I’ve amassed victories some men can only dream of the past six years. I have a wealth I never believed possible and a reputation fierce enough no one is game to go against me, but it all seems inconsequential when I use a warm washcloth to clear away the smears of arousal from Isabelle’s thighs and her still-throbbing slit. I love that I’m responsible for the mess, but even more than that, I’m riveted by the way her eyes dilate even more when I take care of her.
She doesn’t want a gentle and kind lover in the bedroom. She appears to have the same insatiable fondness for sex as I do. But there’s no denying that once the event is over, she craves someone who will take care of her, have her back no matter what, and will fight for her until the very end.
Although I once thought I saw similar qualities in a woman with hair as dark as Isabelle’s and eyes just as molten, I’m realizing now that perhaps my assumptions weren’t quite right. The thrill of the chase is addictive. It keeps men’s blood pumping longer than a personal victory or a substantial wealth, but more times than not, the thrill dies down the instant your target has been ensnared by the trap.
I don’t see that ever being the case with Isabelle. One kiss, and I was gone, so imagine how willful the curse is now? I’m entranced by this woman, fixated by her, and by the end of tonight, she will be mine in more ways than one.
I just need to get her out of this office and into my bed because every alpha male knows that’s where the real magic happens.
28
Islant my head when Isabelle cocks a brow. She isn’t amused by my dress-tying skills. She’s reminding me I failed to update her about my call with Hugo, grilling me for information without her kiss-swollen lips spilling a word, and she looks entrancing while doing it.
Once her dress is covering her sweltering curves, I mutter, “Hugo turned the cameras off the instant he knew you were coming to the club with me.” A rare smile inches my lips high. I’m not humored by Hugo’s antics, but I’m grateful his exasperating habit of always checking his surroundings saved Isabelle a ton of unneeded embarrassment. “At times, it’s like he knows me better than I know myself.”
A feverish heat treks through my veins when Isabelle’s eyes fire with admiration. It reminds me of the look she gave me before we were interrupted by the bothersome flash of the security system Hunter installed in all my clubs his first six months of employment as does the erotically satisfying taste of Isabelle’s arousal on my mouth.
Eager for a second taste, I curl my hand around Isabelle’s, then lead her toward the valet. The further we walk through the packed club, the tighter the front of my pants become. Knowing Isabelle is without panties is thrillingly satisfying, even more so since the dainty material is stuffed into my pocket. It announces the competition is over. The winner has been announced, and he is about to claim the ultimate prize.
I just need to get her out of this club before the envious stares directed at Isabelle have me clearing the floor by activating more than the fire alarm.
Jealously was never a problem of mine until Isabelle tumbled to my feet.
The rigidness in the air makes the night appear cooler than it is when we break onto the footpath out the front of 57. I assume the unease centers around the contrasting difference between Isabelle’s body temperature and the gusty New York evening but learn a lesson on making assumptions when a voice from my past thrusts me back in time. “The prodigal son returns.”
Ophelia’s father is in town, and the knowledge has me squeezing Isabelle’s hand so firmly, I’m hurting her instead of sheltering her from the danger. “Get in the car, Isabelle.” My tone is clipped and arrogant, awfully on par with the man I’ve been forced to portray the past six years because if I didn’t become Col’s rival, I would have become his victim just like every other member of his family.
With my blood hot, I spin around, bringing myself face to face with the man who blames me for killing his angel, blind to the fact he had hacked off her wings years earlier.
I’m not surprised to find Dimitri standing at Col’s left. Although he isn’t paying me any attention, his father’s glare more than makes up for his downfall. Hate is a strong word, but it describes my relationship with Col to a T. He blames me for Ophelia’s death more than I blame myself. He even refuses to tell me where she’s buried. His excuse? The Petrettis don’t leave a body. I took his sneer as a threat, but even now, six years later, I’ve yet to find her final resting place.
The memory deteriorates my mood so swiftly, by the time I realize Isabelle ignored my demand for her to enter my car, it’s too late. Col has already spotted her.
While pacing closer, he watches Isabelle with the same evil gleam his eyes had when one of his goons held his gun to his daughter’s head, but I act ignorant. If I were to show my hand, predominately the one that announces Isabelle’s true birthright, he’d strategize a way to make it less powerful.
Furthermore, I’ve worked too hard and too long to let a man like Col Petretti topple my empire. I will win the fight and the girl this time around because our first failures are to teach us a lesson. There is no excuse for a second abomination.
I ball my fists so firmly, my clipped nails dig into my palm when Col pretentiously mutters, “What has it been… six years, and I don’t even get a greeting from you?” When my expression neglects to respond to the conceited superiority in his tone, he shifts his focus to Isabelle. He runs his eyes down her body, his stare so wickedly deviant, Isabelle’s body can’t help but retort negatively to it. As the lust coating her skin with sweat burns away from biliousness, fear encroaches her from all sides. The worried mask slipping over her face has me responding long before the fanning of Col’s goon’s jacket so he can expose he’s carrying a weapon. I tug Isabelle to my side, conscious I’m placing a target on her back but confident my reputation will continue to precede me.
With a mocking grin, Col flares his nostrils, silently calling me out as a coward. He thinks I’ll back down because he wrongly believes you can’t fight a gun with your fists.
I’m more than willing to prove otherwise.
After working my jaw side to side, I shift my narrowed gaze to Dimitri. I’m not calling him out as a coward. I am reminding him that the loss of two key family members in one night doesn’t belong on his shoulders. It is entirely his father’s and my fault. When Dimitri’s eyes lower to his shoes, his focus somewhat distracted, I mimic Col’s mock for calling out insolent men.
With his attention rapt on Isabelle, it takes him a second to respond to my rile, but when he does, he executes his annoyance like a well-rehearsed script. “Go!”
Dimitri’s hand drops from his right ear as his eyes shoot to his father. He stares at him in shock, lost as to what’s happening, but with his mind as absent as his heart, he grits his teeth before leaving Col’s side with the briefest bob of his chin.
Just as quickly, Col acts as if there’s more than a foot of air wedged between Isabelle and him. He creeps close to her, hoping to activate a dominance I’ve never wished to hide before now because then his goon will have an excuse to fire at me. I fought in many locations around New York City, so it isn’t just the Petrettis who class my fists as dangerous weapons. So do members of the NYPD. So the excuse he was in fear of his life will work as well now as it did when he used his wife as a shield to protect him from a spray of bullets.
My fingers flex against Isabelle’s hip when Col murmurs, “You’re exquisite. You have the face of an angel.” I lose the chance of maintaining a rational head when he whispers, “E voi diventerete uno.”
With my fuse short and my temper uncontained, I snatch up Col’s wrist before his hand can get within an inch of Isabelle’s face, then I squeeze it with enough force, his fragile bones creak under the pressure. “Don’t fucking touch her,” I sneer, my voice indicating that this isn’t a threat. I will end him if he pushes me any further tonight. I am at the end of my tether.
The only reason I haven’t detonated is because Isabelle is standing at my side, begging for us to leave. “Isaac, let’s go.” She doesn’t take her eyes off the two semi-automatic weapons Mario is flashing while yanking me backward, and the anxiety they bombard her with is heard in her words when she pleads, “Please, Isaac, he has a gun.”
As Isabelle continues lugging me toward my idling car, I lock my eyes with Mario. His guns aren’t aimed at Isabelle, but when I add their presence to the threat Col just issued her, their direction doesn’t matter. They make me ropeable and persuade me that sometimes violence can be the solution.
