Boss: Complete Box Set: A Mob BDSM Romance (10 page)

Brent doesn’t say anything about my defiance. Instead, his eyes catch me in an intense hold as he fucks me with his fingers and holds the vibrator against my clit. Pressure crests over me and there’s no fighting it this time.

I’m going to come again, even though I don’t want to. I don’t want it to be this easy for him to provoke me. I want to look away, but I can’t. His eyes change, fine lines on the corners going deeper, his lids falling lower. But it’s his grin that holds me. So wicked … evil … hot!

“Oh, God…” I moan, letting the feeling take over. I’m consumed again as it peaks and peaks then dies off, only to peak again as Brent presses the vibrator against my swollen flesh over and over. Press and release, press and release until I’m coming again.

I clench my thighs around his hand, pumping my hips, bucking off the bed as he whispers in my ear. I don’t understand a single word. I’m just lost in him. In the easy way he kicks off his jeans and rubs his rock-hard cock a few times before he slides a condom on.

I’m lost in the feel of his hands running over my body, pulling my hips down to meet him as he thrusts almost violently into me.

“One more,” he growls. “You’re going to give me one more.”

“Yes!” My head thrashes to the side as his cock fills me, stretching me to the point of pain. He doesn’t wait for me to adjust, nor do I want him to. He pulls back and thrusts again, then once more. I’m so wet, and it slicks us both, making his next thrust perfect. I wrap my legs around him, carried away with the pleasure.

“
Now
, Erica. Give it to me.”

It’s there, hovering. Toying with me. Mocking me because I can’t possibly come again. But the angle of his hips driving his cock against my clit says otherwise. I can’t come, but I can’t stop it either.

I mumble a protest, and he grips my chin. His eyes flare as he thrusts hard. A moan rips out of him, his eyes closing for that second of pleasure. He rides me hard, stretching me, filling me until it seems I’ll come apart as he comes. It’s so sexy … I can’t hold back. I come apart around him and his arms wrap around me, holding me up so the tension on my bonds loosens, and my body is cradled against his.

We’re connected, chest-to-chest, hips-to-hips and it’s tender and raw and vulnerable, and I swear I’m dying from the mix.
Pleasepleaseplease.

“Oh God, your pussy,” he murmurs.

Brent’s head falls to my shoulder, his arms holding me up as we press together and breathe.

Just breathe.

Tender emotion wells in my chest, taking me off guard. But it’s not as surprising as the tears that push behind my eyes.

Or the one that falls.

T
urning
my face into the pillow, I’m grateful Brent doesn’t notice my emotions. He unties my hands and smooths his fingers over my wrists to sooth the marks. As soon as I’m free, I slide off the bed, go into the restroom, and close the door.

I don’t know what this whirlwind is inside me, nor do I care to explore it. Not when my body is one push away from being jelly and my head is spinning. I’ve never experienced sex like that—so many orgasms! No wonder I felt close to him, or whatever that was at the end. It’s simple biology.

Looking in the mirror, I wipe away the smudge of mascara from under my eyes. Oxytocin is to blame for this. It’s the feel-good hormone—makes you feel something for the owner of the dick that’s inside you. So you bond and he can protect you from wolves and saber tooth tigers and things. Simple. Evolutionary. Science.

I roll my eyes at myself and splash cold water on my face. Who cares what it is. I won’t be feeling it again, oxytocin or not.

“Erica.” Brent calls through the door. “Your dress.”

My hands are shaking as I reach for the handle and crack the door. Brent hands my things through the space. He could easily push his way in, or just step inside. But he seems to know that I need space. Maybe he does, too.

I wait until I hear him walk away to get dressed and then pull my hair back. I don’t appraise myself in the mirror, because frankly, why? We’ve had our fun and I don’t want to stay. This has been an intense evening. All of it. And I need time to recover.

Brent is dressed when I step out. He holds my shoes out to me as if he’s ready for me to go, too. Any other time I might feel hurt by that. But not right now. I’m too much of a mess inside to take it personally. I’m ready to cry into my own pillow for a while.

He escorts me out of the room and into the elevator. My legs are still weak and I grab his arm right before stepping inside to keep from tripping. Brent holds his finger over the button but doesn’t press it. He looks me over, a cocky tint to his expression. He seems very satisfied with himself.

“Did I promise you pleasure?”

If he were any other man, I’d take this for ego stroking. But not Brent. He’s serious. He made a promise, and he wants me to acknowledge that he delivered. Holy shit, did he deliver.

“Five times plus some.”

I smile, but his expression doesn’t change.

“It will only get better.”

Okay, maybe there is some ego involved here. I don’t doubt that sex will always be amazing with him. But I still can’t help but wonder why I’m the one he’s so intent on dominating.

We’re on neutral ground here, just like he said earlier. I smooth my ponytail and face him.

“Brent, I—“

“You’re still hesitant.”

“Yes.”

