Bad Boy Sinner (Bad Boy 2)

I didn’t want to have to hire a bodyguard for her, because that wouldn't work on campus, but I could install a hidden camera and mic so her room could be monitored.

As for Celia, she had been nicely responsive to me the previous night. She couldn’t deny her body's response to me.

But I wanted more than just reluctant obedience.

I wanted her willing compliance. I had to use different tactics to win her over than what I’d used on the usual women I'd seduced and bedded.

I wanted Celia to willingly spread her quivering thighs for me.

Sure, she'd obeyed me when I ordered her to suck and fuck me. She'd even had two orgasms under my tongue and with my cock deep inside of her. But I wanted complete surrender. I wanted her to come to me, to ask me to fuck her.

The question was—how?

The real skill would be in making her surrender feel less like a loss than allowing what she had wanted to happen all along. I'd have to make it so that she felt she’d won.

That would take a lot of skill.

She'd reach a point when giving in would be appealing, better than remaining in her safe little dorm.

She'd come to me and put her arms around me, kiss me, ask me to fuck her. Tell me that she needed me.

That would be victory.

A sweet, sweet victory.

I intended to savor every moment of my victory when it came. I was certain it would.

I arrived at the warehouse I owned on the waterfront and went up to the third-floor apartment where I'd set up an office. Several of my security staff were there, waiting for my orders. As for me, I was waiting for my best friend from Afghanistan to arrive—a merc who worked with the US Marines and who was now freelance. He was scheduled to fly in that afternoon and I looked forward to having him with me while I planned my revenge against the Romanov family.

Raucous laughter from the guys brought me back to the present. A pile of money from the weekend's fights at the gym was two feet tall and twice as wide. The mob loved to launder their dirty money through the fights. Two of the guys played with it, fanning their faces with the wads of cash, smelling the money, throwing the wads at each other like the little boys they really were, so impressed with a bunch of paper.

Despite being an investment adviser and stockbroker by training, I didn't get this fetish with actual paper money. For me, it was nothing more than a bargaining chip, a weapon in my war against those who had destroyed my family.

The guys saw it as bottles of booze, dope, women, flashy clothes, and nice cars.

For me, money became a means for vengeance. The more of it I had, the more respect among the mob I gained, the more ins I had with the dirty cops, and the politicians. The more power I had, the more freedom I had to exact revenge.

Luckily, it also gave me a way into Celia's life, and between her milky white thighs.

There was also a way to Celia's heart. Although I could order her to fuck me, suck my dick, that wasn't what I really wanted. I wanted her to wrap her thighs willingly around my neck, around my waist.

Willingly. Not because she had to.

Then, when she did, I'd leave her the way she’d left me.

Noise outside the warehouse dragged my attention away from pleasantly erotic thoughts of Celia's milky white thighs to a black SUV on the street below—Georgi, whom we jokingly called Yorgi after the movie Triple X, and who now went by just George.

He'd been my right-hand man in Afghanistan. Tough but affectionate, with smarts enough to be able to admit he just didn’t know something, George was loyal to a fault. Together, we'd worked the towns and villages in Afghanistan, stalking al Qaeda, paying off tribal leaders to ensure the negotiations for the pipeline from the Caspian went through without a hitch.

I smiled when I saw his salt-and-pepper brush cut, a legacy of his years working with Marines. After months of us each going our own separate paths, seeing George was one of the few moments of genuine pleasure I'd felt in a long time.

I rubbed my hands together with glee and went to the elevator to wait and ambush him once the doors opened.

One of my men emerged first, carrying George's luggage, and I was unable to hold myself back, almost jumping on George as I threw his arms around him. For his part, George dropped a briefcase and embraced me, clapping me on the back.

"Come in, come in, you old bastard." I led George through the door into the third floor. "Welcome to your new home."

George followed me inside and looked around the empty space.