hard edge beneath it.
The sudden shift in topic jars me, but I recover quickly with a mocking smile. “Why, Cade? Are you suddenly feeling territorial?”
“Answer the question, princess.” The sharp command sends a pleasurable tightening in my pelvis, an inconvenient reminder of what I could be experiencing right now had my pride not gotten in the way.
I force a lid on my heated thoughts and grumble. “Well, if you must know, I’d rather die than marry Hugo Antonov. Besides, there’s someone . . . shall we say, higher in line for him.”
“Your fifteen-year-old cousin,” he spits.
I blink, taken aback by the venom in his voice. I don’t even bother asking how he knows about Flavia; given Antonov’s unrivaled trafficking empire and Cade’s line of work, their paths must cross frequently. It’s his revulsion that doesn’t make sense.
“Why the sudden interest in my marriage prospects anyway?”
He holds my gaze. “Because Antonov is the man I’m going to see in Moscow.”
“See, as in . . . ?” My eyes catch on the metallic glint at his nape, and understanding hits. “You’re going to kill him!”
Cade does that side nod.
“B-But why?”
His jaw clenches. “Because he has it coming.”
“Okay,” I say like that makes perfect sense. “It’s the underage thing right?”
“Among other things.”
I hesitate, then push further. “No offense, but . . . why should that small detail bother you? You’re much worse than him. At least he’s marrying her. You sell women into slavery.”
A muscle flickers in his jaw, but he doesn’t respond. There’s no guilt, and that righteous fury remains. Cade really believes he’s better than Antonov. “Why do you think it’s your place to rain judgment on him?”
The silence between us stretches, heavy with everything he’s not saying.
“Right,” I scoff, crossing my arms. “I have to earn that answer, don’t I?”
“Possibly.” He sets down his glass with deliberate care and mirrors my stance. “Tell me something first.” His gaze turns calculating, and my stomach tightens, knowing that whatever he’s about to ask, I won’t like it.
“What?”
“Did you know Clemenza Brando was going to sell you for thirty million?”
My eyes pop. “Whoa! Thirty million dollars! Holy shit, I’d be lying if I said I’m not a little flattered by that price tag—”
Cade holds up a hand to stop me. “Trust me, they would have gotten their money’s worth out of you.”
He leans forward. “But here’s the real kicker. Hugo Antonov is worth billions. Your dowry alone would be fifty million. Add a yearly allowance of two million to that, with the figure doubling with each child you bear. Then there’s the properties, the status, the protection. A marriage alliance with Hugo Antonov would be a masterstroke for the entire Romano dynasty.”
Ice slithers down my spine. “I still don’t hear a question.”
“Here’s three: Why would Clemenza choose a measly thirty million over that jackpot? Why would your father pick your underage cousin over you? Why would he pass up a chance for a direct link with the Pakhan and risk his kid brother becoming more powerful than him?”
Each question lands like a wrecking ball, threatening to crack me wide open. I force a wry chuckle as I scramble for something to say. “Because . . . they’re idiots? Hell, even crawling back to Don Vitell i would make more sense than selling me for pocket change.”
The weight of Cade’s disbelief fills the room like smoke. I feel his scrutiny, his silent demand that I tell him the truth. But that truth . . . it’s my deepest, darkest secret, the one that could change everything.
I barely know this man. How could I ever trust him with the ticking time bomb buried in my DNA and risk seeing pity—or worse, disgust—in his eyes?
I clench my jaw, forcing myself to meet his gaze and lie. “If I knew the answer to that, Cade, I wouldn’t be here.”
He studies me for what feels like an eternity, his face unreadable. Then, without a word, he pulls a pen and a sheet of paper from a drawer.
“Change of plans. I’m leaving at dawn. I can’t make the detour to drop you in Paris after all. I’ll send someone to take you there in a few days.”
“What?”
“You’ll be safe,” he reassures me. “As long as you don’t leave this house.” He slides the paper and pen toward me. “Write down Jacques Devereaux’s details. I’ll let him know when and where to pick you up.”
A hollow ache settles in my stomach. He’s leaving me behind. After everything—after the way he kissed me—I thought . . .
Thought what, exactly? That he’d upend his entire life for you? That one explosive kiss would make him forget whatever darkness drives him? Don’t be an idiot.
“How do I know Clemenza won’t come after me?” I curse the plaintive note in my voice. “He knows Uncle Jacques and all my friends in Paris—”
“Clemenza got his cut. He’ll leave you alone.”
My jaw drops. “He’s been paid? Already?”
Cad e gives a non-committal grunt, and something about the tightness of his jaw sends a flicker of doubt through me.
“But, wait, if he’s cashed out, why would he threaten me this morning? He literally told me I was fucked.”
“It’s a little more complicated than that, princess.” His tone is clipped, his gaze shifting to a distant point over my shoulder. “There are . . . other players in the chain.”
He says it casually, like it’s just some routine annoyance, but his body language betrays him—the slight flex of his hand, the way he avoids my eyes.
Is he involved in this? One of the players maybe?
Before I can press him on what he means, he snaps. “So, how about that email?” The detachment in his voice cuts deeper than it has any right to.
“Right.” I snatch up the pen, hating the way my hand shakes as I scrawl out the email address.
“Here.” I thrust the paper at him like it burns.
His fingers graze mine as he takes it, and the brief contact sends electricity skittering across my skin. I can’t help searching his face for any crack in that perfect mask, any hint of the man who just kissed me senseless. But there’s only a blank wall.
Without another word, I hop down the counter and storm down the hallway, my heart thudding painfully in my chest.
Don’t you dare cry, Luna. Don’t you dare fucking cry.
I make it to my room just before the first tear slips free, hot and treacherous against my cheek.
Face buried in silk pillows, I blame my utterly stupid reaction on adrenaline. Today’s been a nightmare carnival ride—waking up from a drug-induced sleep to nearly getting killed to . . . whatever that kiss was. That’s all this is. Emotional whiplash.
Because getting upset over being cut out of a trafficker’s itinerary? That would be certifiably insane.
Right?