Page 17

T he bar is seedy, dark, the smell of stale beer mingling with the reek of a dozen bad colognes that have decayed into a pungent musk lingering under the pall of acrid cigarette smoke permeating every wall, column, and beam.

I’m standing out like a white calla lily in a dark funeral home, the short bubble dress on me doing nothing to hide my legs extending into four-inch-high stiletto sandals with a tell-tale red sole. I’m here to score, but not with any of the unwashed and greasy little asshats haunting this place like bad ghosts.

“What can I get you, sunshine?” the woman behind the bar asks me.

“Uhm, a screwdriver?” I force on the Cali-girl accent, my tone with a higher pitch than usual.

She scoffs, then whips up my drink and serves it.

I take a sip and moan with pleasure, even though in truth I think it’s disgusting. I hate alcohol, the taste even more than the smell. “Ooh, that is good.” I nod at the young woman sitting a few paces away at the bar. “What’s she having?”

Barwoman cackles and shakes her head. I open my small designer purse and pull a hundred-dollar-note from inside, slipping it her way.

She takes the money and slinks to the side, conferring with the other patron. I’m sure the money is talking, and she’s taken me for some gullible cash cow looking to slum it in this dump for a cheap thrill. Fine by me—that is, in fact, the intention.

She returns to polishing a glass, and I sip my drink some more. A few moments later, the stool next to me is filled by the young woman I asked about.

“Bourbon,” she says.

I motion to Barwoman to bring her a glass.

“That’s a strong drink for a pretty girl like you,” I say.

“I’m a strong girl.”

I rake my gaze over her.

“That, you are.” The drawl in my voice sounds lascivious. “You also seem like you’re made for the good stuff.”

She laughs. “And what’s that? You?”

“Don’t diss it until you try.” I open the purse a little, give her a glimpse of the wad of bills inside.

“You’ll pay me to sleep with you?”

“You don’t rock that way?” I shake my head. “Shame. But I actually have a proposal you may find interesting. Let’s sit.”

I take my drink and head to a booth, hoping she’ll follow. She does. Money is always such a potent lure.

“I’m listening,” she says as she parks her skinny ass on the banquette.

On cue, a man steps inside the bar, his gaze roving the interior to find us. Some of the folks here are with me, watching my back, and also keeping an eye out for trouble. Their job was to send the alert when I sat down with this girl.

“What’s your name, honey?” I ask her.

She glances at me before checking out the man walking in. “Mandy.”

“Mandy. That’s my husband.”

“What?”

“That hunk walking in, he’s coming here. He’s my husband.”

Her mouth is hanging open now. And I can totally understand. Stefano’s long legs are clad in designer jeans molding to his strong quads and tight butt, the waistband hinting at his washboard abs, the dark-green Henley emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders and the firm, rounded curves of his pecs and biceps. His long hair is loose on his nape, eyes narrowed, mouth pursed so that fuller lower lip juts out a little more.

He's devastatingly gorgeous, and it isn’t Mandy or even Barwoman who’ll contradict me.

Stefano slips into the booth beside me and dips his head to kiss my neck. It’s a shock when his lips graze my skin. It’s been so long since he’s touched me, let alone put his mouth on me. I don’t need to conjure the moan that slips from my mouth when he lingers and starts suckling. The love bite is evident when he leaves me, the spot smarting and hot.

His hand slips onto my knee, crawling up, one finger brushing my sex. I moan again, writhing against him.

Mandy lets out a little squeak across from me. Right, we’re on a mission here. I open languid eyes and stare at her with a slow smile.

“I still can’t tempt you?”

Stefano skewers her with this intense hazel gaze next, all while his hand is slowly caressing my thigh. His other arm sneaks behind my neck, the tips of his fingers caressing the sensitive love bite.

“You want me to sleep with you two?”

I smile. “Hmmmmhmmmm. He’s a great lover.”

“How…how much?”

She’s licking her lips, and her eyes glaze over when I mention the figure. Sure, it’s not everyday you’re offered ten K for a threesome.

“When?” she asks. “Tonight?”

I smile at her, just as Stefano’s hand leaves my thigh and starts to slink up her knee. She gasps when he touches her, and as much as it sickens me to watch him touching another woman, we’re playing a part here. I have to hold it together. At least, only so long, until…

I whine and run a hand up Stefano’s chest and shoulder.

“Baby,” I moan. “Who’s gonna take care of me when you’re fucking her?”

He laughs, low and rather sordid. It’s as chilling as it’s hot.

