14. Chapter Fourteen

With deft flicks of my wrists, I guide the paintbrush in short strokes, blending shades of blue and yellow across the canvas. I took up painting simply as a means to relieve stress, hoping to channel my tension into colors and shapes.

I dragged out my easel again tonight, telling myself that between painting myself to exhaustion and finishing the bottle of red I just opened, I’ll get some decent sleep tonight.

Or die trying.

For the fourth night in a row, I can’t sleep. Not a single wink. Because I can’t stop thinking about him.

That last phone call shifted something between us. It was as though an unspoken pact had been formed, with some part of me expecting Nico to call every night to share the unfolding events of his life.

But he hasn’t. Not for a week now. Not since that phone call.

I tell myself it’s because his line of work is dangerous and I just need to know that he’s safe, not because I miss talking to him.

“Why would I fucking miss him? He’s just a criminal,” I mutter, swiping my brush against the blue background in a satisfying streak of bold red paint.

“He’s probably even forgotten I exist. I’m sure he’s busy gorging up on women like the damned brunette on the plane who all but devoured him with her eyes. And let’s not forget the hundreds of ‘women he fucks,’damsels in distress he rescues who eagerly fall into bed and have wild sex with the big bad mafia guy.”

Or maybe he got hurt. Like seriously hurt. A knife wound. A bullet in a vital organ. Shit. The thought of that twists my gut.

Before I can stop myself, I grab my phone and scroll again. I can’t call him—he rang me from an unknown number—I just want to see the call log again because, well, I’m pathetic.

I stop scrolling on that call from last week and stare at the call details. It was at 1:14 AM. Lasted 22 min 56 secs.

I really, really loved that phone call. He talked, and I listened. Then I told him my fears, things I’d never told anyone else, and he listened.

And I must be the biggest idiot alive, mooning over a man that, frankly, I should be ecstatic if he never shows up again. I angrily swipe away until my eyes snag on Mags. I check the time on my phone to see it’s nearly midnight. Harmony is two hours behind Chicago so it’s not too late to call Mags.

She answers almost immediately, “Took you long enough, Sparrow,” Mags accuses.

“It’s not even been a month, Mags, I protest.

“Well, I suppose I can’t blame you. If I had me a man as hot as yours, I’d be choking so good on him it’d take me a while to come up for air too—with Razor’s permission, of course.”

“Mags! Geez… first of all, eww. I think I threw up a little bit in my mouth.”

Too late, I realize that was the wrong thing to say when Mags starts to cackle. “Well, isn’t that the whole point of gagging?”

“Seriously, Mags, I’m hanging up,” I warn.

I can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “Oh, you’re no fun at all, Sparrow. Sometimes I wonder about you.”

Even though Mags is only two years my senior, her wisdom, experience, sexual liberation, and sheer embodiment of bad bitch-ness make her seem ages ahead. And the sort of things she and Razor get up to makes me blush to my ears thinking about them.

“Anyway, Sophs, how are you? Why did you leave in such a huff with the mafia guy?”

“He’s not—”

“Shush, you think Phoenix wouldn’t look into him the moment he stepped into the clubhouse? And at Rafe’s burial, no less?”

“He was my date. Im allowed to bring one of those.”

“Yes, but not one who shows up wearing signet rings that scream cult and acts like the Prez and Veep are his men-at-arms! I don’t know if youve taken a look at the bikers in Reaper Druids MC, but those men are as scary as fuck. They make grown men piss in their pants. And make grown women simply… piss.”

“Jesus, Mags!”

She chortles, “Anyway, you know what I mean.”

Its true. My dad, at fifty-two, is two hundred pounds of solid muscle and has almost more tattoos than skin.

“So what’s the deal with him? You two were hot and heavy the night before, and the morning after, it was like the Arctic.”

I take a large sip of the red wine and then go back to peering at my easel. It started out as an abstract of calm emotions, but somehow, it’s become a cocktail of reds and yellows and a rare periwinkle blue that accurately captures Nico’s eye color. I don’t even recall mixing that shade of blue. I would blame it on the wine, except this is still my first glass.

