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“I can’t hear you,” he rumbles, slamming his fist on the table again, like the first time wasn’t enough to underline his point.
I clear my throat. “I have an apartment. More like a studio near Olympic Park.” I shut my mouth. Way to go, Storm, tell the mafia K-pop idol guy where you live. Shit, he’s going to kill me, I know it.
He runs a calloused thumb over his bottom lip and smiles, in a scary ‘I’ll have you for breakfast but my lopsided grin still melts panties and breaks hearts’ kind of way. Yes, I’m fucked. He reaches in his jacket pocket, and I close my eyes. Is this the moment he’s going to bring out a gun?
He clears his throat, and I open one eye then the other, no gun, but something way more dangerous. He pulls out a passport. I recognize the Hello Kitty cover, how did he get that? Probably because I had to hand over my bag at the door, along with all of my belongings.
“Storm Lee, Canadian, twenty-nine,” he tells me, scanning through my passport.
“Yes,” I answer, like an idiot.
“I thought you were younger,” he says, raising a brow and pocketing my passport again, so I cannot flee the country. “Korean citizen or Visa?” he asks.
I nod again. “Visa,” I tell him, my voice small, courtesy of the small museum that bought my art and sponsored me to give art classes to little kids. Shit, focus, Storm.
“Living in…” He rattles off my address, and I can barely manage to nod again.
“You cannot pay me, you own a mediocre studio the size of my bathroom, and you’re what?”
“I’m what?” I rasp, his dark eyes hypnotizing.
“What do you do besides come to places which you shouldn’t come to in the first place?” he grunts, his eyes moving from my eyes to my lips. Holding his head a little to the side, he keeps staring at me, like he’s trying to figure me out.
“I’m a painter,” I croak.
He laughs. “Like houses?”
“No, art, modern art, I mean.” Technically what the kids finger paint can be viewed as modern art, right?
He leans back on the hind legs of his chair and silently laughs. Mafia guy keeps staring at me, and yes, the way his eyes run over every inch of my body is scary and hot. “What happens now?” I whisper under my breath.
He cracks his neck, and his eyes turn to little slits. Holy shit. He locks them on me and flips the wooden table through the air, and I scream, or try to, nothing comes out of my mouth while he lunges for me and grabs me by my shoulder and dips my chair back, so I’m balancing on the edge.
“Fuck,” I croak, and the man smirks, raising the side of his mouth up a little.
He’s right in my face, with his left hand pressed to the wall behind me, like some sick ‘I’m about to kill you’ K-drama moment. I stare into his eyes. Damn, his eye lashes are pretty too. No, I shake my head and press my hands against the underside of the chair, holding on for dear life. And he smells good, like vanilla and man, in a dangerous ‘I can kill you with my bare hands’ way. His eyes roam over my face and settle on my mouth the moment I wet my lips, and he keeps staring at me with a dead, vacant gaze. My clit starts to throb while my panties get drenched and my cheeks heat. This is not the reaction I’m supposed to be getting. I should be scared for my life, not cream my pants because mafia guy looks too good to eat in his black suit with strands of dark hair falling in front of his even darker eyes.
“I repeat the question,” he says, his deep voice making my heart race. His warm breath tickles my skin, and I know I’m fucked. He studies me like I’m some kind of insect he wants to crush under his, what I’m guessing are, very expensive shoes. The side of his mouth twitches again while he keeps running his eyes over my face.
I lick my lips and he chuckles mockingly, his whole body shaking with him. When our eyes lock, there is nothing there. This man is going to be the death of me. “What can you give me I don’t already have?” he asks. He opens and closes his hand and moves it in the direction of my exposed throat. “I’ve already got the big house, and the black card. So what can you give me?” he demands, and I get wetter in the process.
Holy shit, this guy is for real, I’ve got nothing—well, I can give him a painting. No, that wouldn’t work, maybe I can give him a lesson? Like Rose gave Jack, this feels like the Titanic. The only thing I have to keep in mind when this shitshow sinks is I’m going to be the one on the door, clutching it for dear life while I push him out to sea.
I freeze when his big hand lands on my neck and his warm fingers spread out over my skin. “No, nothing you can think of?” he purrs, holding his head sideways as his mouth slightly twitches, and his warm breath fans over my parted lips. His dark eyes lock on mine and I cringe back a little when the man tries to smile, the scar lining his mouth only adding to the scary sight.
“I… I…” I stutter, and he starts to close his hand, cutting off my oxygen. He licks his lips, looking at me while I’m frozen in place.
“Such a shame,” he says, leaning forward and sniffing my hair. I can’t breathe, and with the way he’s choking me, it’s doing things to my already drenched underwear. I’m crazy for coming here, and the guy is about to off me, so why am I turned on? I pinch my eyes closed, waiting for the end to come. I feel his thumb slowly running over the pulsing vein in my neck. I swallow hard and open my eyes, and his flash to mine, there’s anger in them and something else. He furrows his brows and releases the pressure on my neck. Was it concern I saw? In a second, his hard, dark stare is right back, like a mask he pulls over his face.
“What can you give me?” he roars, and damn, why does his breath smell so good? And the way he yells is cute, not scary as it first was.
Stop, this is probably one of the most dangerous men in Seoul and all I can think about is giving him a hug. I might get killed tonight, so there is only one option. The number one go-to solution I read about in my smut romance novels—sell yourself to the mafia guy who’s about to end you once and for all.
He pulls his hand back, keeping his other on the chair. “Look at that,” he says, staring at my throat while long strands of dark hair fall in front of his line of sight. Swiping his thumb at the corner of his mouth, the left side rises, like he’s trying to smile but can’t, or can’t remember how to. I stare at his fingertips and see he has a problem with biting his thumb nail—okay, the man is sort of human. That’s when I lose it for real and say, “Me,” my voice faltering.
His eyes land on mine, and with a dead, vacant glare, and lopsided ‘I’ll fuck you up’ grin, he lunges forward, grabbing me by the throat again. I clutch at his big hands, trying to stop him from suffocating me for real this time.
“Please,” I beg as tears spring to my eyes. “I can’t breathe.”
