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She attempted to thrust upward, but his hand, dragging down until it rested on her hip, held her in place.
“Fuck me, Vincent,” she begged, trying again to thrust herself upward.
Amusement lit his eyes. “I’m the one who gives orders here,” he said, pushing himself inside her just enough that she saw stars and panted beneath him. “I have half a mind to fuck you raw until you’re begging me to stop,” he said.
That waspreciselywhat Kiera wanted. “Then do it,” she taunted, giving him a look of challenge.
He narrowed his eyes. “I knew you’d be fun,” he commented, tightening his grip on her wrists and thrusting into her with such force that her next gasp of pleasure transformed into a shout. The hand that had been holding her hip to the ground moved to her mouth, covering the noises she made for him.
He thrust again and again, peering down at her muffled moans and shouts of pleasure. His pleasure was written across the entirety of his face as he ground his teeth and used her in whatever way he pleased. She writhed and wriggled beneath him, wanting desperately for her noises to be freed, but he didn’t allow a single moan past his hand. The world around her dipped and reformed as every ounce of her went into the pleasure of her climax. Building slowly and crashing simultaneously, she’d never experienced something so blissful.
When he came, finally releasing her wrists and mouth, his spilled across her stomach and the rug beneath them, roaring his satisfaction.
For the first time, Kiera could see the appeal of losing control with a man. She could see the danger and the excitement it offered as a reward. If tonight was any indicator, losing control was worth it.
10
The life story that she’d spoken during their first dinner had haunted his mind since covering Kiera in paint and fucking her. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had challenged him, and he craved more. The goal she had to leave and never return to Philadelphia put a hitch in his plans, and it provoked a sense of fear within him.
He’d never been afraid of losing a woman, but he’d never had anyone like Kiera before now.
James, the bookkeeper of all the different organized crime units—the one who kept the government from looking too closely at the various businesses and dealings—leaned back in his chair and twirled a pen. James had been assigned to their splinter cell to assist Marco with the companies and to be a general backup man if Luca’s or Vincent’s missions required it.
He didn’t fit into their cell. Not like the others.
James wasn’t a killer like the rest.
“Art exhibitions are hard to put together, especially with such short notice,” James countered Vincent’s earlier proposal adamantly.
“Well, then get local artists or famous artists. I don’t care whose art you display as long as you include one piece I have lined up,” Vincent argued.
James’ expression remained unmoved. “The charity event we have scheduled is an author’s reading. We have an expected turnout of over one hundred wealthy clients, and we can’t change the booking now. She’s a bestseller, Rossi.”
“And we’re going to include painters, too.”
“What’s your stake in this?” he asked, leaning forward and placing his arms on his desk. Without the light of the computer illuminating his dark skin, it blended with the dark color of his suit.
“My stake doesn’t matter.”
“It sure as hell does,” James argued, placing a hand on the event plan book. “I organize events like this to make us an important part of the community. To distract the people from some of the nastier things we do. I will not sacrifice an entire event if you don’t have a reason for asking me to do so, and it better be a good reason.”
Vincent wouldn’t disclose Kiera’s identity—not to more people.
“I’ll owe you a favor,” Vincent promised. A favor from Vincent was big and not something he gave freely. Even Luca, who removed a bomb from Vincent’s car, wasn’t offered a favor from Vincent, though Vincent would surely help the man if the situation called for it out of solidarity.
But a favor?
The offer made James lean back in his seat,d examining Vincent’s expression for any indication of a lie.
Vincent didn’t lie, and James knew that.
“An art exhibit and an author reading all at once,” James said, nodding. “It’s going to take some additional resources.”
“But you’ll do it.” Vincent didn’t phrase it as a question. “Plan the second part of the event in the gallery a block away from the reading. It’s a good location.”
James nodded in confirmation as the door to his office swung open. James and Vincent got to their feet in a rush, facing the door with hardened expressions. To Vincent’s surprise, James had his gun drawn and pointed to the door before even Vincent could unholster his.
The three men who walked orderly into the room dispersed and palmed their guns, pointing them at Vincent and James. The situation appeared precarious, and had it not been for the branded mafia symbol peeking from the sleeves of two of the men, Vincent knew he would have pulled the trigger without a moment’s hesitation.