“Mags, it’s complicated.”

“No, I think it’s pretty simple. How does he make you feel?”

I shake my head, take another sip of wine, and paint.

A memory flashes in my head. It was one of the club’s charity car washes. I remember the classic black Mustang that Rafe stole later that night, and I’d tagged along just to experience the heady rush of adrenaline that driving a stolen car gives.

I’d told Mags all about it the next day. She was eighteen at the time and was still a club hopeful who hung around Razor and the other bikers. Mags was the big sister I never had, and we’d kicked up a friendship.

“Remember the Mustang Rafe stole that summer you came to us?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Being with Nico reminds me of that day.”

“Hmm, so you’re just doing it for the thrill? It’s just sex, right?”

That’s a good question since I haven’t even slept with the man. “It’s not—” I begin, but the sound of knocking cuts me short. “Uh, hang on, Mags. There’s someone at the door… I think it’s Cade.”

“Good, put him on. He owes me a call, too.”

Cade has shown up at my door late at night between undercover jobs and crashed on my couch more times than I can count. Nevertheless, wise woman that I am, I reach for my knife as I go to the front door and peer into the peephole.

Only, it’s not Cade standing on my front porch. It’s Nico. My heart pounds as I blink and look again just to be sure—not at all because I want another look at him.

“Um, Mags, I’ll, uh, have to call you back okay?”

“Shit, it’s him, isn’t it?” Mags guesses right, probably from the tremor in my voice, but I don’t respond. I simply disconnect the call.

“What are you doing here?” I ask through the door, trying to ignore the heat surging through my body and my suddenly drenched panties.

Wow. I’ve become Pavlov’s dog. How fucking great is that?

It’s only been one week since he was last in my office. One week since the damned phone call I can’t forget.

He just stands there waiting with his jaw clenched, looking like the poster boy for angry sex and sin and everything I shouldn’t want.

So, of course, I step back and open the door because it seems my self-restraint has puddled somewhere around my toes.

The light above the front porch shines down on him, highlighting his chiseled cheekbones and the hard set of his jaw.

I open my mouth to say something—though I have no idea what—but I don’t get the chance.

“I haven’t had sex in a month,” he says, his brow furrowed like this is a very serious problem.

I give him a thorough once-over, from tousled dark hair to the broad expanse of his shoulders down to the slender lines of his hips. “What, have you been living under a rock?” The question slips out before I can stop it. “Because that’s the only scenario I can imagine where you’d struggle to get laid.”

He laughs, but there’s no humor in it, then he steps past me and into my home.

Okay, well, do come in. I wasn’t having an indulgent night of painting and pining—really.

I close the door as he looks around.

“You’ve been drinking,” he says as his gaze takes in the wine bottle and half-full glass on the coffee table. And painting.”

I chuckle. “Your observation skills are as keen as ever.”

“Are you drunk?” he asks as his brow furrows again.

I consider the question for a moment, then shake my head. A full glass of wine might mess with my restraint and brain-mouth filter, but I’ve not had even that, so my faculties are all there. “I’m sober enough to know this isn’t a good idea.”

“For who?”

Good question. I only shrug in response, then return to my painting. I pick up the brush but my hands are too shaky to do much, so I put it back down.

“I told you I’d give you a week.”

“I don’t have an answer yet.”

He comes to stand beside me in front of the easel. “Cool. You can take another week. But I really, really need to fuck you tonight.”

My core clenches almost painfully, but I keep my voice even. “Because you haven’t had sex?”

“Because I want you,” he snaps. “Christ, I can’t get you out of my fucking head!”

“Well, that hardly seems like it’s my fault,” I say, still staring at the canvas, but inside, his confession shoots through me like liquid crack. In my defense, what sensible woman wouldn’t want to be the fixation of a dangerous mafia don?

