Committed (19 page)

Damien glanced behind them, and before she could turn to see what he was looking at, he pushed her up against one of the trees, his hand resting at the base of her throat. He didn’t squeeze, but the implied threat was enough for her breath to catch and her pulse kick up.

“Don’t make a sound,” he whispered.

He slid his hand up under her skirt and slipped his fingers past her panties. She widened
her stance, giving him control. It was a natural response to him. Damien pulled the bullet vibrator from her vagina and she sighed in relief. Another forced orgasm would have shattered her will to move, and she would have had to sleep in the park. She leaned heavily against the tree, her knees still weak.

Damien edged closer, inserting his knee between her legs and pinning her to the prickly tree with his body. The scent of evergreens and flowers teased her nose, while the gentle hum of city life continued around them. But here, in this carefully cultivated garden, it felt as if time stood still as she waited for his command.

She could barely make out Damien’s features in the dim light, but she didn’t need to see him. She’d memorized his face. The way his lips pursed when he stared at her for more than a few seconds. The way he undressed her with his eyes. The way his nostrils would flare right before he kissed her.

He pressed his thigh higher, until her pelvis rested against him. She whimpered and grasped the front of his shirt in both hands. She both craved more and feared it. Would she lose herself in this seemingly drug-induced state of submission?

Poppy was a switch, not a sub. And yet whatever Damien asked of her, she wanted to do.

“When can I see you again?” Damien whispered.

Anytime you’d like. I am yours
.

She bit her lip, keeping her knee-jerk answer inside.

“When do you want to see me again?” she countered.

“Is your dance card full tomorrow night?” He nuzzled the side of her face, his lips coasting down her temple to her cheek.

“What?” She licked her lips. “You mean at Sanctuary?”

“Yeah.”

She struggled to recall if she’d set anything up. Since meeting him, she hadn’t wanted to play. Her toppy mojo was maxed out, and the idea of bottoming for anyone but him just left an odd taste in her mouth. There was no one else.

“I didn’t have anything planned. Why?”

Damien captured her chin between his forefinger and thumb. He was so close she could feel every breath he took, the beat of his heart against her palms, and the whisper of his skin over hers as he spoke.

“Because it’s time I made good on my promise to switch with you.”

Poppy’s jaw nearly dropped to the ground. Was he serious? She’d almost accepted that
he would never cave to that demand. It wasn’t an ideal dynamic, but she’d also never been so submissive toward a man in her life.

“Don’t look so surprised, sweetness. I keep my promises.”

He tipped her chin up and pressed his lips to hers, sucking her lower lip between his teeth and gently biting. The sting was minimal. He soothed it with his tongue, stroking her while twining his fingers through her hair. Their mouths parted and they each gasped for air, but the connection resonated between them, as if it were an electric string tied one end to her, the other to him. It blazed.

Damien was going to switch with her.

Her head swam with the possibilities. She needed a plan, an idea, something.

“Are you sure?” she blurted out.

“I am. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think you would.”

“Like I said, I keep my promises. The idea of bottoming isn’t my favorite, but for you I think I would enjoy it. What do you have in store for me?” He ran his fingers over her face, down her neck.

“That’s for me to know and you to find out.” She managed to get the words out without her voice wavering. She needed to go home, make a plan. There was so much to get ready for. And she had to call Nikki and Kyle. She might need some help with this one.

“Imp.” He patted her bottom. “I guess I need to get you on your way home.”

Poppy didn’t want this night to end. She enjoyed their time together. Talking, watching the show, sharing dinner. She hadn’t found a man who could be both a play partner and match her outside the dungeon. Until now. And maybe that was why she found herself so wrapped around him, because he was the whole package.

Damien wasn’t a Prince Charming. Actually, if she were to relate him to a prince, he wouldn’t even be a prince. His sense of duty and honor made her think of Li Shang from
Mulan
.

“Where did you park?” Damien asked, breaking into her thoughts.

“I didn’t park, I took the L. Remember, I grew up in a commune. I don’t even have a license.”

“You don’t?” He stared at her, a truly puzzled expression creasing his features.

