Chapter 30

30

JJ

Going to have you. Going. To. Have. You. Goingtohave ? —

"Check!"

"Eh?" I glance down to find my queen exposed. "What the fuck?"

"Your mind's many miles away. Maybe it's with a certain young, dark-haired girl?" Liam drawls.

There's only the two of us at this table on the main floor of the 7A club in Mayfair.

Turns out, Sinclair Sterling had seen enough potential in my venture to buy 49% of the club. He wanted 51%, but I refused. He settled for 49% with the stipulation that the club be named after the investment company he and his six partners ran. Who was I to argue with that? He'd paid enough to have the venture turn profitable from day one. He also wanted each of the Seven to have veto powers on who to approve to the club, but that was fine by me. The club was going to pay in dividends many times over if the interest levels among those who had been invited to join was anything to go by. So far one of the biggest rock legends, a leading paleontologist, and a Pulitzer Prize winning war journalist had already agreed to be part of the fraternity. If they came to the club's premises even once in the next three hundred and sixty-five days, it would benefit every single one of the core board of members. So, this startup had matured straight out of the gate. Which couldn't be said about my current chess game.

"Shut your trap," I say blandly. I move my knight into position, then smirk. "Checkmate, motherfucker."

It's Liam's turn to scowl. He glares at the chessboard. The seconds tick by then he tips his king over. He holds out his hand and I shake it.

"Well recovered," he says mildly.

So, I haven't lost my balls completely. "It was close," I concede, then reach for my cigar and offer him one. "How're the wedding plans coming along?"

His features darken. He leans forward and I light his cigar. He straightens, puffs out a cloud of smoke, then pulls the cigar from his lips. "It's not the wedding that's a problem, but the wedding planner."

"What do you mean?"

"A wedding planner engaged by my bride-to-be who has to be the most annoying, most exasperating, most aggravating woman ever. She turns every wedding rehearsal into a cartoon show. She sets my teeth on edge, has my blood pressure going through the roof. I fear, at this rate, by the time we make it to the wedding, if we make it to the wedding, only one of us will remain standing, and it's not going to be her."

I whistle. "That's a little bloodthirsty, don't you think?"

He shoots me a sardonic look. "You haven't met this woman. She's tiny, this tiny" —he raises his hand so it's on level with his forehead when he's sitting down— "but she has a presence that's larger-than-life, a voice that's designed to cut the knees out from under a grown man, and that which distract everyone in sight—men and women. Not to mention, a temperament which has me wanting to push her into the nearest closet?—"

"—and follow her in."

"Eh?" He blinks, uncomprehending.

"Sounds like there's serious chemistry between the two of you."

"Oh, there's something between us all right, but it's not chemistry. It's one-hundred percent pure anger. We can't stand the sight of each other."

"Hmm." I take a puff from my own cigar. "You sure about that?"

"Of course, I am. Don't confuse your inability to keep your paws off the woman in closest proximity to you with my problem of wanting to throttle this annoying little hellfire?—"

"Shouldn't that be your bride-to-be?"

"What?"

"The woman in closest proximity to you most often, shouldn't she be your bride-to-be?"

His lips firm. "She is."

"What was her name again?"

"You mean Isla?"

"I mean your bride."

"Ah, her name is..." He blinks. "Is..." His throat moves as he swallows. "It'll come to me any second."

"Who are we talking about?" Michael Sovrano prowls over to drop into the third seat at our table.

"I see I made it in time to see Liam at a loss, again?" Sinclair smirks, then eases himself into the only remaining chair at our table.

"The wedding preparations getting to you?" Sinclair glances at the fallen king, then at Liam.

"I'm not the one with the attention span of a lizard, unlike..." He jerks his chin in my direction.

"A chameleon," I offer. "One who blends in with his surroundings and pounces when his prey is least expecting it."

"You planning a coup of some kind?" Michael asks in an interested voice.

"Something like that, yes," I agree.

"Hmm." Liam places his cigar on the ridge of the ashtray. "Sounds more like a takeover to me," he offers.

"Could be." I raise a shoulder. "But we were talking about Liam's upcoming nuptials."

"Who's the unlucky bride?" Sinclair asks.

"That's what I was trying to find out. Seems he doesn't have the foggiest idea who he's going to marry."