He pushes the button and the elevator makes a smooth descent.

“Why?”

“I was trying to tell you before you interrupted me.” I jab lightly.

He give an acknowledging nod, waiting for me to continue. I think about my sister, how she never had a chance to voice her thoughts. To say yes or no before she made bad choices about even worse men. Brent, for all his secrets and moodiness, still might be one of them. But I have a voice, and I intend to use it while I’m figuring it out.

“Is this a thing you do with interns, staff, employees?”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Define, ‘thing.’”

“Sex. Domination.” Blunt, for the win.

Brent clasps his hands in front of him, completely relaxed as if I’d just said the sky was blue today. He side-eyes me before looking straight ahead.

“Will you believe me if I say that, no, sex and domination are not things I
do
with employees?”

Ha, he’s got me there. Do I believe that?

“So, I’m the first?” A tickle of girlish hope flutters in my chest and I hate it. I’m not sixteen anymore, damn it. This isn’t a game. This is a powerful man with the real ability to hurt me … or sedate me with pleasure.

“You are. Yes.”

How many men told Nathalie things she wanted to hear in order to get her to do what they wanted? Brent is looking at me with such strong conviction that my inner conflict quickly goes silent.

He’s telling the truth, I think. I shouldn’t believe him, but then again, I haven’t done anything that I should do when it comes to him. My pussy has firmly led the way.

The doors open and I take that as my cue to drop the subject. He offers me his arm and I take it. Laughter and music flood the hallway, and I realize we’ve come out a different way than I went in. He leads me across the hall and the space opens up to reveal the casino floor below. I’ve never seen it from this view. The spaces below are packed. The air is sweet and heady with perfume and cigar smoke.

Couples are playing cards below us. The women are in shimmery, low cut dresses, and the men are in suits and cowboy hats, pegging them as stereotypical Texas oil folk.

They are throwing down cards and scooping up chips like its child’s play, which, for people with money, it probably is.

Brent’s looking around like a proud father watching his child get a medal. He’s eyeing the card table. From our vantage, you can almost see the cards in their hands. He looks like he’s anticipating the next round and I realize that he enjoys this.

“Red is going to throw two aces.” Brent whispers to me. He’s studying the action below so intently that I can’t help but watch, too. I find the guy with the red hat, and his cards are mostly hidden so I have no idea how Brent knows this.

A second later, sure enough, Red throws down his spread. Two aces included. A collective groan goes up from the other players and Brent smiles like he’s just won, himself.

“How did you know?”

His face is lit with a brilliant smile. My breath catches from the beauty of it.

“This place was just an empty building when I bought it. I had to learn almost everything from the ground up. But the one thing I already knew was cards.”

My interest immediately perks up. He’s hardly said two words about himself, ever. I know virtually nothing about how this casino started, or about Brent’s personal story. I never felt an urge to dig into his backstory, I suppose. But now I’m invested in knowing more.

“Empty building?” I prompt, hoping he’ll continue talking.

He pauses, and I’m sure he’ll clam up. He starts walking, my hand still on his firm forearm. Mindlessly, I grip him gently. He looks down at my hand, then at me.

“The room directly below us used to be a canning factory. We added on three wings and designed it in Greek revival.”

I immediately think of Georgios and shudder. Is that the ‘we’ he’s alluding to?

“It took everything I had to just purchase the original building, but I could envision it all in my head. It was so clear, so real.”

“So you made it happen.”

We pause again to look down. “Yes. Obviously, I had help. An endeavor like this takes an amazing team. Some of my original team are still with us today.”

I smile. “Donetta?”

He smiles back and I realize that I’ve never seen him so relaxed. “Yes.”

We go a little farther, his steps slower than before. I want to prolong this, and suddenly I’m not at all in a hurry to get home and be alone with my thoughts.

“Donetta started out as head of housekeeping, but a woman like that was wasted there. Thomas Lanson was our first account manager, you now know him as CFO. Henry Wick was the gaming officer, and Liz was the head of marketing.”

I recognize the first three names, but not the last. I mull it over, realizing I’ve met the marketing team twice and there is no Liz.

“Who is Liz?” I ask lightly, still trying to place her.

Brent stops, and whips me a look as if I’ve just slapped him. His nostrils flare a bit as his eyes go cold and dark. I take a step back. He exposed a nerve and I just hit it.

“No one.”

“Oh.”

Brent abruptly moves on and I hurry to follow his long strides. We go down two short flights of steps and through an open foyer to reach the front doors. He nods to a doorman and instructs him to have a limo take me home.

Reeling over how quickly the mood changed, I desperately catch Brent’s eyes, but once again, he gives me nothing. Not a smile, not a nod. Not a word before he walks away.

I should be used to this by now, but damn. After the night we just shared, and the way he opened up to me a little again, I’d hoped for … well, I’d hoped for more.

Silly me. No, correct that. Stupid me.