“Of course, it’s your fault. Everything from your impudent mouth to your goddamned understanding to your fucking perfect ass.” He lifts a hand to my jaw, turning me to face him. “The worst part is you were right.”

“Yeah, I hate it when that happens,” I snark. “What exactly was I right about this time?”

“Talking to you was… helpful for me,” he spits out like a curse.

Damn. There is that. Except when Nico talks to me, all my training goes out of the window. I don’t do it as a therapist to a client. I do it because I get perverse joy, an emotional high, and intense sexual arousal from talking to him. I never want to stop when I start.

“Put the knife down, baby,” Nico whispers.

I didn’t realize I was still gripping the knife in my other hand. Instantly, I open my fist and let the dagger clatter to the floor at the same time his mouth swoops down to capture mine.

And then he isn’t just close; he’s all around me, seeping into my pores as he delves for my lips, kissing me with almost bruising fervor.

A sigh escapes me as his tongue sweeps into my mouth, silkily gliding against mine. How can a man so bad taste this good? I want to get lost in his kiss until I can’t breathe.

He drags his fingers through my hair, grabs it, and twists it around his fist twice, holding me securely as he devours me and overwhelms my senses. The minty flavor of his mouth, the woodsy vetiver scent of him, the faint scrape of his five oclock shadow—they wend their way inside me, making my pulse race and my breathing come faster.

For some reason, the black Mustang flashes behind my eyes. Its sleek paint job and smooth leather seats, the purr of its engine, and the wind in my hair as Rafe flew down the backroads at eighty miles an hour.

It was wrong and illegal. And not something I’d ever do again. But it had felt so damned good. Nico feels better than good. I grip his muscular shoulders, and when that isnt enough, I trail my hands up his neck and into his hair.

“Forget the black and white box, Sophie,” as though reading my mind, he whispers harshly against my lips as he wedges his thigh between my legs, pressing up against my clit. The friction shoots right through me.

“God, that feels good.” The words slip out on a sigh.

He moves again, grinding my clit against his thigh. “Not as good as you feel, Sophie.” His praise is like purring engines and rushing wind.

Fuck rules. Fuck morals. And everything else I’ve been struggling to live my life by.

Tonight, the Reaper roots win.

I curl my fingers deeper into his hair, no longer able to fight the pull of darkness.

He delves for my lips again, taking them with such bold hunger it makes my mouth open wider for him to do what he wants because, damn, the man can kiss. He plunges and glides; it’s like sex in my mouth, making my breasts ache and my core tighten with need.

He suddenly tears his lips away, reaches between us instead, and yanks my shirt off over my head so fast, he may have left rugburn.

He freezes, his fingertips coasting over the tattoo on my torso. Then he makes a feral sound deep in his throat as he hooks his fingers between my breasts and jerks his hands, ripping my lacy bra right off.

Well, two can play that game.

I grab hold of his shirt and pull. Hard.

Buttons fly, pinging off the floor in every direction, and I yank his shirt and jacket off him, revealing his lick-able torso. My lips actually tingle at the prospect of sampling all that hard, etched flesh.

But as I lean in for a taste, he lifts me up, throwing me over his shoulder like a goddamned caveman.

“Bedroom?” he growls, but he’s already on the move.

I squeal and flail as he crosses my living room and strides down the short hallway, but the effort is nominal at best. Caveman Nico is totally doing it for me, making me more desperate for him by the second.

My bedroom door is open; he has no trouble finding it. Inside, he stops at the side of the bed and drops me on it with my legs hanging over the edge. I land on my back, bouncing. Before I can right myself, he grabs hold of my shorts and thong, yanks them off, and shoves my thighs apart, stepping between them while his eyes graze greedily over my body.

When his eyes hit my pussy, his hand follows, grazing a finger along my slit and sliding deep inside me, immediately withdrawing a little.

“Oh, god,” I gasp as he hits my G-spot on the first stroke. Not only can the man kiss, he can finger like a freaking pro. Perfect.

