The Brit

Without any prompt, my lips move in toward hers. They brush. She moans. “You want it, don’t you? You want my big dick pounding your sweet cunt.” My cock pleads for her to confirm it as I lick the seam of her lips, grinding our hips together.

She hums, sounding dazed. “I’d rather you kill me.”

“Maybe I will.”

“You need me.”

She’s right. And I’m starting to need her for another reason—one that doesn’t involve business. My tongue leaves my mouth, skimming the tip of hers. I groan roughly. She whimpers softly. “Go on,” she whispers, goading me. Giving me the okay? She bites my bottom lip, tugging the flesh. “Kill me.”

Fucking hell.

I move my mouth across hers, hoping to taste fear, but instead I taste nothing but sex. It’s intoxicating. Mind-blanking. “Fuck,” I whisper, and I feel her smile around my mouth.

The door swings open, Brad appears, and I’m yanked back from the brink of a dangerous moment. Perfect fucking timing. His gaze moves from us to the bed. Where my gun is. Not in my hand. Not tucked behind my back.

Shit. I push Rose away and compose myself under the suspicious glare of my right-hand man. “We just got confirmation of Adams’s dinner reservation at Hakasan tonight,” he tells me.

“Who with?”

“Some lawyers and governors. Sounds boring as shit.”

“But still . . .” It’s business as usual for Adams, then? Cheeky fucker. I look at Rose. She’s motionless, quiet, eyes on mine. And she’s still naked. I grab a towel and thrust it in her chest, a demand to cover herself. “Looks like you and I are going on our first date this evening, sweetheart,” I inform her, taking myself to the shower.

Chapter 8

ROSE

* * *

Our first date. Or rather, the first round of Perry’s torture. It’ll be a show. A demonstration.

I’m driving Black wild, and I can’t help getting satisfaction from that. But it feels so good to have a little control, even if it’s a twisted psychological control.

I haven’t seen Black since this morning. He’s been holed up in his office with his army of men, though he made sure one guarded the door to the bedroom so I couldn’t escape. I found that out when I actually tried to escape, peeking out the door to check if the coast was clear. It wasn’t. The guy smiled at me, a knowing smirk full of laughter. And I spilled some crap about needing a drink. There’s a perfectly furnished mini bar in the bedroom. He knew my game.

I’m getting desperate. I’m not supposed to be here. I’m supposed to be with Perry Adams. He has a new investor. I need to share that information with Nox, need to tell him where I am, but I can’t so much as sneeze without Black finding out. He’s having me watched constantly. And to make matters worse, I’m lying to him. Bare-faced lying. He thinks I’m a gold-digging whore who’s latched onto Adams for financial benefits. I wish.

The outcome of this mess is becoming clearer and clearer.

Me.

Dead.

The question is, who will kill me? Nox or Black?

I fiddle with the towel wrapped around me, trying to focus on my boy and my reason to live, at the same time trying not to think about how Black paraded me in front of his men naked, and then clearly regretted it.

The joy I felt in that moment floored me. And scared me. He couldn’t stand another man seeing me naked. So what would he think about another man touching me? Or violating me? I sickly smile to myself. There it is again. Joy. No, Rose. Joy isn’t an emotion I should get used to. I feel it from time to time, once in a blue moon when I get a glimpse of my boy. And then, moments later, the inevitable heartbreak when my reality sinks back in.

I need to get out of here, or I’m a dead woman. I might not feel much, but I still have a survival instinct, and I want to live. Even if I’m a prisoner in my own life. It still means someone else is free. My mind momentarily wanders to places I always forbid it to go, before I quickly pull myself back from the brink of feeling. Feeling would be pointless. It wouldn’t change anything. I need to focus on getting myself out of this mess. But tonight, I have a date. I also have another problem.

I look at the red dress on the floor, the only item of clothing I have here. I hate myself with a vengeance for wanting something else to wear. Something I picked. Something undeniably me. I can’t remember the last time I wore something because I wanted to wear it, not because someone else wanted me to wear it. In fact, it’s never happened. As a little girl, I didn’t want to wear the rags that were the only clothes within my reach. And as a woman, I’ve never wanted to wear the clothes I’ve been made to wear to make me look like the enticing piece of meat that I am. But I have. Because that’s what I do. Because I have no choice. It’s the times when I’m alone, when I can lounge in a pair of pajamas, that I feel most like me. I cherish those times. Have to, because they are a rarity.