Whoever Liz was, her name sure changed Brent’s attitude in a hurry. There’s a huge staff here, but if she still works for the casino, I don’t think he would have reacted like that. She was obviously of some importance, though good or bad, I have no idea.

By the time I slip into my pajamas, it’s nearing two a.m. and my thighs ache from the epic sex. I open my laptop and rest my right arm on the desk to use the mouse. Discomfort shoots through my wrist and I realize there are still marks there, from the tie. I’d forgotten about them so quickly, that I wonder if other people had noticed as I left the casino.

Like the other woman Donetta mentioned once, who’d tried to cover her wrist marks with bracelets.

Could that … could that have been Liz?

No way. I quickly dismiss the thought. Brent said he’d never done this with an employee before, and he’d clearly said she was the head of marketing. Curious to the point of frustration, I Google Brent’s name, plus the word, ‘Liz.’ Immediately, page after page of results for Brent Masters show up.

Everything from the casino opening, to executive hiring and firing announcements, to Brent in tuxedos at various charity events.

Oh hell, does he fucking look amazing in a tux. I slow my scrolling to browse the multiple images of him in everything from black to navy blue to light gray. He looks delicious in all of it. I’m momentarily struck by the fact that I just had this man’s incredible cock in me. For a little while tonight, he’d been mine. Completely mine.

The women he poses with in each photograph seem detached, as if they know their sole purpose is to be easily replaced arm candy. It’s easy to see that none of these women mean anything to him. The body language is all wrong. Not like it had been with me earlier as we had looked over the railing. He’d been leaning into me, his body turned slightly toward mine, his arm relaxed under my hand.

I don’t dwell on that because if I do, I’ll start forming more silly ideas about Brent and me. Instead, I read article after article about the casino and the man behind it. He’d been interviewed by the top magazines in the nation, and all of them corroborated Brent’s story that he’d built the casino from nothing.

Images show the progression of the original property from simple, run-down factory to elaborate and elegant casino. The timeline shows Brent’s progression as well, the fine lines of age that mature his face, his body going from lean to healthy and muscular, his manner of dress morphing from jeans to tailored suits.

The title of an article in Business Insider sums it up nicely:
Blue Collar to Billionaire.
Intrigued, I’m dying to know more about the man behind the pictures, but there’s relatively little that speaks to Brent as a person. As I comb through the web pages, pride fills me for all that he’s accomplished. The articles allude to an underprivileged upbringing, but there’s frustratingly little mentioned about his past.

The more I read, the more I realize how impersonal the news articles are. Even the interviews … they’re so cut and dried. All business and nothing intimate in any of it. It’s as if Brent has controlled his image to portray Casino Mogul only. The man he was before didn’t exist, except as a sound bite.

More images of Brent at high-class functions come up. I shiver as I spot Georgios in two of them. He’s standing next to Brent in one of them, and he’s standing in the background of the other. I could Google search the two of them, but I don’t. My soul can’t stand looking at that man.

After another hour of browsing, I’m disappointed that nothing I’ve read points to Liz or anything gushingly personal about Brent. I shut down my computer, realizing I make a lousy Internet creeper, and head to bed. My brain is on overload from the evening—all of it—and I’m so exhausted that I fall asleep without another thought of Brent.

But it doesn’t stay that way. The weekend comes and goes without a word from him. My eyes seem permanently glued to my cell, as if I can summon him to text me through the strength of my lust. I replay our time in the hotel room over and over. No matter how hard I try, I can’t stop. It’s a constant heat under my skin, an uncomfortable need that only he can fix.

I almost text him a few times, but don’t. I might be needy on the inside, but I’m not going to let it rule me. This passion? This craving? It has to be controlled, and honestly, I’m still not sure how much of myself I’m willing to offer him.

Being tied to his bed was so good. The demands he whispered in my ear?
Yes, please, more!
Fantasies swirl around my mind about the things I want him to do to me. The level I’m willing to submit to him in my mind shocks me, because my resolve says no way. I’m offering myself a little more to him each day and it scares me. I’ve never had such an undeniable pull to anyone before. Despite the secrets between us and the fear of our shared past, I can’t stop wanting him like this.

I’ll submit to you.

I type it, and immediately erase it. Three times.

By Monday, I’m edgy and can’t shake it. Brent’s cologne hangs in the air as I walk to my office and I’m immediately turned on. Both nervous and excited that he may be in my office, I slip past Olive and go inside. It’s empty, but his scent is even stronger. He’s been here. I check my desk and my phone, but he didn’t leave a note.

“Olive,” I holler. “Any messages?”

“No, ma’am,” she hollers back. “Meet you in the conference room.”

Shit, I forgot about the weekly planning meeting. I don’t bother double-checking my appearance this time. I didn’t dress to impress or entice him this time. Simple blouse and skirt, glasses and my hair pulled in a bun. That’s it. And I’m not even putting on lipstick.