"A woman of good blood and high status with all the pre-requisites needed to become a good hostess and the mother of my children," Liam declares.

The three of us stare at him.

"What?" He frowns.

"You been watching a lot of Bridgerton ?" Sinclair finally asks.

"My sister likes to watch it, yes. How do you know about the series anyway?" He frowns.

"Summer and her sister Karma have been bingeing it, and I'm afraid I may have been coaxed into sitting in on some of the episodes," he explains.

"The one time I'm glad I wasn't there to accompany my wife." Michael's features wear an expression of horror.

"So, Summer and Karma are sisters? Which makes you" —I glance between Sinclair and Michael— "family."

"Brothers-in-law, as it turns out," Sinclair confirms, scowling at Michael, who returns the gaze with an expression of mild dislike.

This should be interesting. The two men are equally matched in power. Sinclair with his extensive interests in the business community in Europe, and Michael with his grip on organized crime, though he's legalized the vast majority of his businesses. Still, can one actually walk away from one's roots when they've been part of not only your life but also that of your forefathers? For decades, Michael's family has been synonymous with the Cosa Nostra . Could he really move them into more legalized businesses? And isn't it useful that the man who can play a key role in that is also his brother-in-law?

My phone buzzes. I glance at the tracking app to find the golden spot that represents Lena pop up very close to my location. "Eh? What is she doing here?"

"Who are you talking about?"

The door to the room swings open, and she steps in with a bag slung over her shoulder and a tablet in her hand. "There you are." She heads straight over to me. "I'm afraid this pitch can't wait. You need to take a final look so I can send it off."

"You could have called or emailed."

"I did."

"Eh?" I close the app and find she's right. Two missed calls, two missed texts, a bunch of emails. All from her.

"Is it already time to send off the Delancey campaign?"

"It's Friday the thirteenth," she reminds me.

"Of course, it is. And if you had gotten through to me, I'd have told you that I didn't need to look at it."

"But you must; this needs to be sent before the end of the day, and?—"

"You've seen it. What do you think?"

"That the team has outdone themselves. The creatives are fresh, the copy is witty, and the concept, you have to hear it?—"

"If you're happy with it, I'm fine with it."

"What?" She gapes.

"You, clearly, think it's a stellar pitch. I believe in you, so send it off."

"You… you're sure?" Her voice is low, "Are you really sure?"

I smirk. "Of course, if you'd rather not?—"

"What? No!" She draws herself up to her full height. "It's good. I'll, uh, just shoot off the email to them then. Sorry I bothered you." She finally glances around the table, noticing the other men. "Good day, gentlemen." She walks around them and toward the door.

"Wait for it... wait for it," Michael murmurs under his breath.

"Do you think he'll last until she reaches the door?" Sinclair asks in a lazy voice.

"And I thought I was the one getting married. This man may beat me to it." Liam smirks.

"Shut the fuck up," I snap, then spring up to my feet. "Lena, hold on, you can ride home with me."

"You didn't have to ferry me back to your place."

"It's your home, too," I point out.

"Temporarily," she shoots back.

"Of course. I was done anyway at 7A. No sense in you taking public transport back when I'm headed the same way by car."

"Have you ever driven or been driven in anything else except this—?" She gestures with her hand to the confines of the back seat of my Rolls.

I'd like to drive my cock into you. "What's wrong with my car?" I drawl.

"Nothing." She looks away. "If you don't mind the agony of being unfashionable."

"What did you say?"

"Eh?" She coughs into her hand. "Me? I didn't say anything."

"You're being a brat again," I warn.

"Just stating a fact, is all. This ride of yours..."

"You mean my Rolls?"

"Is not exactly the height of being ‘with it.'" She makes air quotes with her fingers.

"It's a Rolls," I counter.

"Exactly. If it were a Porsche?—"

"Too small," I retort.

"Or a Lamborghini?—"

"Too predictable," I scoff.

"An Aston Martin?"

"And invite comparisons with Bond?"

"How about a…" She pushes her finger into her cheek.

"A Jaguar?" We both say at the same time, then look at each other in surprise.

"That's so you." Her cheeks curve.

"Is it?"

