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Somewhere inside, I’m quaking.
I’m a mess.
There’s erotic-edged fear that comes with the unknown, honed perfectly to slice into me and carve out whatever punishment or overwhelming pleasure he feels fit to inflict. There’s a fear this time that he’ll take it all away for good, that he’ll refuse to deliver.
There’s the hypnotic anticipation, because they all end in the same place, but getting there…that’s the wild beat that sparks the connection.
I know he’s going to always, at some point, bring so much pleasure, I could melt into him. The journey is always new and well-trod, pagan and holy, sweet and dark, perfection each and every time.
“Keep telling me about it, Rose.”
I do. He pulls panties back up to settle on my hips, to cover my pussy, letting my hands rest on his shoulders as he does so.
Rising, he kisses each nipple, the flick of his tongue a flame. Then, he puts me in a bra, followed by what feels like a button down top and something around my neck. He smooths stockings up my leg and wraps what I think is a skirt around my waist.
All through it, I tell him how I want to run the bar, create jobs, craft a business I can call my own, make him proud.
I want him proud of me. I want to be useful. I want to show him I can be the mafia queen he needs; maybe not always going into battle and running illegal enterprises, but a place where things can be hidden in plain sight.
Even more, I want a haven for the mafia refugees, for those who’ve been burned by the life through no fault of their own, who need a way to stay under a protective umbrella but not soak themselves in blood.
I want him to see I’m worthy of him in every single way.
“There.” He pulls something over whatever outfit he has me in and does it up. Then, he removes the tie and puts it back on himself. “You’re perfect, Rose.”
His eyes have a fire I know, all sex and depraved thoughts. It’s heat that’s just for me, and his mouth curves.
“Where are we going?”
“Put your shoes on.”
I look down and wrinkle my nose. “Flats?”
“Time and place, Rose,” he says, like I asked what’s going on.
“Yes, Niko.”
“Nikolai.”
The hint of tease and sweet warmth in his voice sends my heart spinning. Most, I know, would run, but not me. I want this. Love this. Love him.
He holds out his arm, and I take it.
* * *
The area we’re in is unexpected, on the west edges of the city, where there are glass luxury buildings, car dealers, warehouses, and dozens of galleries.
Nikolai leads me up a street, and I realize with a jolt that we’re passing a lot of low-key places. Gentlemen’s clubs, low down and dirty no matter the framing. We stop in an alley between two buildings, and a hard-faced man nods at Nikolai like he knows him, and anger sings through me.
“This way, Mr. Wilder.”
“Seems you’re known, Mr. Wilder,” I mutter like I’m reading out a list of all his crimes. “There better be a good reason for that.”
“Jealous?”
“Of him?”
Nikolai laughs. “Never change, Rose.”
