The Bratva's Heir (Underworld Kings)

“Go ahead, Constantine. Sitting across from me for an hour of your life, knowing literally nothing more about me than my hair and eye color, you’ve got me all figured out. Let’s hear it. What am I?”

I watch a vein pulse in his temple, and his nostrils flare. I’d be scared of assault if he wasn’t chained. Hell, I’m still afraid of it even now.

“You’re either a virgin, or you’re a girl who’s never been with a man who knows what to do with a body like yours.”

I blink, too surprised to respond. Fear and desire are so intimately acquainted, I don’t know which is taking root in my belly, but I know I’m powerless to stop it.

I listen to him, my mouth gaping and my fingers clenched into claws on the table’s surface as he continues.

“You’re a good little girl. You follow the rules. You’re charming and creative, and you work hard. You’re witty and enthusiastic, drawing many to you as friends, but only a select few are in your inner circle. You cross every ‘t’ and dot every ‘i.’ You don’t park in handicap parking spaces and haven’t made a late payment in your life. Your daddy paid for college, so you have no student loans.”

Am I that predictable?

He leans closer. Thank God he’s chained. The distance between us is the only thing right now keeping me from incinerating.

When he lowers his voice to a rumble, I need to lean in closer to hear him. A wicked gleam glints in his eyes. He licks his lips.

“You’ve made yourself climax, but you’ve never had an orgasm that took your breath away, that left you boneless and wrecked. You’ve never had your legs spread and your pussy licked until you screamed yourself hoarse.” He swallows. “Have you, doctor?”

I’m on my feet. I don’t remember standing. I reach a trembling hand to my briefcase and right myself.

“You’ve overstepped, Constantine.” I draw in a breath and release it again. “And if you think I’m that easy to read, you’re sadly mistaken.”

I reach for the paper and tuck it back into my portfolio. I place it in my bag, then look for the pen.

The pen is gone.

Shit.

Fuck.

I mask my fear so he doesn’t know how scared I am, and mentally berate myself. He warned me. He warned me. And like an idiot, I left the pen right there on the table for him to take.

I should report directly to my supervisor. At the very least, I should mention to the guard that Constantine may have taken my pen. But then they’d know that I was the negligent one that left it where he could take it.

The jerk talked about sex and made me all flustered and used that time to take advantage of me. He took the pen when I wasn’t even looking.

Argh!

I walk away from him with my head held high, thankful he can’t know my belly still quivers with want. I shake my head at the door.

“This isn’t about me. This is about you. This is about finding your way back to who you’re meant to be.” I turn to look at him and note the surprise in his eyes. Holding his gaze, I reach for the clips that hold my hair in place and tug them loose. My heavy hair swings from the clip onto my shoulders. Taunting him. “Things aren’t always what they seem.”

I turn on my heel and walk out the door.

I’m shaking so badly I feel faint.

It was a ruse, of course. I lied through my teeth. He was right about goddamn everything.

How fucked up am I that I’m letting him get to me?

Does he have my pen?

I rummage through my bag in the staff room, scattering papers and folders onto the table. My fingers find the barrel of a pen. I breathe a sigh of relief.

When my phone rings, I answer it with shaking hands. “Hey.”

Felicity.

“Hey, honey. You okay? I’ve texted like ten times and haven’t gotten to you yet.” Even Felicity doesn’t know about my job at the prison. No one does.

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine. Sorry. Just finishing up work.”

“Okay, chickie, just checking.”

She goes on about how much she enjoyed the birthday party, how Spurgeon McDowell asked her on a date, and how Gideon Benedict wants my number.

My thoughts are with the man sitting in the other room.

You’ve never had your legs spread and your pussy licked until you screamed yourself hoarse.

Would Spurgeon McDowell and Gideon Benedict know how to do that? I idly wonder.

Nope.

Would Constantine?

No! God, no. No no no no no!

I must be out of my mind to even begin to think about this. But there’s something about a large, muscular guy with tattoos that tells you this is a man that isn’t gentle in bed. This is a man who knows what to do with a woman.