Chapter 6
CAELIAN
“ F uck. On a scale of one to total asshat, you’re about…total asshat times twenty.” I glare at my reflection, grow utterly sick of myself, and spin on my heel in the ensuite to stalk the bedroom.
My bedroom.
The one without the fucking woman I had to marry.
The one my body seems to lust for, and upon whom my mouth wants to inflict pain. Woman, not the bedroom. I’ve yet to reach that level of bizarre kink.
Also, I’ve had a fair bit to drink since I left her room, but clearly not nearly enough.
“Fuck all the scales. It’s where I’m going,” I say, glaring at the bottle in my hand. “I’m going to a dumbass hell to be annoyed by the dumbass demons there. For eternity, and that’s gonna piss me the fuck off. Dumbass demons.”
And they’re gonna be dumb. And asses. Fire and brimstone? Fuck that. Stupid horns and arrow tails and hooves for feet and… Whatever else they are, they’re just gonna be fucking dumb and annoy the absolute living shit out of me. Or death. Because…hell.
I breathe out and undo the lid of the scotch and down some, right before remembering I’m not a scotch man.
Thing is, hell is a concept when we go on about that crap. On Earth? Real fucking monsters? That kind of self-inflicted torture? Yeah, that’s real. And it sucks.
I rub a hand over my eyes and take another swallow.
New York is a rare breed. She can soothe me and rile me up and climb under my skin.
But fuck. When I said… that …to her, I didn’t mean it the way the words came out; I didn’t mean the way they ricocheted like a slap over her. Like the slap she gave me.
I deserved it.
I deserve worse for what I said—that I shouldn’t have married her. But I didn’t mean it like that. If we didn’t wear these rings, if I hadn’t discovered how delicious she is, how delightful and filthy she is, then I might not have lost the plot and gotten my brother shot.
But I did. And here we all are, ladies and dicks, hell on fucking Earth.
“Fuck!”
I stop in my stalk and throw back more of the booze, then toss the bottle onto the sofa in the room, myself next to it, and light an angry cigarette. The fucking cigarette’s inanimate, so it’s not angry. I am.
Because if I hadn’t married the most annoying, luscious, hottest woman I’ve met, none of this would be happening.
I smoke furiously, then I scrape a hand over my face as a shudder of pain hits, lancing all my soft and pathetic parts.
If I hadn’t married New York, if I hadn’t let myself get caught in her spell, maybe Mom would be alive. Alexius would be terrorizing Chicago as he should be.
But no, I let the woman get to me. If you look at it through a certain lens, it is also all her fault.
My fault. Hers. Ours. Us. I blame us, because if there were no us, we wouldn’t be in this giant ball of shit.
I grab the bottle and throw back more, then inhale more tobacco.
It’s her fault that it’s my fault. Because… shit. If she hadn’t climbed so deep under my skin that I don’t know which way’s up, maybe I wouldn’t have pushed Aurelio so far.
Maybe Alexius would have found us all a way out of that mess without someone getting hurt.
“Let’s face it, bottle,” I mutter, taking another swig because it’s not real big on talking or getting me where I want, which is passed the fuck out, “we know a stupid, weak dick like Aurelio would’ve come for us at some point.”
He’s a small fish who thinks this is a small pond. But it isn’t. It’s the fucking ocean, and we’re the sharks. And I know that. I know a tiny-dick motherfucker like Aurelio doesn’t have half a chance of rocking this mothership.
Yet I acted on impulse, everything except the immediate danger to Giana fueling my stupidity.
I take a final drag of my smoke then stub it in the ashtray on the coffee table.
I let a goddamn girl get to my head. One I want to strangle half the time and fuck the rest. But what I did was lose my shit. I acted out of…out of…what? Fear Giana would get hurt?
The girl’s in our protection. She wears my ring. She’s not even under her fuckface of a father’s finger anymore. He lost any and all hold on her the moment I fucked her, and it was officially sealed the moment I slid a ring on her finger.
So, what the hell?
Was I scared Aurelio would take her? Yes, goddammit. I knew he wouldn’t kill her. She’s part of whatever fucked up little plan he has.
