“Come for my princess,” he whispered in my ear, railing into me with ruthless disregard. “Come on my thick cock and suck off your juice when you’re done, my filthy fucking girl. Wrap this cunt tight around my thick cock and come for me.”
I exploded along his shaft, the orgasm rolling in waves and waves and waves, sweat pouring between my breasts, my beast pinning me down like his captive, and when I could breathe again he pulled his cock from inside, made me kneel before him like a good girl, and I sucked his shaft and tip and licked him lovingly, licked him clean until he came on my tongue. I looked him in the eye, swallowed every drop, and he kissed me when he finished.
We collapsed onto the couch together, his arms wrapped around my body, and I purred against his chest.
I’d never felt so safe before in my life.
It was like admitting what happened to me unburdened something. I found a kindred spirit in him, finally found someone that understood how one event, one violent, violating, intense series of seconds could burn themselves in a brain and never stop replaying.
I was stuck in my past, in that series of miniscule events, doomed and cursed to relive each agony and degradation—
Except when he fucked me. Except for when I came.
He kissed my neck and cupped my breasts. He liked my body, liked to explore it, and seemed to do so without thinking. He ran his fingers and palms over my ass, my thighs, my belly, and yes, my scar, running a knuckle around it absently. He kissed my ear and nibbled it, nuzzling me like a loving bear.
“You were supposed to cook me dinner,” I said as my stomach growled.
“Instead, I had my way with you. It worked out for everyone, I think.”
“I’m not complaining.”
He laughed and gently ran his teeth along my chin. “Do you want me to cook for you now? I’ll feed you and take care of you, and when you’re feeling ready, I’ll take you into my bedroom and spank you again. This time, I’ll lick your cunt from behind then smack your ass over and over until you come. Would you like that?”
“God, yes.” I shivered and leaned into his chest.
His phone rang. He glared at it, vibrating on the coffee table.
“Go ahead.” I extracted myself from his arms, even if it hurt. “Answer. I know your calls are important.”
I could see the struggle in his eyes. I decided to make it easy on him and walked into the kitchen for water.
He picked up. “Yes?” Long pause. “That’s good. Set it for tomorrow. Yes, and make sure they show. Good work.” He hung up and tossed the phone aside before standing.
Big man. Scary man. He walked over, slapped my ass, and began pulling out pots and pants and rifled through the refrigerator for something to make.
“Who was that? Or should I not ask about your business?”
“That was Erick calling about Manzi. He’s been found and they’re bringing him back tonight.”
I felt a little chill and wrapped my arms around myself. I never stayed naked like this, not for long anyway, but Roman seemed so comfortable walking around with nothing on his body—not that he had any reason to hid. The man had a cock like a nuclear weapon and the muscles to back it up.
“That’s good, right?”
He nodded. “We’ll have a meeting with the Ramos—“ He glanced at me, frowned. “Dia’s people. We’ll have a meeting with Dia’s people and get things straightened out.”
“Will they kill him?”
“Giatno won’t let them.”
“But I don’t think he has the final say.”
Roman paused, staring down at the food he’d gathered. Eggs, spinach, bacon, tomatoes, mushrooms, peppers.
“I want to avoid violence.”
“That doesn’t sound like you.”
A little smile. God, I loved that smile.
When did I start to feel this way?
“Maybe you’re changing me.”
He got to work and I watched. He cooked two omelets with precision and perfection.
Nothing less from a man like Roman.
25
Roman
New York was full of holes.
Sewer holes, potholes. Crack dens where men and women fell into holes of their own devising.
Empty buildings, holes to hide things. Abandoned warehouses, holes for something worse.
New York was a sprawling mess, and I knew every corner.
Erick followed me into an old parking garage, the entrance blocked off with big stacks of wood, grass reclaiming the ancient concrete. Weeds grew in long vines across the ramps and water pooled in the low places.
Holes for men to get buried.
Ahead, two groups faced each other in a tense silence. The Ramos Cartel showed in force: Chale, their leader, was a man of average height with dark skin, a stocky build, and tattoos up his throat and down along his shaved head. His men lined up behind him, stony silent and casually holding military-grade weapons.
Giatno stood with his own little army fifty paces away. Manzi fidgeted in the midst of their group, eyes darting around until I approached, and he stared at me with lips hanging open.