She nods. "Stylish, sporty, with presence, yet lots of speed, and a certain sleek machismo about it."

"You think I'm macho?"

She rolls her eyes. "You know you are, and if you dare repeat what I said to anyone else, I'll deny it."

"Even if I told your boyfriend?"

Her features shutter.

Goddamn, did I have to bring up my son? And how long am I going to put off this conversation?

"You realize the fact you're his girlfriend is not going to stop me from pursuing you?"

"I… I gathered," she swallows.

"Maybe it's because you're his girlfriend that I find you even more attractive," I murmur.

"What?" She whips her head around in my direction. "That's just?—"

"Hot?"

"Twisted," she corrects me.

"You mean forbidden... taboo... socially unacceptable, don't you?"

"What, are you a walking thesaurus?"

"I'm walking orgasms for you, baby."

She inhales sharply. Her pupils dilate. "Now you're being corny."

"I'm being truthful."

"It's not truthful when you set out to seduce your son's girlfriend," she bursts out.

"No law against it."

"But it's not right. Can't you see that? We can't keep doing this behind his back."

"So... tell him, Lena."

I glance out the window. "I… I can't."

"Why not? You can't turn your back on our connection. I won't let you do that. And it's going to come out in the open at some point, and then it's only going to hurt more. It might be best if you told him upfront. Or" —I tilt my head— "maybe I should? Is that what you've been waiting for? Do you want me to reveal what's been happening between us?"

"Nothing has happened, and don't you dare say anything to him."

"If nothing's happened, why do you care if I speak with him?"

"JJ, no." She locks her fingers together. "Please don't do anything like that."

"Then you tell him."

She glances away, then back at me. "Give me time, okay?"

"I'm tired of waiting, Lena, tired of hiding the fact that I want to fuck you."

She winces. "No one can accuse you of being romantic."

"If you wanted romance and poetry and sweet nothings, you'd have stuck with your boyfriend. You want more, Lena. You want to know what it feels like to lose yourself in the kind of passion that comes along only once in a lifetime."

Her breath hitches.

"You want to find out how it feels to be possessed by a man. To drown yourself in a sea of emotions where your body leads and you follow, to stop thinking and allow yourself to be led, to fold into a tapestry of sensations that will consume your mind and body and soul."

She squeezes her thighs together.

"You want to feel the touch of my fingers on your skin, my lips on yours, my tongue laving your curves, my palm gripping your hip, my thighs forcing yours apart and?—"

"Stop!" She reaches over and claps her palm on my mouth. "You can't talk like this."

I place my hand over hers then kiss the inside of her fingers.

She shivers. "Stop, JJ." Her voice is weak. "Please don't say anything more."

I lick the dip where her fingers meet the flesh of her palm. She closes her eyes.

"JJ," she breathes.

I close my fingers around her wrist and tug. She falls against me. I clamp my hands on her hips, then lift her up so she straddles me.

I lean in toward her, but she turns her head to the side.

"Look at me, Lena."

She shakes her head.

"Look. At. Me."

She looks at me.

"Good. Now, tell me you don't want me."

Her brow furrows. A look of misery twists her features. I should feel pity for putting her in this situation. I should spare her the anguish of being torn apart by her feelings. Only, I don't care. I want her. I am going to have her. End of story. I'll just have to make it up to my son… Later. For now, though, I'm going to ensure she finally tells me what I want to hear.

I kick forward my pelvis and grind my dick into her center.

She shudders.

I grip her tiny waist and push down so every centimeter of my throbbing column is pressed against her core.

Her face flushes. She opens and shuts her mouth but no words emerge. Her golden eyes darken until they seem like pools of amber. Once I'm caught in them, I'll never be able to escape. Don't be ridiculous. She's a woman. And like most, she has an expiration date. Maybe it'll take me a little longer to tire of her. But eventually, I will. I always do. There's no place for another in my life. I wasn't even able to share myself with my children when they were growing up. So, why would I open myself up to this stranger? I'll have my fill of her in every sense, and then I'll bid her goodbye, after compensating her, of course. She'll be happy to see the last of me no doubt. As would I.

"JJ, I—" She swallows. "I?—"

I lower my voice to a hush, "Say it, Lena. Tell me what I want to hear."

"I don't want you."