But it was something more. Something deeper that played below the undercurrent of my thoughts. Something that had my instincts so lit, I made every wrong move possible.
“Oh, shit,” I mutter, taking another swig. Was it because…was I afraid I might never get to tell her that I…
I trail off.
Tell her what? That I was being a jerk when I acted like a child after she said she loved me? She wasn’t even being serious. We have a thing. We have banter. That’s it, and fucking good night.
But there was a tone, a vibration in how she said those words, or maybe it hit something deep in my bones. That’s what got me all tied and knotted in ways that had me acting like a jerk—more than usual.
And then all the dominoes started falling.
Nicoli and I have been working with some of the others on damage control, but Isaia is now running it.
I’ve got Gabriel out there working with our contacts in low places. Davian’s waiting with his finger on the trigger for orders to take out Aurelio, but that is something even I know needs to be a last resort.
Davian will take out New York’s father if I ask, but as much as I want to, we have to feel this out. There are networks, other players.
Our lawyer’s out doing his job. We have all kinds of people waiting, people ready to move into the right space.
But Maximo’s right. Nicoli wears Alexius’s face, so he has to step into the fray. It’s not only our best shot but our only shot if we want to keep this fortress from crumbling.
I take one more swallow and close my eyes, leaning back on the sofa. My bones hurt; that’s how tired I am. Normally, I can grab an hour or two and be fine, but for the first time in my life, I’m not.
“Fuck you, New York.” Which is the problem.
I want to fuck her.
Almost desperately.
It’s not lost on me that I could walk out the front door right now, get in a car, and go to Club Myth.
I could find one of my favorite girls or sample from the new selection and go to town. Fuck all the goddamn lust out of me. All the frustrations. The needs.
There are girls so perfect I’ve seen men weep. Girls so filthy and hardened, depraved men come in their pants within four-point-three seconds flat.
And yet…I don’t want those girls. Not even the ones who can do things that will make a man go fucking blind. Girls who can suck a cock like the finest whore, which is a skill that’s more than worth praising in a trade that’s worth all the gold in the world.
No. I have no interest in them because not one of those girls comes even close to the flashing eyes and smart mouth of my sweet and spiky bride.
Maybe she isn’t trained in the art. Maybe she hasn’t learned all the tricks. But I like that, the fact that I can teach her to do things exactly the way I like them.
And I love that sweet, tight cunt of hers.
That hot mouth.
The way her sharp tongue can match my wit and jokes and volley shit back to me that’s bigger, sharper, funnier, and she does it with ease.
I love how she challenges me at every turn, refusing to be tamed but still yielding under my touch.
How she doesn't bend to my will easily. She doesn't follow my orders blindly. She responds with defiance, with sparkles of fiery determination that set me aflame every single time. And God, how that makes my dick hard. She lets me hunt, makes me work for her surrender, and when she does, it’s fucking magic.
I love how her kisses can bring me to my knees. The way her tongue can playfully tease one moment, then become a stroke of bold heat the next. The way she arches under my hands as if her body was made purely to respond to my touch.
The way her nipples harden for me.
How her pussy sucks me in deeper.
Christ, I should just fuck her right now. If she would let me. But that’s the thing; she won't. Not today. Not tomorrow.
She's a challenge, my bride, has been from the very beginning and most likely will be until the end. But fuck it all, I love that about her.
I take one last swig and slam the bottle down. That woman’s in my head, her touch and taste, her scent and heat. She’s everywhere, driving me insane with visions of her under me, on top of me, bent all the way down before me so I can watch my dick slide in and out of her.
I undo my pants and pull out my hard cock, palming it, rubbing my thumb over the tip, jerking off to fantasies where she’s the fucking star.
A low groan vibrates up my throat. It’s been too long since I’ve had any release. Way too long.
Jerking off to her, being buried balls deep in her cunt, her mouth, her ass is enough to?—
God, I’m making myself worse, not rubbing one out, hot and bothered with a boner that won’t quit and no relief in sight.
“Fuck.” I stop and let go of my cock, frustration pulsing everywhere. I take another gulp of alcohol before tucking my aching dick away. “This is stupid.”
I want her. Not my hand. Her.
