Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Taylor
The next morning I pace through my one-room apartment, gnawing on the inside of my cheek.
What I did last night was unbelievably stupid.
Not only did I break the law, but the car I hit is probably owned by someone dangerous. They only have to ask the owner of Sins, Jack Lindstrom, to pull the security video feed from the parking lot last night to get my name and address.
Which means, instead of facing a possible ticket and jacked up insurance rates, I’m probably now going to be wearing cement shoes in Lake Michigan.
I wipe the clammy sweat from my palms on my pajama shorts.
I should preemptively call Jack and confess. Maybe he can tell me who owns the car and I can try to make things right. That’s what a sane person would do.
Of course, a sane person wouldn’t have sped away like a coward.
That’s where I really screwed myself.
Okay, I need to call Jack right away. It’s the only answer. I hunt down my phone, which is still in my purse from last night. Of course, it’s dead. When I plug it in, it dings showing fourteen text messages. The knot in my stomach tightens.
Before I can open the messages to read them, a heavy pounding sounds on my door.
The tight band around my temples cinches, sending blinding pain between my eyes.
This is it. I’m a dead woman.
For one stupid moment, I consider climbing through the window and down the fire escape, but that would be making the same choice I did last night. That kind of cowardice is what got me into this in the first place. No, I need to just face this head on.
I walk to the door, square my shoulders, and throw it open, pretending I’m not terrified of what I will find on the other side.
My belly flips at what I see, but not entirely from fear. Because the man on the other side of the door is my heavy tipper.
Marco.
The very hot mafia player who was hitting on me last night. He leans against the doorframe in a deceptively casual pose, his hands shoved in the pockets of his thousand dollar Italian suit pants.
“Hello, Taylor.” There’s a smirk on his face and a Gotcha look that makes my tummy flutter even more. Heat floods between my legs–even more when he takes a slow perusal of my body.
I realize I answered the door in nothing more than a flimsy, spaghetti strap bralette and thin pajama shorts. My nipples bead up under the top.
“You don’t look surprised to see me.”
“Marco, I’m so sorry. I panicked last night after I hit your car. But I was about to try to make it right this morning, I swear.”
He arches a brow. “Were you, Angel?”
“I swear,” I repeat, backing up as he advances through my threshold and shuts the door.
He makes a tsking sound. “Leaving the scene of an accident is a crime, Taylor.”
“Are you going to turn me in?” I hope my voice sounds more flirtatious than dry.
We both know he’s not going to call the police.
He’s mafia. They handle their problems personally. Usually with violence, not that I’ve ever seen that from him.
His lips quirk. “Nah, I’m not here to turn you in. I’m here to give you a spanking.”
I blink, trying to figure out if he means metaphorically or literally.
For some reason, my body takes him at his word and my ass clenches. I grow hot and tingly everywhere. A slow pulse starts up between my legs.
As if he somehow realizes the effect of his words on me, his smirk grows. He advances another step, invading my personal space. His hand settles lightly on my waist. I have to work to lift my eyes and meet his gaze.
Very gently, without insisting, he tugs me forward until my body is flush against his. He brings a knuckle under my chin and lifts my face even more. “Are you ready for your punishment?”
I attempt to swallow and fail. “M-my insurance will cover it.”
His grin widens. He has one dimple on his left that melts my panties. “I saw your car out there, angel, and I see the size of your apartment. I’m guessing you can’t afford the insurance hike.”
My heartbeat is wild and irregular. I think I know where he’s going with this and I’m not sure I mind.
“What are you suggesting?” I attempt to keep the wobble out of my voice.
“I’m not suggesting anything.” His hand drifts from my waist southward.
His tone holds notes of black velvet and Scotch.
“I’m here to take you to task for leaving without making things right.
” His palm lightly molds around the curve of my ass.
“And then we’re going to talk about how you’re going to square things up with me. ” My core clenches.
His fingers close and he squeezes my ass.
“Do I have a choice here?”
Why does my voice sound so husky?
“Do you want a choice?”
I stare up at him, trying to decode that reply. It’s hard when he’s kneading and massaging my butt. I’m not wearing panties under the pajama shorts, and my own arousal is leaking onto my thighs.
“Or is it better to pretend you don’t?” He shifts his knuckles from under my chin to brushing across my cheek.
I’m still not sure what he means. But he said pretend. So that means I do actually have a choice. Right?
“I’ve seen you watching the scenes at Sins. You say it’s not for you, but your expression tells me something different.”
I’m trembling now. Not from fear.
From anticipation.
Arousal.
The possibility of something dark and dirty happening between us.
I’m also stunned to hear he’s watched me. Especially considering he always has a gorgeous woman on his arm.
“What about your girlfriend?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “You know I don’t have a girlfriend.”
He’s right. I do know. Because he never brings the same woman to Sins twice.
“Enough stalling.” He walks me backward, toward my bed. “It’s time for your punishment.”
When my thighs hit the bed, he stops. Holding my gaze, he slowly pulls the bralette over my head.
“What are you going to do?” The question comes out as little more than a whisper.
“I told you what I was going to do.” His response is a warm rumble. More like a purr.
I catch his hand when his thumb tucks into the waistband of my shorts and he stops. He doesn’t say anything, just waits.
He just proved my consent matters. He’s waiting for me to decide.
And that’s when I throw reason to the wind.
I release his hand. “Okay.”