Hitman's Promise: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Read online

  “Anything,” I say, trying not to glance at my father, lying so still on the ground. “I’ll give you anything you want.”

  “Yeah,” he says, eyeing me like a leopard from a tree. “You will.”

  Chapter Six

  Kennedy

  What the fuck am I doing? What the royal fuck am I doing? I never toy with the skips. Once I find them, I never kill time or fuck around. That only makes room for error. And here I am, creating a whole day of error. This chick has my brains scrambled.

  I glance back at her as she climbs the stairs behind me. To the third floor. Where my hotel room is. We left her father and the goons locked in their rooms.

  I unlock my hotel room door and do a cursory glance to make sure nothing has been disturbed. And then the door clicks shut. We’re alone.

  I flick on a lamp and the light washes over her. Her nipples are beaded against her purple dress and one of her hands trembles. Hair springs out of her ponytail. She is so goddamn hot.

  “So. What do you want me to do for you?” she asks, her voice cool. I can tell she thinks I’m just as bad as Esposito. But she came with me to get away from him. So she must prefer me a little bit.

  I walk across the room to the bathroom and wash my hands, eyeing her in the bathroom mirror. She doesn’t move an inch. I come back, sitting in the desk chair and stretching my legs out in front of me. “What do you want to do for me?”

  She eyes me like she can sense the trick in the question.

  “I want to walk out of here, load my father into a cab and go to the airport,” she says. “I want to disappear into the world where you and Esposito will never find me.”

  Impossible. There is nowhere on Earth I couldn’t find her. But I don’t say it out loud. She’s scared. As soon as we came into my room, the lust I’d been sensing from her dried up. I can literally see her heartbeat through the thin fabric of her dress. I’m not a monster. I don’t want to traumatize the girl.

  But as my eyes drop down her body I realize that I’m not a saint either. I inwardly shrug. I’m not a hasty man. We have an entire day to see if we can reignite that moment at the bar, and in the hallway, and on the bed. If we can’t, well… For some reason I can’t finish that sentence.

  I’m on my feet and walking over to her. I can see that she wants to step back from me but doesn’t. It’s like she’s trying to look tough. Her cherry-red hair spills everywhere, her plump bottom lip caught between her teeth.

  I take her by the hand and lead her to the bed. “I’m gonna tie you to the bed again.”

  She nods, like she thought it was an inevitability.

  “You’re a smart lady, Row Rourke Ph.D. Do you know what kind of knot this is?”

  She looks up and studies the complicated weaving my hands are doing over her wrist.

  She nods again, a resigned understanding comes over her face.

  I say it out loud, just so there’s no confusion. “If you tug on this knot, it’s going to tighten against your wrist. Very fast. And seeing as I’m going to take a shower in a second, you could lose the circulation in your hand for a full fifteen minutes.”

  She nods and for some reason I wish she would speak. I stare her in the eye until she gets the picture.

  “I won’t pull,” she says, her voice low.

  I rise, two steps toward the bathroom when she speaks again. “I’m smarter than you, Jones.” A smile flashes through me at her defiance, but I don’t turn around and show it to her. “I won’t tug on this rope, but I am going to figure a way out of this.”

  I step into the bathroom and shut the door, stripping off my clothes. I crank the shower on and step in. I wish she would figure a way out of this. Something brilliant and undeniable. Something that would fool me, completely incapacitate me.

  The thought is like ice water down my back, even though the shower water is steamy hot. I can’t believe I’m even thinking something like that. Esposito would skin me alive if he knew I was having thoughts like that. Thoughts that would deprive him of what he wants.

  My stomach tightens and roils. Row. He wants Row. I don’t blame him. She’s exquisite. And so hot I’d knock out my own teeth to touch her again. But I think of Esposito, his inky eyes and perfectly oiled hair. I picture one of his ringed hands sliding down her back.

  I taste the rage before I even feel it. Metallic and burning in my throat. I rip my hands through my hair and try to take a calming breath. Mechanically, I wash my body and hair. Maybe I just need to reset. Cool down. Take a walk around the block. This is crazy. What I’m feeling is crazy.

  You don’t just cross a warlord because you’ve got the hots for some girl. But a whirl of images pass through my head. Row studying an object at her dig site, her eyes so concentrated it was like a tornado could pass by without her noticing. Row’s bare feet as she walked past her bed last night. Row standing in that dress in the bar. The weight of Row’s leg over mine. Row’s voice when she called me her husband. Her mouth on mine.

  I lean my forehead against the cool tile of the shower. My life crumbling at my feet.

  Fuck. Even if my brain still has to come to terms with it, something within me has already decided.

  Fuck. Shit. Goddamn it.

  I’m not taking her to Esposito.