She laughed. “No, I don’t. I can, like, coast a car, but I wouldn’t call it driving.”

Damien shook his head. “It’s late. I’m not sure I like the idea of you on the L at this time. Let me drive you home.”

The idea of not having to spend half an hour or more on the L was appealing, but she had drawn the line at bringing him home. Not yet, anyway. She wasn’t ready to go there. He had her wrapped around his finger too well, far too soon. She took a deep breath and shook her head.

“Not tonight.”

“You think I’m not trustworthy enough?” He pulled his wallet out of his pocket and removed a business card. “This is my boss. If I ever do anything that makes you fearful, uncomfortable, or whatever, you can call him and complain about me.”

“That’s not what I mean.” She pushed the card back at him. Somewhere between the dungeon and the orgasm, he’d won her trust again.

“Then what do you mean?”

“I mean this is happening very fast, and it feels like things are changing quicker than I’m ready for. Not letting you come to my apartment slows things down a little.”

“I wouldn’t have to come in, just drop you off.”

She shook her head. “When it comes to you, all bets are off.”

“I could drop you off at The House,” he suggested, but his tone was less forceful.

“No. Not this time.”

“Well let’s get you to the train.”

They walked hand in hand to the train station. He turned and kissed her at the turnstiles, then she pushed through just in time to catch the train headed north.

Poppy flopped into the plastic seat and blew out a breath, staring up at the stars as the train pulled out of the station.

When you wish upon a star, your dreams come true
.

“Let him be everything he says he is,” she whispered to the sky.

Emilio ordered another round, but didn’t take the glass of beer intended for him. He casually ignored it while waiting his turn at the pool table. The other team carefully lined up their shot. It took both of the men to hold the pool stick, since they’d been gulping down Emilio’s beer for over an hour.

The second team member backed away, laughing at the other one concentrating on the cue ball. He turned and stumbled his way to the bar, picked up two glasses and chugged one.

Emilio watched the amber liquid dribble down the man’s chin. This was Chicago’s finest? He barely resisted snorting. These men were so stupid and drunk that they didn’t realize
they were being taken for a ride by one of their most wanted criminals. Some officers they were. He’d donned a slight disguise, cutting his hair short and wearing a cheap, rumpled suit. It wasn’t his normal attire. Add in a little stubble, and was it enough to hide his identity? They were SWAT, though. The attack dogs of the department. It figured they weren’t all that bright.

The cue ball went bouncing off the table and the group of officers roared in laughter, sloshed beer, and slapped the back of their drunken friend.

The two-fisted drunk turned toward Emilio and jerked his head at the table. “Hey, Spaniard, it’s your turn.”

Emilio picked up his stick and accepted the cue ball from the unlucky player, who was still shaking his head and laughing. Emilio approached the table and studied the placement of the balls, in much the same way he’d watched these men for the last two hours.

Half the balls were in the pockets already.

It was time to stop toying around. He’d selected his target; this game didn’t matter anymore.

He placed the cue ball as his teammate, another worthless drunk, called out, “Just hit the solids.”

Emilio glanced at him and the words burned in his throat.

Just a few weeks ago, Emilio could have had the man’s head on a plate simply by snapping his fingers. But he was alone now. He didn’t have the kind of support in place to back up any heated words, so he held his tongue. For now.

They were all going to die, anyway.

These men had destroyed his life, so he would destroy theirs, and send a message: Don’t fuck with Emilio Molina.

He lined up the shot and sank a solid ball into the pocket. The men gathered around the table cheered or groaned, depending on which team they’d placed their bet on.

Emilio circled the table, retrieved the cue ball and set up another shot.

Two balls in the side pocket.

One more, and then the eight ball.

He ignored the taunts, the attempts to distract him, and the general drunken, disorderly behavior. He’d been running pool tables since his balls dropped. Pulling one over on a bunch of drunken halfwits too stupid to realize they were already dead was easy. Just don’t drink the beer.

The last solid clinked into a corner pocket as if pulled there. The eight ball followed a second later.

