Wild Card (Vegas Underground 8)

Ever.

I don’t even do feelings.

But there’s no denying how satisfying I find it to screw the brains out of my prisoner. And that’s all about how much she enjoys it, too.

Caitlin

Paolo pulls out and cleans up. He cuts the zip tie that fastened my wrists to the headboard, but leaves the one holding my wrists together intact, as well as the one on my ankles. And like last night, he’s careful not to let me see where he puts the scissors.

We settle into the same position as last night, with his arm firmly around my waist—another form of bondage. A very pleasurable form.

“What if I wanted to face you while I sleep?” I ask with mock innocence.

He doesn’t take the bait. No answer.

I listen to the sound of his breath in the darkness. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

He gives a light scoff. “No.”

“Wife?”

“No.” Now he sounds annoyed.

I already noticed he doesn’t wear a ring and there's no signs of a female presence in his house, but you never know. I didn’t find out enough stalking him today on the internet.

“Were you ever married?” I keep pressing. I want to know more about this man. He doesn’t talk enough and even though I think I have him nailed during our sexual interactions, I’m still missing so much information about him.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Not my thing. Family. Kids. I never wanted that shit. Never been a woman I could stand long-term, either.”

“What’s your longest?”

“There’s no longest. I don’t do girlfriends.”

That seems strange to me, considering how considerate he can actually be. In bed and out. I don’t get it.

Some silly-girl part of me wants to believe the consideration is all for me. Like I’m something new for him.

The silly-girl has to ask, “Have you whipped a woman before?”

“You’re my first.”

Do I detect amusement in his tone?

He’s answering my questions, that alone tells me he’s receptive to me, even if I’m playing the crazy card.

“Really? Because you’re, um, pretty good at it.”

“Pretty good?”

“Very good. I liked it—the way you whipped me. Both times.”

Damn. I sound... breathless. And eager. Why do I sound so eager? I don’t care what he thinks about me. I’m not cultivating a real relationship here. I’m just digging for information on my captor.

Yeah.

I’ll keep telling myself that.

His cock twitches at my ass. He shifts to cup my breast. “You’d better stop running that pretty mouth or that middle of the night fucking is going to happen sooner rather than later.”

My pussy clenches on air. I wouldn’t mind. This man seems to own my body. He just looks at it and I’m wet.

“Do you like it?”

“What?”

“Hurting me.” I shouldn’t put it that way. He might take it wrong. Like I’m accusing him.

He bites my shoulder. “Yeah, I like it.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Makes me wonder if…”

“If what?”

He strums my nipple with his thumb. “I don’t know. Maybe that’s why I haven’t done relationships. I had to keep myself on a leash.”

I close my lips around a little gasp. I am something new for him. My heart picks up speed.

Don’t get excited about this, I warn myself severely. He’s the enemy.

And then I have to know.

Even a crazy girl has to get real at some point.

I draw a deep breath. “Did you kill my father?” If I’m honest, this is what I was trying to figure out when I hacked into his police records.

“Definitely not,” he says. The reply is so immediate that I believe him.

“Do you know who did?”

He’s quiet a moment. “Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you, West. Go to sleep.”

Now he’s calling me West. Is that because he’s thinking about my father?

“But you knew him? You did business with him?”

“I remember him, that’s all. Stop talking.”

I try to turn to face him but he tightens his hold so I can’t move. “You know, don’t you?”

“I don’t know. I could probably find out. But that doesn’t mean I’d tell you the answer.”

“Because it was someone in your family who did it.”

“I don’t think so, Caitlin—I probably woulda known. But it’s possible. I can’t rule it out.”

The answer both disturbs and relieves me at once. It definitely wasn’t Paolo. I’m not having sex with the man who pulled the trigger. And he’s been thinking about it. Which doesn’t make it all better, especially if it were someone in his family who did it, but he’s not as dismissive about it as he was when I first accused him.

But the swirl of unease he first stirred when he asked if my dad had stolen from them returns. The more I stew on that, the more it rings true. I remember fragments of phone conversations he had around that time. Conversations that had made me certain he was killed by the mafia when I reviewed them later. When I saw myself as the victim and my dad as the hero wrested from our family. But now I’m not so sure. Now I suddenly see everything through a different lens. My dad was a shyster. He was always trying to swindle people out of their money, looking for where he could benefit. Maybe he did bring his death on himself.