  Chapter Seven

  Row

  My mind is moving both too fast and too slow. I do a couple yoga breaths to start thinking clearly. There is a way out of this for me and my father. I just need to calm down and find it.

  My fear subsides with the deep breaths. I really don’t think I’m in imminent danger. But my thoughts are still cloudy. I realize the feeling that’s turning my brain to soup isn’t fear or confusion.

  It’s lust.

  God. What the heck. I stopped trying to mold myself into normality a long time ago. I was always different. The girl with the weirdo father. Smart in all the wrong ways. Always at the museum or library, wrapped up in some ancient riddle.

  But this seems beyond abnormal. This man has me tied up and at his complete whim. And I still want him. I can still taste his mouth from our kiss at the bar. I can feel his hands on me. So strong and rough. He’s graceful, but not gentle. The thought strikes through me like lightning. I don’t think I like gentle.

  I tug the tiniest little bit on the rope on my wrist. I can feel it tighten just a bit, its rough texture bites against my skin. I let out a gasp. I can feel the roughness everywhere. Like its sending electric currents all along my skin.

  I think about Jones in the shower. I refuse to call him Dwight. I know that’s not his first name. Nothing about this man says Dwight to me. His last name probably isn’t Jones either. But what else am I supposed to call him when I’m thinking about hot streams of water sluicing down his cut body?

  I can feel the lust clouding my thoughts again and I realize I have to do something about this. I have to get out from under how turned on I am. Then I’ll be able to think more clearly. I know what I have to do.

  I lift one of my legs and let my dress fall away. I drag my free hand up my thigh and immediately find my center. Wow. I’m really turned on. I’m ridiculously wet and ready. I can be really quick about this. And then afterwards, I’ll be clearer. I’ll be able to figure out how to get the hell out of here.

  I press my fingers into myself and it’s almost like I’ve flipped a switch. I’m back in the bar, one leg thrown over his lap. His hand is tight on my neck as his blue eyes bore into mine.

  On the bed, my hips are rising of their own accord, and I can hear my quiet breaths come out in pants.

  In my head, he’s shoving me face down on the leather of the booth. His lips are at my ear as his weight constricts me.

  “Stay quiet,” he tells me, one hand still on my neck. “If you make anyone turn around, you’re gonna get punished.”

  I glance around at the bar and see the other patrons are talking with one another, drinking their drinks, gazing at nothing. I realize that he means that he’s gonna fuck me rig
ht here, with no one noticing.

  I nod to tell him I understand and the next thing I know, my dress is being shoved up my legs. I feel his warmth, the scratch of his clothes followed by his warm skin. Something hard is pressing against my wet opening. And then he’s inside.

  In reality, my own hand is flinging me toward ecstasy, but it’s not quite enough. What I need is the real thing. But I can’t have it. I have to take what I can get.

  So I force my mind back to the bar, where he’s got me facedown, and he’s pumping into me, one hand over my mouth to keep me quiet.

  I’m close. I’m so close. I can feel the leather of the booth on my cheek, the weight of him over top of me. His breath at my ear. His hand over my mouth.

  “Did I say you could touch yourself?”

  My eyes fly open and I freeze. I’m back to reality. And he’s there. Standing in the bathroom doorway, the towel around his waist. Water drips down over his chest. And he’s staring at me. His eyes heat me up, pull me toward him. Even from across the room, it’s like I’m falling into them.

  “Answer me.” His deep voice cracks like a whip.

  I shake my head no. He didn’t tell me that I could do that. And for some reason, it makes a flood of wetness seep out onto my fingers, still firmly in place at my core.

  He leans against the door jam, deceptively relaxed. He surveys me like a jungle cat as my hips rise a tiny bit, of their own accord. My blood is still pumping through me. My heart racing. Images of him holding me down at the bar slide over top of images of him in real life, damp from the shower and watching me.

  “Take your hand away,” he growls and I can’t help but whimper as I follow directions. I need release so badly, and his orders only turn me on more.

  He chuckles humorlessly. “Poor baby,” he says. “You need to come, don’t you?”

  At this point, I am beyond caring that I’m completely at his whim. I’m adrift in a sea of uncertainties right now, my life has been completely tossed out to sea. And in a weird way, he’s the only thing tethering me to land. He’s my only lifeline.

  “I need to come,” I whisper and his eyes go darker, the sky at midnight. One of his hands opens and closes at his side. At this point, it’s very clear that I’m not going to be allowed to come unless he says it’s ok. So I go for broke. “I need you.”

  It’s like something snaps. His eyes flare at my words, and he’s done reclining against the wall. He’s standing, his arms crossed aggressively over his chest. His biceps bulge and I’m struck again at how big he is. He’s lithe and trim, but he’s also fucking built. The towel is draped over his hips and reveals above it the perfect V of muscles at the bottom of his stomach. A light dusting of hair covers his chest and trails downwards. And his shoulders. Good sweet Cleopatra, his shoulders. I feel another wave of wetness gush through me.