The crowd alternately groaned and cheered, with cries of, “Pay up,” from all around the table.

Emilio placed his stick on the rack with the others and retrieved his jacket from the bar. His teammate, a worthless, quiet, not-so-drunk man handed him a fifty and gave him a nod.

“Good game,” he said.

“It was all right,” Emilio replied. He’d played better, against more skilled opponents. This was almost a joke.

“Leaving?”

“No rest for the weary.” He nodded at the man and turned without another word, and headed out of the pool hall.

Outside, the air was cooler, but the humidity made it clammy this close to the lake. He turned and went to the spot he’d scouted, to wait, concealed in shadows. The minutes ticked by.

The first group of officers stumbled out and into one of the waiting taxis. A second and third group followed.

Groups were too messy to deal with, though in their current inebriated state, it would be child’s play to dispatch an entire group.

A lone figure stepped out of the bar. He spoke with a taxi driver, but did not get into the car. Instead he turned and began walking through the parking lot toward the sidewalk bordering the street. The light from a streetlamp touched his face and glinted off pale hair.

The quiet man.

Emilio let him pass, counted to five, and stepped out of his hiding spot. He cut through the parking lot behind his prey.

“Where are you going?” Emilio called, loud enough for the man to hear.

He turned, hands in his pockets. “Metro station.”

“I’ll walk with you.”

The other man paused for Emilio to catch up, and together they began walking toward the sidewalk.

“I thought you’d left already.”

“Car’s a piece of junk,” Emilio replied.

“Ah.” He nodded.

Emilio glanced around as they reached the sidewalk. It was too open.

They shot the breeze about the game, the weather, and even sports. None of the topics interested Emilio, but he was biding his time. It was important to have the ability to appear
normal at times, though he was not.

“This is a shortcut.” Emilio pointed to an alley. As horrible and lame as the ploy was, it had worked more times than he could count.

“Bad things happen in alleys, man.”

“Suit yourself.” Emilio turned and strode down the alley.

Five … four … three … two … one …

A sigh cut through the air. “Wait up.”

Gotcha
.

Emilio grinned and paused. The other man caught up and together they walked about thirty yards down the kill chute.

“Didn’t I see you on TV a few weeks ago?” Emilio glanced at the other man. It hadn’t been TV; he’d been there, and he remembered the faces of the men in that bar because he’d promised himself they would all die.

“Uh, probably not.”

“No, no, you were there. There was a thing about a drug bust. Lot of people got arrested. Out in the middle of nowhere.” Emilio pulled the knife from his pocket and flicked it open.

“No, man. I wasn’t on TV.”

Emilio stopped and faced him. “But you were there.”

The man turned to face him, confusion creasing his brow, his lips thinning as he pressed them together. “Yeah, but—”

Emilio rushed the man, shoving him back against the wall, and drove the knife into his stomach. He kneed Emilio, broke his hold and shoved him back. The quiet officer seemed barely fazed by the wound. Emilio dodged two swings, but barely.

The accelerated heartbeat did the damage for him.

The officer staggered, blood coating his abdomen. He groped in his pocket; for what, Emilio didn’t want to find out. He closed in, punched him in the face, and swept the man’s feet out from under him. He went down like a sack of coke.

Emilio kneeled down, one knee on his chest. The officer still had some fight in him. He tried to shove at Emilio’s leg, but the drugs were kicking in and taking their toll.

“I only want to know one thing, and then you can die in peace.” He watched the fight draining out of his prey.

“Fuck you.”

“I don’t think so.” He ran the knife along the man’s cheek, letting the edge slice a thin
line just under his cheekbone.

His prey yelled, but Emilio covered his mouth with a rag from his other pocket.

“I want to know one fucking thing, you pig. Who killed my wife? Who killed Valentina?” He could smell the booze on the other man, and cheap cologne. He removed the rag.

“I don’t know. Aw, fuck.” He groaned in pain, the adrenaline no doubt wearing off enough that the gut wound finally registered. Next he would become dizzy and disoriented. Emilio wanted him to talk before he got to that stage.