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He laughs as he places my hand under a gentle stream of cold water. It stings like hell. “Not exactly a Boy Scout. But I do know some first aid. Comes in handy in my line of work—”
He cuts himself off, gently rubbing the dried blood from my hand with his thumb. Even after the blood is pretty much gone, he keeps rubbing like he’s mesmerized. When I clear my throat, he snaps to, dabbing my hand with a clean corner of a bloody towel. After, he wraps the gauze around it, sure to build up several protective layers where the cut is.
Still holding my now-clean and bandaged hand, he surprises me by lifting it to his lips and kissing one of my fingers. Then, moving along, he kisses each, one by one, until he reaches my thumb.
His touch is so damned nice, I’m unable to do the one thing I know I should—grab my hand out of his and suggest he fuck right off. I imagine telling him to get out of my room and leave me the hell alone, but the words never pass my lips.
Instead, my eyes flutter closed. I don’t say I hate him and his brothers, their stupid club, their sleazy patrons, and that they got my dad hooked on gambling and let him pile up so much debt that I’m saddled with paying it off. That whatever they do with me will result in bad news for Evie, because I’m the only person in the world who gives a shit about her.
I don’t tell him the harm they are causing my family is so far out of proportion to what my father owes, it’s ridiculous, and that their desire to ‘save face’ and be the ‘big guys’ makes them nothing more than a bunch of assholes—not the alpha men they want the world to know they are.
Do I share any of this with him?
Hell no. Apparently, I’m just as much an asshole as the Alekseevs are, because while my eyes have been closed, while Niko kisses my fingertips, he takes a step closer, and kisses my lips.
And yes, I am kissing him right back.
* * *
CHAPTERTHIRTY-NINE
Charleigh
There’s no stopping. I mean, I obviously know I should. But this is one of those times in life where logic serves no purpose. Responsibility? Right out the window. Good judgment?
Like it’s never existed, not for one day in my pathetic life.
Right now, an absolutely beautiful man is running a finger along my chin, brushing his lips over mine, and that’s all I care about. The rest of the world can disintegrate around me, and I won’t give a shit because I not only got this man’s attention but also got him to kiss me.
So fuck off, universe.
He pulls back for a moment, and I open my eyes. Without a word, he surprises me again with the presumptuous act of unbuckling his belt and opening his trousers. Reaching through a tangle of shirt tails, he pulls out his erection, hard and veiny, with a bulbous, purple tip.
Do I tell him to go to hell? That I’m not his whore?
‘Course not.
He places a hand on my shoulder and with gentle pressure, lets me know what he wants.
And I’m so here for it.
God forgive me.
I grab one of the dirty towels and pile it under my knees to protect them from the hard bathroom floor tiles. I look at Niko right there, right in front of my face, and recall the couple other times—I think I was still in high school—when I sucked a guy’s hard-on. It was okay, not horrible, but I have never been eager to do it again.
Not that I had the chance. The one pseudo-boyfriend I had for less than a month was scared off. Apparently, he didn’t want to tell his parents he was dating a girl whose dad owned a pawn shop. It wasn’t respectable enough for them. I didn’t bother with guys after that. Too much trouble.
But this is different. I don’t know why, but it is.
I want Niko in my mouth so I can pleasure him like I see on the porn sites I watch on my phone when I touch myself at night. I want to hear him moan, breathe hard, and call my name when he explodes.
Any shyness or hesitation that might have plagued me in real life—before the Alekseevs—is nonexistent.
“Go ahead. Take it, pretty girl,” he says quietly.
A shiver of anticipation darts down my spine as I look up at him and he smiles back, like I’m good and obedient. I love it.
I wrap my hand around his girth, so fat my fingers don’t meet, and lean forward to taste the drop of clear liquid on his tip.
