Made: A Bad Boy Romance (Bad Boy Games) (7 page)

His resistance lasts about one minute and then he’s all over me, his huge cock plunging into me in one massive thrust. I take all of him, relishing the way he spreads me wide and stretches me with his thickness. He stills, the head of his cock at the entrance to my womb, but only for a second. And then he pulls back, and he’s fucking me hard and fast and without one ounce of concern if he might be hurting me.

He’s not.

I love it. I love his harsh mastery.

I love the way he’s pumping in and out of me relentlessly. It’s rough, and I want more. His balls slap against me, and he’s grunting and sweating and breathing hard. There’s nothing sweet or romantic about this. This is fucking, fast and dirty and intense on the floor of an anonymous office.

I don’t even know his name.

I lift my legs and wrap them around his waist, taking him deeper into my pussy. Then he halts and shudders and then his head rears back in a silent bellow, and his seed fills me. My inner walls pulse around him and I come apart with him.

Later, I have no clue how much later, when we’re lying there still and sated, he says in a small voice, “I’m sorry if I hurt you.”

“You didn’t.”

“Don’t lie.”

“I’m not. Really, not lying.”

He lifts up on one elbow and toys with my nipple with one hand. “I wanted to punish you.”

“For what?”

“It’s not your fault.”

There’s a knock on the door and a masculine voice calls, “Nathan, you in there?”

Our eyes lock. Whatever intimacy we had going shatters and he closes down, the blankness returning. A wave of sadness fills me. I feel like I’ve lost something and don’t even know what that is.

“Yeah, what you want?”

“It’s Tucker. Needs you up in the Eye. Like yesterday. He’s totally pissed.”

Nathan
. I know his first name.

He jumps to his feet. In about two minutes flat he’s dressed again. I’m still on the floor, fiddling with the clasp to my bra. He steps over me on his way to the door and pauses, one hand on the knob. “There aren’t any cameras in the hallway. Wait about ten minutes after I leave, then go back out into the club.”

Then he’s gone, leaving me holding the ripped shreds of my thong.

NATHAN

A job is a job is a job.

That’s what I keep telling myself. Even though I’m on the inside now, and the pay isn’t quite as stellar, I’ve still got my place in one of the most exclusive organizations in the world. I’m a good soldier. It’s how I was raised. I do what I’m told.

Even when I hate my orders.

I let my feet carry me toward the elevator. My mind is back with Brooke where I left her on the floor. I stepped over her because the boss called when I could still taste her on my tongue; still feel a tingle on my lips where we kissed.

I’m an asshole.

Not exactly a newsflash. All I had to do was find out if she was wired. I could have done that without fucking her. I’m sure Tucker doesn’t care what method I used to make sure she was clean. The fucktard probably considers it (yet another) perk of the job. The truth is that I couldn’t help myself. I wanted her like no other. I had to have her. She put up a fight, but only about the phone and my questions. She wanted me as badly as I wanted her.

She’s just another pawn
.

Even if she wasn’t wearing the red shoes tonight, she will and soon. Once they find out about the deal, how many women can pass up the kind of money H&S offers? And with what I now know about sweet Brooke, the ultra-rich dick who takes her contract will want more than one night. That’s the part that’s killing me. That other guy will want more because
I
want more. There’s absolutely zero chance she won’t get her ticket punched the night she arrives wearing the red shoes. No chance I’ll get to pick up that ticket.

Part of me keeps hoping she’ll do the smart thing and go home; forget she ever heard of H&S or considered waiting by the door for the special delivery of an expensive pair of red shoes.

I punch the button in the elevator too hard. One of the newbie security guys who gets on the at the same time gives me a look.

“What? You got a problem?”

“No, sir.” Immediately, he studies his shoes. He’s wearing a uniform that sports his nametag: Davis. He looks up at me again, eyes narrowed. “It’s just that there’s a problem upstairs. I thought you should know. . . before you. . . go up. We’ve got to stick together, right?”

He’s young, this one. Can’t be older than his early twenties. With his buzzed haircut and upright stance, I figure he came straight to H&S from the arms of Uncle Sam. “Tucker have you on chauffeur duty?”

“Helo,” he says with a note of pride in his voice, making him a pilot.

Then I remember that Alexander Ferrara is arriving soon. No mere limo would be good enough for the billionaire.

There are cameras in all the elevators operating twenty-four-seven, but no one monitors the feeds at all times. I tell Davis, “Nod if I’m right.” Without waiting for him to respond, I continue. “Alexander Ferrara is upstairs in the Eye and he got here too early so he crossed paths with the French fuck, de Hainault.”

Davis nods.