She’s what? Thirty seconds down the damn hall? So close. I can be inside that hot, tight snatch right now, yet I’m here, and she’s there, and…
“Fuck this.”
Without another thought, I hurl myself to my feet and stomp to my door, throwing it open.
Is she a fucking witch? Has she worked that voodoo, mumbo-jumbo shit on me? Because I know this is fucked up, and here I am, storming down the hall anyway.
I shove open her door without knocking.
In her hand’s a bottle of sherry, or port, or something disgusting she’s managed to dig up from somewhere.
“Please leave, Caelian. I’m not in the mood.”
“What? No lovers’ quarrel?”
“Screw you.” Her cheeks, soft and almost curved, are marked with tears. They clump in her lashes. It should be enough to make me come to my senses and leave. I know wrong and right. Good and bad. Smart from stupid. And that’s what this moment is, isn’t it?
Wrong. Bad. Stupid.
I’m a little drunk, a lot horny, and a man who likes doing wrong—read bad—overly stupid shit.
And her tears…
They make me angry. Furious.
“You’ve been crying,” I say, leaning against the doorframe.
“How observant of you,” she retorts, but her voice lacks real venom. It's muffled, dull, and soaked with pain. My anger morphs into something closer to guilt. I ignore it.
I smirk. “I was just thinking of you.”
“Get out.”
“With my dick in my hand.” This catches her attention.
“You’re disgusting,” she spits out, but the blush creeping across her cheeks tells me a different story.
“We were doing pretty disgusting things, yes. You know, in my head.”
Her blush deepens, the red hue cascading down her neck to her chest. The air throbs with awareness, and I don’t cross the threshold.
Not yet.
I just take her in. She’s a work of art in disarray. Her hair, a mess of curls, tumbles carelessly all over her face and shoulders. Her oversized shirt hangs off one shoulder, revealing the soft skin beneath.
She’s delicate, almost fragile, but there's a fire in her that I’m drawn to. If it were only tears, if her eyes shone with sadness, pain, guilt, hurt, I’d leave. Probably.
But they don’t.
Her eyes flitter with anger. They shine with need and desire. She wants this. The fight. A nonverbal conversation in our language.
That throb in the air deepens, and I cross all the lines and thresholds. And close the door.
Her chin lifts and the air grows electric, her tits heaving. She’s fucking perfection. “What? Your handjob wasn’t satisfactory?”
“Not even a little. My palm doesn’t come close to your mouth or cunt.”
Giana sucks in a breath.
She’s my frightened prey and a warrior woman all at once, and it tips my scales all the way into predator mode. Because she’s excited. It’s there in the blue pools of her irises and the delicate flush of her cheeks.
I love the way she fights it, how she tries so fucking hard to show she’s not affected by me, yet it’s impossible for her to hide.
“Asshole!” She throws the bottle, and I catch it. Then I drop it and smile. It’s like someone flipped my switch.
I lunge for her sweetness, but she veers right, to the bed.
“Speaking my language, New York.”
“Screw. You.”
“That’s the idea.”
She scrambles on the bed, throwing pillows that I let hit me and then the floor. “You think I want you after all you said? After…after everything?”
I don’t miss a beat. “Yes.”
“You told me you wished you hadn’t married me.”
“I never said I didn’t want you.” I’m high on her, the scent that wraps around me—that goddamn Turkish rose and patchouli that’s like an opiate to my sense. And the pull of her need, the push of her resentment, the excitement of it, it makes the air hum with something raw.
I can taste it on my tongue, feel it in my veins. Every inch of me vibrates with her energy. And I’m harder than I was when I had my dick in my hand.
I grab her ankle and pull her to me, her fingers clawing at the bedding.
Her ass rises, and I don’t think she’s wearing panties. In fact, she’s not wearing much, just some fucking oversized shirt that needs to be torn to shreds.
“Let go.” She thrashes.
“I dare you to make me.”
She kicks with her free leg and hits my stomach, my breath exploding in a grunt, and I let go of her ankle.
She rolls off to the other side of the bed, and a slight growl escapes her as she straightens.
We stare at each other. It’s charged. Electric. It’s war, and an exhilarating one at that.
My libido pounds in my veins, my cock throbbing, balls aching. The need for her is ridiculous.