  I can see that my words have affected him.

  “I can make you come right now. But you better realize something. This isn’t going to be some Romeo bullshit.” He’s calm. Deadly calm. “This isn’t some chick flick drag-a-rose-down-your-delicate-body kind of sex.” He takes a step toward me and my hips lift again, like I’m being drawn toward him. “I’m going to fuck you, Row.” I can’t help but let out a heavy breath at his words. “And you’re gonna like it. In fact, you’re gonna beg for more.”

  “Is that an order?” I ask quietly, barely recognizing my own trembling voice.

  He shrugs, tossing his towel aside and walking toward me. “It’s a fact.”

  I can’t help but moan again as I watch him stalk toward me. My eyes have traveled all the way down his body and are just stuck on one particular part of his anatomy. Good Lord. Good God. Good all the gods. I’ve never seen a more perfect cock in my entire life. It’s hard and straining and huge as hell. I can’t take my eyes away.

  And then he’s standing over me. I’m just inches away from him, but he doesn’t touch me. Instead, he deftly undoes the knot that’s holding my wrist to the headboard. He lowers my arm and quickly rubs out my shoulder, my wrist. It’s not a gentle touch. Not a lover’s touch. It’s utilitarian, rough. Then my arm is back over my head, along with the other one. And he trusses me up, both hands tied together to the headboard. I automatically grip the bars and he smiles. Like the sight pleases him.

  Next, he steps back and looks at me. He grips the bottom of my dress and pulls it up, over my head and over my arms. He tosses it up, over the headboard and then steps back again.

  I can see the heat flare in his eyes as he takes in my red lace bra and panties, the gun strapped to my thigh.

  “Now why would an archaeologist wear lace panties?” he asks me, his head cocked to one side.

  “I like the way it feels,” I mutter. “Against my skin.”

  He nods, and continues to stare at me. I need him to touch me so badly. But he’s not. He’s just looking.

  “Spread,” he says, his voice a rigid command.

  I plant my heels on the bed and let my knees fall open. He studies me, his head cocked to one side.

  “For someone who says she doesn’t want to be here, you’re very wet, Row.”

  I nod. I don’t care if it doesn’t make sense. “I need you,” I say again.

  I watch as his dick jumps and his eyes darken further. It seems I’ve hit a button. It’s the second time I’ve said that and the second time I’ve seen it elicit a reaction from him. I file that information away.

  He cocks his head to one side and just looks at me. “Have you done this before?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “Been tied to a bed by a potential kidnapper?”

  His eyes darken, and I can’t tell if it’s from anger or lust. “Has a man touched you before?”

  There’s something dark in his voice. Something deep.

  “Because trust me, Row, what’s about to happen here is not for a virgin.”

  Brain.

  Dead.

  Sorry, thoughts, we had a good run. But it’s my body’s turn to take over. Maybe it would be smarter to come up with some lie. Some strategy. He knows so much that I need to start hiding anything that I can. But he’s short-circuiting me. His words, his presence. All I can do is just go with the truth.

  “I’ve been with men… a few times.” I can barely get the words out over the wave of lust for him that I’m currently riding.

  “How many,” he spits out the words.

  I’m not sure if he means men or times, so I answer everything. I’m so anxious to have him touch me right now I’d tell him my social security number. Though, he probably already knows it, being as he hunted me down.

  “I-I’ve slept with two men. I had sex with each of them once.”

  Something like satisfaction flashes over his face and he uncrosses his arms. I automatically brace myself. Something is about to happen.

  “No, you didn’t,” he says and stares me in the eyes. I feel that magnet feeling again. The one where he’s gravity and I’m every object on the earth. “Those men don’t fucking exist.”

  Well, technically they do, I hadn’t been lying to him. But I snap my mouth closed when he takes a step toward me.

  Finally. He’s coming closer to me.

  “Those men never existed. Only I exist for you. You hear me?”

  I quickly nod, twisting my legs together against the passion that is rising within me. A look of satisfaction crosses over his face, and he takes another step forward. Yes. Just a little bit closer, then maybe I’ll get some relief. My thighs press together.

  He kneels on the bed. Between my legs. He’s crouched like a jungle cat. His eyes flash in the dark and every single muscle in my body clenches, tightens, screams for release.

  “Where have you been touched?” he asks. The question is strange, unexpected. But his tone of voice makes it familiar. He’s commanding me. Owning me. Somehow, it’s not a question, it’s a demand for information. Information that he already owns because he owns me.

  I move my hands to sho
w him where, but they’re lashed to the headboard. I look up at him helplessly.

  “Use your words, professor,” he says, a cocky grin spreading across his face. I want to hate the arrogant bastard, but his surety only makes me want him more.