FOUR
MARISA
The focus of my fury sits with his back to me at the bar. All eyes have swiveled to stare at me—all except Phoenix. The cocky bastard seems determined to piss me off more than he already has, refusing to turn around and look at me.
Dick.
“That was my mark and you know it,” I yell at his back as he takes a sip from his glass. The silence following my tirade is stifling. It’s quiet enough in the dive bar that you could hear a pin drop; everyone holds their breath, waiting to see what will happen next.
“Wrack them up, Lev,” the King of the Assholes himself says, causing the man next to him to slide from his barstool and make his way over to the pool table. Phoenix follows close behind, not sparing me a single glance.
The rest of the patrons seem to follow the other man’s lead, going back to their business and essentially ignoring my attempted confrontation.
Simmering anger turns into a full blown boiling rage as I watch the man who stole my millions grab a pool cue and begin swirling the chalk around the tip.
Nevermind the way his broad, muscular shoulders shift beneath his tight leather jacket in a way that has me wondering how easily he could throw me around.
Nope. Not thinking about that—he’s an ass. An attractive ass, though.
“Phoenix, I’m talking to you!” I seethe as he continues to ignore me.
In one swift motion, he slips his leather jacket off of his shoulders, exposing his muscular arms covered in an array of dark ink.
His tattoos seem to mainly depict flames and feathers of some type of flaming bird, wrapping around the trunks of his very large and very veiny and very, very attractive arms. Why are the most attractive ones always such douche bags? “Will you stop fucking ignoring me!”
“I’m not ignoring you,” he states flatly before bending forward, lining up his cue, and popping a shot.
Balls scatter in all directions as the crashing noise of the collision ricochets off the walls of the bar.
“I’m simply letting you get it all out before I reply,” he states as he watches the balls roll across the felt table.
One flies into the corner pocket. “Poloski.”
I take another step towards him, letting my anger cascade out in full force. “You knew I was going for the tapestry and you stalled me, then nabbed it right out from under my nose! You–you–” I stammer over my words, trying to find an appropriate insult for the man. “You dick.”
He spins, a smirk pulling at his lips. That damn dimple pops in his cheek, which is now dusted with a light shadow of dark stubble.
He has a match lodged in the corner of his mouth, which he shifts back and forth before speaking.
“I bet you wouldn’t mind having a little more time with this dick,” he snarks with a seductive raise of his eyebrows.
Oh no, he did not.
I march right up to him, my Doc Martens crunching on the stale remnants of cigarette butts and peanut shells which litter the wood floor.
This man might be a giant with shoulders wider than I am tall, but I do not back down easily.
I square right up with him, my chin held high in defiance as he looks down at me with his cocky ass grin.
His body seems to radiate heat, the closer I get to him, the more I can feel the warmth flowing off him in waves.
As someone who is perpetually cold, I would absolutely be reveling in the warmth if I didn’t absolutely detest the man.
Sliding my hand along his muscular forearm, I let my red nails scrape across his skin.
He hisses slightly as I draw blood. Good.
When I reach the glass of whiskey perched in his hand, I close my fingers around it.
He instantly relents, allowing me to steal his drink.
“The least you can do is buy me all the drinks I want after that,” I snark before bringing the glass to my lips and slinging back the shot.
The burn is instantaneous as the liquor slides down my windpipe.
But following the burn is the warmth which radiates through me.
“Ugh,” I groan as I slam the glass back on the edge of the table.
“Straight whiskey? You couldn’t have ordered cinnamon whiskey at least? ”
His body tenses next to me, and I look up to see his nostrils flaring and his eyes blazing with intensity. He stares at me in something akin to horror. “You like cinnamon whiskey?” he asks, his snide smirk growing deeper as if he’s telling a joke that I am clearly not in on.
“Who doesn’t love a shot of Fireball?” I ask suspiciously, trying to break the intensity of his stare with a lighthearted comment, but it doesn’t work. In fact, it seems to have the opposite effect.
I let out a small sound of surprise as his large arm wraps around me, his hand landing on my waist and hauling me towards him until our bodies are flush against each other.
His hard, muscular form is pushed so tightly against my soft curves that I can feel the growing stiffness of his cock against my stomach.
I squirm against him, trying to get some space, but that only seems to make him more excited, his length twitching against me.
He leans in, his nose running along the column of my neck and sending an involuntary shiver running down my spine.
“You smell absolutely delectable, moya p?těn?c?. Like spun sugar.” He inhales then lets out a groan against the shell of my ear. “I cannot wait to devour you.”
My body melts against his heat and his filthy words for a moment, until my mind catches up to what’s happening. Swiftly, I shove him away, putting space between us. Glaring up at him, I do my best to not let on how utterly turned on I am at the moment.
“You cost me a cool twenty million,” I tell him, convincing myself just as much as I am him that he is a douche bag that does not deserve the honor of tasting my pussy.
“Forty,” he responds before kicking the matchstick around between his teeth, alternating sides and chewing on the wooden stick.
