“You really expect me to believe that you broke in here by accident? That you weren’t sent by the Fitzpatricks or the Sleepless Reapers or anyone else?” He flinches a little at the mention of the Reapers. Interesting.
His jaw ticks and then some of his fury melts away, replaced with a dark look of rebellious humor. He shrugs and relaxes in his seat, letting his thighs spread and hitching one arm casually over the back of the chair.
“Believe what you want, but I don’t even know who the fuck the Fitzpatricks are. I needed to get my hands on some shit to sell, and a penthouse apartment on King Street is always a good bet. I guess it’s just my unlucky night.”
“You a junkie?” He doesn’t look like he’s tweaking, and junkies don’t usually bother with things like gloves and masks, but you never know.
He makes that huffing sound again and shakes his head. “Not anymore.”
Interesting. You’d think as one of the top-ranking members of a crime family, I would have plenty of excitement in my life, but mostly it’s the same day-to-day drudgery. Organize a tax fraud scheme, shake down a local business owner, pay off thecops to leave us the hell alone… Yawn. Butthis, a mysterious intruder in my apartment in the middle of the night, is exciting.
“What’s your name?” I ask, and he’s right back to glaring at me.
“What does it matter?”
I laugh again. “I’m asking, that’s what it matters.” I press the gun under his chin again as a reminder of which one of us is holding all the cards right now.
“Either you’re going to shoot me or you’re going to let me walk out of here. Either way, my name isn’t going to change a damn thing.” He leans forward, tilting his head back and pressing the fleshy part of his chin into the barrel himself. “And if you’re going to shoot me, I’d rather you go ahead and get it over with.”
The ice in his voice is just as potent as the venom was, and my heart beats faster. Not to get sappy or anything, but where has this stone-cold psychopath been all my life?
Chapter
Two
GHOST
He’s not goingto kill me.
His hand is rock steady, so I have no doubt he’s more than comfortable pulling that trigger, but I’m just as sure that he’s not going to. It’s not just his barely concealed erection straining against the silky black fabric of his tight briefs or the heat that flashed through his eyes when I told him to go ahead and shoot me. There’s something else, something more subtle, a look I’ve learned to recognize that stokes the heat already searing through my veins.
“Put the gun down,” I say firmly, holding his gaze and injecting my voice with the confident authority I’ve been using to melt submissives for years now.
When the memories of that night first came back, I thought I’d never want to fuck again. I couldn’t imagine letting anyone near me, letting anyonetouchme, kiss me, use me like that ever again. My brain and my dick weren’t in agreement though. My brain was fucking traumatized, but my cock still ached for release. Eventually I managed to find a compromise they couldboth live with. I can fuck, as long as I’m the one in charge. Always. No one touches me without my say, which doesn’t happen. And no one’s mouth comes anywhere near mine unless I order them to kiss me, which I’ve never done. Pretty men kneel formenow, and I’m the one who uses them.
And unlike the Sleepless Goddamn Reapers, I never leave anyone dead in a fucking ditch, and I always get consent.Enthusiasticconsent.
He lowers the gun and a smirk twists my lips. I can see the needy look in his eyes, the little twinkle of excitement.
“Good boy,” I purr, and his breath hitches. Maybe I broke into the right apartment tonight after all. I lift my hand and his eyes follow the movement. Does he like the leather gloves? Something tells me he does. I crook a finger to beckon him, and he leans down without hesitation. “I think you owe me an apology for pulling a gun on me.”
He scoffs. He’s close enough that I can see the dark circle of his pupils expand, nearly obscuring the hazel of his irises, and his warm breath puffs against my face. Unlike the memories, the feeling is pleasant, sexy even, as long as I keep my eyes on him and remember that I’m the one in charge.
“You’re the one who broke into my apartment,” he reminds me.
I calculate for just a second. He put the gun down when I told him to, he leaned forward when I beckoned him, and his cock is still rock hard, the tip just shy of peeking over the waistband of his briefs. It’s a risk, but a small one. I reach forward and grab his jaw roughly. His long, dark eyelashes flutter, and a quiet, horny sound slips out from between his lips.
“And it’s the most exciting thing that’s happened to you this week. You’re glad I’m here. The second you pulled my mask off and got a good look at me, all you could think about was tasting my leather gloves. That’s why you asked my name, so you’llknow what to moan.” I taunt him, flicking my tongue out an inch away from his mouth. His lips part, just like I knew they would, and I take the opportunity to shove two fingers between them.
His eyes go wide and he lets out a muffled moan, his tongue snaking around my fingers.
“You don’t have to worry about my name though. Your mouth is going to be too full to moan anything.” I shove my fingers a little deeper and he gags, his dark skin flushing and a little bit of drool dripping from the corners of his lips. My cock swells and aches with a combination of the adrenaline of being caught tonight—by a Moretti, no less—and the power that courses through me as he chokes on another stifled moan.
I fuck my fingers in and out of his pouty lips and lean forward, bringing my mouth right next to his ear.
“Kneel for me, slut.”
His eyes roll back and he sinks to his knees right between my legs, the gun hanging limp at his side and his cock visibly jerking in the tight confines of his silk briefs. I press a kiss to his cheek, feeling the rough stubble on his jaw scrape against my lips, and I run my free hand down his arm towards his hand. He doesn’t fight me as I slip the gun free, still fucking his mouth with my other hand.