“I know your plan,” he says, voice sounding rough like gravel just went at his vocal chords. “You want cock. In fact—” his hand has returned to my body, inching along my boobs to unfurl over my throat, “—you want two cocks inside you, you little slut, don’t you? One pounding away at your pussy while I’m fucking your ass.”

His hand has closed around my neck with every word, and my breathing is labored now.

He glances at Mandy. “You got a boyfriend?”

She blinks, then nods.

“Got a pic?”

She nods, showing him a picture of her man on her phone. It’s definitely the guy we’re after.

“Does he fuck you hard?”

“Yeah,” she mutters.

“Good. Because what my baby wants, my baby gets.” He releases my throat now, sliding his touch to my jaw which he clamps hard before kissing me even harder. “Double what she promised if you bring him along tonight.”

“I need to call him.”

“Do it.” There’s no brooking his tone. “Give me your number. I’ll text you the details.”

Stefano gets up after, his hand clasping mine and pulling me up none too gently. I land with a smack against him, and his arm wraps possessively around my waist.

“One hour,” he tells Mandy, then he’s carting me out of the bar.

I wait until we’re clear of the entrance then smile up at him.

“That went well.”

His jaw clenches, and the thunderous look on his face makes a shiver of dread course down my back. When we reach our luxury SUV—got an image to project here, after all, not that the likes of him and Valentino would ever be caught dead in anything rundown—Stefano grabs my arm and pushes me to the side of the vehicle. We parked in the last spot on the right, a CCTV dead spot. With his back facing the lot’s wall, he slams me into the back passenger door.

“Don’t ever make me touch another woman again,” he bites out.

So that’s his problem? We agreed on this plan. Well, albeit reluctantly for him, but I’d thought the biggest hurdle was getting him into the Henley. Uber-Italian Stefano refused to be caught dead outside in anything without a collar.

“And what’s your plan? To remain celibate for the rest of your life? Because you sure ain’t touching me.”

The words erupt out of me, and it’s something else that erupts from Stefano. A growl, feral and raw. Next thing I know, he’s crushed me to the car with his weight and his mouth is on mine, devouring, taking, seeking. It feels like an assault at first, and my first instinct is to fight him. Until my fire blazes just as hard and I’m kissing him back as savagely as he is plundering me.

Mouths are crashing, teeth are clashing, the inner skin of my lips is probably opening from all the nipping and biting, but fuck this feels good. This feels alive. This feels like us.

Stefano and I, we don’t need to make love. No, we’re made for fucking. Why didn’t I see this before? I don’t want the puppy. I want the werewolf that gets unleashed from him.

Scared.

That’s what happened to me back in Torino. His intensity, the man he became when he was activated, the one he really is at the heart of him, he scared me. And I ran.

Not anymore. This man, I’m taking him. This man is mine. He’s my husband, for God’s sake.

I don’t know how I manage to fumble into his pocket for the key fob. One press and the car unlocks. I push him away only long enough to move from the door so I can open it. Clutching him to me, I press my hands back on the seat and haul myself up, clenching his shirt and tugging him in on top of me.

I don’t know how the door closes, if it even does. Something to be said about luxury SUVs is the roomy expanse of their interior. I’m flat on my back on the seat, Stefano is on top of me, and it isn’t hard to make quick work of the waistband of his jeans. My work is halted somewhat when he buries his face in my neck and expands the scope of the love bite he placed on me as one hand finds my breast and the other is pushing my dress up.

Then he’s free, and hard, hot, dripping with precum already. My mouth is watering, but it’s my wet pussy begging to be filled by him, and I grant myself this. He’s on me, in me, pushing, retreating, panting along with my breaths as he fucks and ruts and pounds. He doesn't let up his aggressive pace. My orgasm doesn’t take long to build, and I’m keening out my release just as he clenches my breast hard with a hand and my hip even harder with the other as he comes inside me. That’s gonna leave bruises, but fuck if I care.

Our breaths are labored and heavy as we come back up for air.

“Hello, husband,” I say quietly, the moment calling for reverence.

Stefano watches me with narrowed eyes for so long, every beat of each second that passes drives the chasm erupting between us wider.

“Kaya,” he finally says, his face emotionless.

The note of finality in his tone is like ice.

Just my name. Nothing else.

As if I’m nothing else to him.

I thought I knew what hurt means, what a broken heart feels like. Boy, how wrong I was, how clueless.

Fuck, this is what it feels like. As if he cut through my tender heart with a broken shard of glass.

Would I ever be the same again?