I look at him perplexed. “What?” I ask, trying to decipher what he’s on about when all I can think about is the length of his tongue. It’s longer than normal, right? I bet it would feel absolutely exceptional against my clit.
Shit, nope. Gotta stop doing that.
“Forty million,” he replies. “I got forty million for the tapestry.”
My mouth falls open. Forty million! I am lost for words, simply staring in wonder and outrage at the man before me.
He reaches out, caressing my bottom lip with his thumb. “Close your mouth, Princess, before I get ideas about what you’re wanting me to put in there.”
I snap my mouth shut and narrow my eyes in annoyance. “You are absolutely the most infuriating… rude… tasteless…”
“Man you can’t seem to quit?” he interrupts me, and I nearly lose my cool and smack the damn smirk off his handsomely chiseled face.
I let out an annoyed huff that seems to make him even more pleased with himself if the deepening dimple on his cheek says anything.
I return his smirk with a scowl. He’s undeterred by my seething anger, his fingers gently caressing the curve of my waist, as if he can’t stop touching me.
The urge to lean into his warmth and whiskey smell is dizzying but I resist. Whiskey and a winning smile doesn’t make up for a forty million dollar loss.
“I have a proposition for you, Princess,” he says coolly as he leans to sit on the edge of the table, spreading his legs and positioning me between his open thighs.
His hand slides lower onto my ass through my tight jeans and he glares at someone over my shoulder, a low growl rumbling through his chest. The heat of his body rises to a level that makes me want to sigh in warm contentment.
I turn my head to see who he’s glaring at with such venom, but when I do, his hand reaches out, fingers wrapping around my chin and gently pulling my face back towards him. “Glaza na menya, moya p?těn?c?.”
I stare at him for a moment, his warm honey eyes blazing with possessive fire as his arm wraps back around me, pulling me closer into him. “I don’t speak Russian… or asshole.”
He smirks again, and I catch myself smiling back.
Damn it, Marisa.
“What’s your proposition, Pyro?” I ask him with a cock of my hips.
“Did you just give me a nickname?” he asks as he squeezes the flesh of my hip hard enough to leave a mark. Fuck, the thought of this man covering me in bites and bruises… maybe even some other marks, sends a shiver down my spine. “You do like me.”
I roll my eyes, refusing to participate in his nonsense.
“If you have nothing for me, then I’ll just be on my—”
I start to pull back but he immediately hauls me backwards. “I have a lead,” he whispers conspiratorially. “A mobster named Zmeev, Volk, is moving a painting reported to be worth millions through the city this next week.”
He raises his brows expectantly, as if waiting for me to reply.
“So?” I ask him, waiting for him to get to the point already. I hate when men realize they have something worth saying and drag it out for as long as possible in an attempt to keep our attention on them. Women are far too busy for that shit.
“Best thief wins,” he states with a mischievous glimmer in his eye that should have me running for the hills.
“Unless you’re worried you’ll lose… again.
” He clicks the matchstick against his teeth, drawing my attention back to his mouth, and his tongue, and the inappropriate thoughts about what he could do with that tongue.
“And what do I get if I win?” I ask, trying desperately not to squeeze my thighs together to relieve some of the growing ache building.
As if he can sense my arousal, his nostrils flare and his pupils widen. His fingers grip tightly into my waist.
“If you steal the painting, you can have half of the forty I just got paid,” he offers, and my mouth falls open in shock. I quickly snap it closed, not wanting to play that game with him again. “Plus what the painting is worth.”
I’m a street kid, born to a junkie who abandoned me early on for whatever drugs she could get her hands on, leaving me to fend for myself.
I’ve been used and played more times than I can count in my life, but each of those has been a lesson—trust no one, only rely on yourself.
I can smell a trap being laid a mile away and this plan reeks.
Plus, no one just gives away twenty million dollars.
“And if you win?” I counter, waiting for the inevitable lure to be set.
He surprises me, though. With a swiftness that’s near inhuman, he spins me, laying me back down on the table in one rapid move.
I let out a small, shocked gasp as he looms above me.
His dark eyes glow with fire as he takes me in.
My breaths come out in choppy pants, drawing his eyes down to the swell of my heaving breasts, which are about to spill from my tight tank top.
His tongue darts out to wet his lips, the stare of a predator assessing his prey falls over his face.
“If I win… I get you.” His hand wraps around my throat as he tilts my head up until our gazes clash. I’m struck by just how dangerous, how monstrous, he looks in that moment—and how badly I like it. “All of you. Any way and every way that I want you.”
It’s a foolish bet. Especially when the man looks like he wants to devour me whole. But a part of me is infatuated by the idea that he’s so unhinged, unbridled, wild for me. He’s desperate, and that desperation is a rush in of itself. Perhaps this deal is a win-win for me.
“Deal,” I tell him before I can think it through too much, and I swear I see fire fill his eyes.
“Game on, moya p?těn?c?.”