“You can’t get away from me, New York.”
“Yes,” she says, “I can.”
I stalk her, and she stands her ground right up until I reach for her, then she darts away, sliding around me to the door.
I catch her by the hair as she reaches for the handle and pull her back against me, letting her feel how hard I am.
She whimpers, the sound a call to my lust, and I answer by going for blood, dropping my head and biting her neck hard, right where the vein pulses with adrenaline.
A moan escapes her lips, sending shivers down my spine and straight to my throbbing cock.
I spin her around and into the door, pinning her there. She meets my gaze defiantly, eyes sparkling with a challenge I’m all too eager to accept.
“I hate you.”
We’re so close our breath mingles.
“I fucking hate you,” she says again, but this time with more vigor. More passion. They’re words I need—especially from her. Only from her. It fuels me, the venom in her voice like a tongue’s stroke along my shaft.
“I distinctly remember you telling me you love me.”
“I was being sarcastic.”
“But you love it when I touch you, don’t you? Isn’t that what all your platitudes have been? You panting for my cock?”
Slowly, I stroke my finger over her lips, then down, to press where I bit her. Her small mewl of need sucks at my prick.
I shift lower, over those tits with the hard nipples, against the fluttering of her stomach, and then between her thighs.
Fucking pure, hot honey.
My sweet little trap.
Giana.
She’s wet, so slick, and as I run my fingers over her folds, to her clit, it throbs, and she makes a small, strangled sound.
I do it again, and again, like I’m playing an instrument. Like I’m playing her. And though my dick’s ready to fuck up in her, I push my fingers into her instead, and her tight walls clench me, sucking at me.
“Don’t,” she says, thrusting her hips to me, her gaze now on my mouth, “fucking touch me.”
She shoves at me, and I take a step back.
A wicked smirk spreads over my face, feral and hungry, and I lift my hand to my mouth, licking up her taste with slow strokes of my tongue while keeping her gaze captive with mine.
The way her expression darkens, the way her lips part as she watches me, slowly losing her resistance brick by fucking brick, it’s a palpable energy that tingles along my skin.
There’s something so intensely satisfying about reducing this fierce woman to a quivering mess of need.
“But you want me to touch you. I want me to touch you,” I murmur.
“You don’t know what I want.”
“I can sure as hell taste what you want.”
We stare at each other for five goddamn seconds when the tension finally breaks.
She lunges for me, grabbing me, fingers in my hair, clawing and pulling at me. I take it, every ounce of her fire, and haul her against me, crashing my lips to hers with a deep, filthy kiss, and I tongue fuck her mouth like it owes me something.
Her mouth tastes even better than I remember. The taste clings to me, and I rip her oversized shirt right off.
She breaks the kiss and grabs my shirt, pulling, sending buttons flying, her hands everywhere on me all at once.
She’s a madwoman, and I’m drowning willingly in her loss of control as we kiss and bite and fight. It’s wild, sending me soaring.
This. This is what I’ve needed. What I’ve craved. The unhinged parts of us. The best parts of us.
I palm her tits, squeezing, pulling at her nipples until she gasps, biting at my bottom lip.
She moans into my mouth, the sound vibrating against my tongue, primal and begging. She pulls at my hair, her body arching, and I take us down, tumbling to the floor.
Giana hisses, and I lick my way up her chest to the softness of her breasts while she squirms and quivers underneath me.
I suck a nipple in my mouth, biting, pulling, and she… oh, fuck , she’s dragging my head to her, sliding her tongue into my mouth like I’m the last goddamn supper.
She pulls my hair, trying to yank it out at the roots, and I go at her neck with a savagery that would leave a mark. I want to leave a mark. My fucking mark, because that’s what she is. Mine.
My mouth’s on hers again, and her hands slip down to my shoulders under my ruined shirt where her nails sink into my flesh and she bites my lip. It’s a delicious kind of pain, a sting that provokes and incites a riot within me.
I growl, my fingers trailing down her body, seeking out the curve of her hip, the dip of her waist. We’re wild animals, feral beasts caught up in a frenzy of need and hunger.
We’re out of control, and I need to fuck her.
Now.