He keeps it up, thrusting in over and over again. He hits the sweet spot each time, proving it was no fluke and making it feel like there’s a coil inside me, winding tighter and tighter.

He leans over me, palming my breast with his free hand while he suckles the other nipple into his mouth, sending hot jolts of pleasure traveling down a straight line to my pussy.

“You’re so wet, Sophie. Look at you making a mess all over my hand.”

“Oh fuck, Nico,” I cry, helplessly tightening around his finger at his words. He presses in a second finger, and I start to feel the first tingling pressure of an orgasm, mounting, building.

He keeps it up, fingering, sucking on my hard nipples, and grazing them gently with his teeth, while I moan and run my hands over everything I can reach. His shoulders, the back of his neck, down the rolling muscles of his back to where his pants impede further exploration.

He feels too good; I’m not sure I could hold out if I tried, but I don’t try. His fingers thrust once more, and I rocket over the edge, coming hard as I cry out and tremble for him.

He leans up and slides his fingers out of me. I already know what’s coming next and I can’t wait to see the rest of him. There’s a command in his eyes as he looks at me.

Stay, he says without actually saying it into the back pocket of his pants.

Ha! I don’t think so.

I sit up and undo his belt, the supple leather yielding easily under my fingers. My mouth waters in anticipation as I unzip his pants and yank them down over his ass, along with his black boxer briefs. His hard cock springs free. It’s big and thick and so freaking perfect it makes my pussy gush in anticipation of stretching to take his girth. And finally, I get a glimpse of the metal that pierces the plump head.

I wrap my hand around the base of his cock and stroke upward, coming just shy of the sensitive ridge. Then again, and again. When I work my hand higher, catching the metal beneath my fingers, he groans, grabs my wrist and pulls it away.

Before I can object, he rolls on a condom one-handed. Wrapping his large hand around my throat, he pushes me back down on the bed.

“Be a good girl now. Put your hands high above your head and spread your legs,” he gruffly commands.

How is it even possible that I had an orgasm less than two minutes ago?

I moan, shaking with lust, my brain emptying of every other thought except doing what Nico wants.

When he pins my hands to the mattress and grabs hold of his cock with his free hand, notching himself against me, fireworks go off somewhere in my brain. My stomach muscles contract, and my heart pounds.

God, yes. Now.

But he lingers there, the plush head of his erection pressed against my entrance. He’s looking at me. There’s a brief flicker of emotion in his dark pupils, one that somehow seems foreign even to him. I can’t quite read it.

“How do you want it?” he bites out.

Oh. Well, I never would have pegged an arrogant, dominant mafia man as a considerate lover, but I can’t say I’m disappointed.

I whisper, “Umm, don’t hold back?” I’m not exactly sure what I’m signing up for here, but I know I’m so done with boring sex and careful choices, accountants and dentists. I want the raw, feral energy that’s radiating from the man above me. I want to swim in it, be consumed by it.

His eyes flare as he grabs hold of my hip and enters me with a powerful thrust that fills and stretches me to my breaking point.

“Fuck!” I cry out, my hands fist, and my back arches, innately resisting his girth, but he doesn’t let me. He withdraws and slams back in, keeping my hip and wrists pinned against the bed.

And then, I feel it; the stroke of his cock and the rub of his piercing against my inner walls.

“Oh, god,” My toes curl as pleasure converges with a bite of pain, creating something else, something that sends the coil inside me spinning wildly out of control.

He keeps it up, thrusting hard. Fast. Deep. So deep the head of his cock slams against my cervix.

“Nico,” I gasp, my skin awash with tingles of sensation rippling around from where we’re joined. He feels incredible, filling and stretching me in a way that drives me crazy. It’s too much, too fast.

“Oh my God, Nico, slow down,” I gasp.

He immediately does as I ask, but then he lifts my leg to curl around his shoulder and opens me up to his slow, deep thrusts, which end in his pelvis hitting my clit. He does it again, withdrawing almost all the way, then slamming back in, his smooth piercing dragging along my walls.

