With a handful of my hair, he pulled back to look into my eyes. “Come for me, Isla.” His raspy demand made me tighten around him. The corner of his lip curled. “Just like that. Come for me. I want to hear it.”
Yes, sir. And just like that, I was gone. Without another word, I gave Abram his wish, falling brutally apart at his touch, his torso pressing me into the wall to keep me on my feet. My nails in his skin, I felt his cock grow fully hard between our bodies. Holy shit. I never knew it possible to be so filled with sensation. I never knew I could ever get this fucking hot.
And for God’s sake, it was only his fingers.
It took awhile for me to finally begin to recover – before I could once again feel everything else. The water searing my skin, my bruises beating with pain. But I didn’t care. I was still panting hard, watching Abram’s spectacular frame step out of the shower, water trickling through every carved line on his body. Dripping onto the floor, he grabbed his pants off the sink and turned to me as I caught my breath, a wobbly five feet and six inches of human satisfaction leaning against the wall.
And as I stood there, thoroughly rocked and useless, he smirked, nonchalantly shedding his soaked boxer briefs and flashing me a naked second of staggering, rock-hard length before pulling on his sweats and walking casually out the door.
chapter seven
I was going a bit crazy. Twenty-four hours later and I hadn’t seen or heard from Abram. I told myself that I was losing it because he had my keys and his guys claimed not to know where they were. I couldn’t go home if I tried. Not that I was really interested in trying. I felt better than I had yesterday but stairs were still hard for me. The skin on me knees was eager to heal but it broke every time I bent my legs. My fourth-story walk-up seemed even less appealing than it was on any other day.
So I stayed where I was. By afternoon, I finally mustered up the courage to ask one of the guys what I was supposed to be doing. “He said you would be resting today,” was the simple explanation.
Right. That rest thing. It was what the nurse had also recommended but I was having trouble. All day, my mind raced, giving me no break from the memories of my shower with Abram last night. Looking back, I had no idea how it happened. I could hardly believe that it did, hoping that as the day dragged on, I’d forget all the explicit details. But they were emblazoned in my mind. I could still hear his every last murmur, breath and groan. I couldn’t run my fingers through my hair without craving Abram’s touch. I spent hours reliving one moment.
By evening, realizing I’d never done it, I grabbed my phone and Googled him. Keywords: Abram Monarch Chelsea New York. Every last thing I found, from big to small, lit my eyes with pure fascination.
His full name was Abram Lenox. He was the twenty-nine-year-old majority owner of the Monarch Hotel and a nightlife staple that the Post dubbed “King of Flings,” among other playboy nicknames. The paparazzi desperately wanted him but could never seem to catch him. Some women’s magazine echoed that sentiment. “Lick-able from head to toe, Abram Lenox can melt your panties with a single look. But don’t count on that ever happening – this mysterious hardbody is as elusive as he is tall, dark and painfully sexy!”
So he wasn’t quite a secret. There were articles about everything from Abram Lenox’s model conquests to his cryptic history with the Air Force. And I ate it all up. I couldn’t stop. I read about him for hours, searching everything from his pictures to the names of girls he’d allegedly been seen in public with. I could’ve gone on forever but thankfully, exhaustion hit my body out of nowhere, knocking me out before midnight.
But I awoke several hours later, to the sound of high-pitched giggling downstairs. Two sets of voices. Definitely female.
Tip-toeing fast to the door, I cracked it open, peering down over the railing to see into the kitchen. My heart skipped a beat at what I saw. Leaning against the kitchen counter was Abram, muttering on the phone as two willowy girls pouted and appealed for his attention. They had all the assets of swimsuit cover girls and judging from the way they moved, they were drunk. Hammered. Thanks to the articles, I guessed they’d all been at the club downstairs before coming up. “Perhaps Lenox owns the Monarch for easy access to a room – he does always need one after a night of watching models twerk for him in XIII’s VIP section.”
This must’ve been one of those nights.
Abram leaned against the kitchen counter and I felt my cheeks burn as one of the girls stripped her dress off for him, placing his hands on her body, wrapping his fingers around her breasts and making him squeeze. She moaned when he pushed her to the kitchen counter, laying her back flat on its surface so he could better stare while fondling her, all the while snarling into the phone.
“Sober up and go the fuck home, Nate. I don’t need your bullshit tonight.”
I should’ve guessed it was that stupid Nate on the phone. Abram argued with him as the second girl stroked his cock over his pants. But just as she started to unbutton them, he hung up with a frustrated growl.
“Let him in,” he muttered to one of his men.
I was unblinking as I watched Abram send the girls out just as Nate came barreling in, butterfly bandages on his purple cheek, spit flying in all directions as he snarled like a dog. “You don’t fucking learn, Abe.”
“Christ, are you still on it?”
“This isn’t the first time a pretty girl came around and seemed harmless when she fucking wasn’t! I’m telling you there is no reason to trust that bitch. She just happens to come into that alley that night, that time with no fucking ID on her?”
I froze when I realized he was talking about me. The blood drained from my face. My pulse beat my chest off the wall but I stayed leaning against it, straining to hear what Abram had to say.
“I did a background check. She’s fine.”
“You did a back – that’s it? What if she’s not fine? What if that piece of shit set us up? Maybe you can be relaxed about this but I can’t, because if the cops find out, they fuck up our shit and we never get Toro. And I know exactly what happens after that. We go to prison and you survive while his guys stick a blade in my throat on the first fucking day.”
Toro. I remembered that name from one of the articles. And I knew it anyway. The Toro Family was one of the oldest organized crime syndicates in New York. Dante Toro was a famously cold-blooded killer from my parents’ generation, his face as recognizable as any Hollywood actor. It was he that kept coming up in articles about Abram, thought they also mentioned his older son, Jesse. I figured he was the Toro that Nate referred to because I recalled hearing about Dante Toro being sick in the hospital.
But as my mind floated elsewhere, I let the door close an inch – enough to scrape the raw skin on my knee. “Shit!” I muffled the word with my hand. But it was too late, I’d accidentally slammed the door shut as well. Stumbling back, I heard Nate’s footsteps immediately bounding up the stairs, his words spearing fear through my heart as he got closer.
“No fucking way. If that’s her I’m gonna fucking kill her right here and now.”
chapter eight
I was pressed against the wall, locked in pure terror as the door flung open. Eyes wild, Nate stood still for a moment of shocked, frantic rage.