“Jesus! Nico,”I think I see stars. Okay, now this is something else entirely.

“Cosa vuoi, tesoro?”

I know from the inflection in his tone that he’s asking me something, “Huh?”

As if just realizing I had no idea what he said, he switches to English, keeping up the slow, maddeningly deep thrusts. “What do you want, baby?”

I still have no fucking clue. I only know I’m going to explode into a million pieces if he keeps driving that delicious hard length into me the way he is right now. “Don’t stop,” I beg, feeling the relentless pressure building inside me.

Over and over again, my G-spot and clit are stimulated like never before. Harder and faster. My moans turn to cries as the coil winds up so tight it aches, desperate for release.

He’s staring at me; not my tits or my pussy or even the artwork on my body. His eyes are on my face, watching my pleasure. I feel uncovered and exposed in a way that seems too intimate for what this is.

And then he starts to speak to me again in Italian. Scorching hot, dirty things that make my pussy cream so much and spasm around his thick cock. It’s not about the words. It’s how he says them and the look on his face when he does. It should make me uncomfortable, but instead, I want to watch him back, to see the play of lust across his chiseled features, to see the fire in his irises, which are mostly black now.

And then I can’t hold on anymore; the pressure inside me too overwhelming, and as he thrusts once more, white-hot pleasure shocks right through me in a release that makes me scream.

“Christ,” Nico hisses while my inner walls grip him over and over again.

He throws back his head and his fingers dig into my hip as he follows me over the edge. His cock swells, and he shouts my name, making it reverberate off the walls as he comes.

He remains deep inside me, watching me until my breathing evens and the spasming in my core settles into occasional twitches. Then his fingers ease up on my hip, and he lets go of my wrists. I meet his gaze, expecting to see that semi-vacant, post-sex glaze that most men seem to assume after sex. But his eyes are clear and assessing, making me feel that same exposed sensation as before.

“You feel good, Sophie. So fucking good,” he says, then bends to capture my lips in a leisurely kiss. My hands, finally free to move, greedily roam around the ebbs and dips of his back and shoulders and down to his waist. Just when I think he might start thrusting again since his erection hasn’t flagged, he withdraws.

“Catch some shut-eye; then I’m fucking you again, fiammetta.”

Little fiery one.

Yep, finally looked it up. I obsessed over every single word Nico said to me last week.

“No arguments there,” I smile as Nico’s weight depresses the bed beside me. Then his hands are beneath my arms, pulling me up higher on the bed.

His movements feel unpracticed and jerky. Like he’s not accustomed to dragging post-orgasmic women around in bed. I have a feeling he or the woman would usually be out of the door by now. I decide that’s probably a good thing and let my body relax as he settles in next to me.

I feel the weight of his arm drape over me, and the heat of his body against me is better than a hot fire on a cold night. Better than a stolen Mustang.

Druids until the Reaper takes me to hell.

“Scusa?”

Oh.I hadn’t realized I said that aloud. “Um, it’s only something they say back home.”

“I know. I heard it a few times. I just didn’t imagine I’d ever hear you say it,” he quietly admits, as if to himself.

I turn over in his arms and splay my hand over his tattoo, suddenly needing to know what it means. “Nico?”

“Hmm?”

“What does this say?” My finger trails over the elaborate lettering.

When he hesitates, scowling, I roll my eyes and murmur sleepily. “Italian is not a secret cult language, you know. I can always find out.”

“Sangue dentro. Sangue fuori.” He grits out. “Blood in. Blood out. And don’t ask me what that means.”

“Duh. Simple. It’s a much more boring version of ‘pinky swear,’” I yawn, letting my head drop onto his chest. “I like the Druids’s version better, though. It makes it sound like a fun secret club where they share cookies and candy floss.”

I think I hear his rumbling laughter against my cheek, but it might be in my dreams because that has to be the only place where blood oaths and sugar rushes collide.