Keeping the players separated is so important to Tucker it’s almost a religion. At the very least, it’s part of his catechism. Alexander Ferrara is worth billions; Etienne de Hainault is a mere millionaire with a metric shit ton of heritage behind his name. De Hainault thinks all that history should mean more than zeros on a bank account. Which is why allowing those two players to cross paths is a mistake in the form of an instant alpha-dog pissing contest that’s bad for business. If Tucker’s operating true to form, he’s called the pilot upstairs to make him a scapegoat for the disaster of Ferrara and de Hainault arriving at the same time.

Before the elevator reaches the floor on which the Eye is located, I stab another button. The elevator glides to a halt and the doors slide open. “Your stop.”

Davis frowns. “That’s the wrong floor. Mr. Voss ordered me to come to the Eye.”

“You’re right, genius, it is the wrong floor. Trust me when I tell you that going to the right floor is a bad idea.”

“But—”

“Get the fuck off the elevator on this floor, understand? And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay lost until this thing blows over.”

“What about Mr. Voss?”

I sigh, thinking my guess this kid came straight out of the Air Force is dead on. He’s still functioning under the rules of command and will follow them faithfully even though his new commander is ruthless. “I’ll take care of Mr. Voss.”

The kid nods slowly. “Okay.”

“One more thing. There’s a redhead downstairs.” I tell him about Brooke Lopez and where to find her. “Make sure the lady gets safely wherever she wants to go.”

“Yes, sir.” Davis exits the elevator and somehow manages not to salute.

I’m not going soft. Ensuring Brooke is all right is about me being able to focus. When dealing with Alexander Ferrara, distractions can become deadly. Plus, the kid now owes me one. You never know when such things will come in handy.

When the elevator doors open into the Eye, I see Tucker, along with Marco De Luca, in the middle of the high-tech space. A blond-haired man dressed casually in jeans and a black shirt lounges against a support column. It’s a good thing I know everything about Ferrara—from his sleek black loafers (no socks, of course) to his messy hair—is studied and planned. Nothing the man does happens by chance. I figure the smart money is that Ferrara’s early arrival isn’t mere chance. What I want to know is why de Hainault? If Ferrara wanted to tangle with another player for alpha male status, there are about a hundred other players he could have chosen.

The elderly Frenchman sits at a nearby computer workstation with the padded black chair swiveled away from the monitors. One gnarled hand rests on his cane. Mottled red marks march across the sagging skin of his face.

I give points to Ferrara for not showing any visible discomfort, not even mild annoyance. If anything, Ferrara seems pleased with the way things are going so far.

Huddled behind the geezer so I don’t see her, at first, is the pawn, Deja Booty (or whatever the hell her name is). The minute my gaze sweeps over her, she straightens. There’s everything about hope in her expression like she thinks I just rode in here on my white horse.

Jesus.

I look at Tucker expectantly. I can’t wait to find out what kind of farce is about to play out. More importantly, what the fuck does he want with me?

“Thank you for coming so quickly, Nathan. I believe you’ve already met Mr. Ferrara.” Ferrara inclines his head toward me like a king acknowledging a peasant. Tucker finishes with the introductions in his southern accent like we’re all set to sit down for sweet tea and cookies.

De Hainault thumps his cane on the floor. “The Italian upstart has no grounds upon which to challenge me. I will not stand for this. It’s an outrage.”

Ferrara remains silent, but his mask of calm breaks. I follow his gaze to the girl behind the old man. If looks could kill, he’d have already throttled the Frenchman. Fat tears slide down the girl’s face. The tip of her nose has turned red. I wonder again how old she is because she looks like she’s aged backward since I escorted her from the club floor, getting younger all the time.

“Miss Booty has requested what she is referring to as
asylum
from Mr. Ferrara,” Tucker explains with a perfectly straight face. “Although she has already formally accepted the terms of her contract with H&S for M. de Hainault, she now wishes to decline. From what I understand of the situation, Mr. Ferrara is inclined to grant her request. M. de Hainault has expressed his opposition most clearly. I don’t have to tell anyone that this turn of events is unprecedented. However, at Harley & Sweet, we manage our clients concerns with the greatest care, which means we will treat this situation with as much sensitivity as possible. ”

Beyond Tucker’s politically correct spiel, the whole deal poses the question of how Miss Deja Booty and Alexander Ferrara came into contact in the first place. . .

Maybe the girl isn’t as dumb as she looks? Could she be the plant sent in by the feds? If so, how would defecting from de Hainault to Ferrara matter? It would depend on what kind of case they’re trying to build. I let the idea roll around in my head until it crumbles under the sheer weight of its improbability. No way Miss Deja Booty is a fed. I’d stake my life on it.

“How can I help?” I ask, hoping it’s something simple like a hit because that would be easier than playing referee between two powerful and influential men fighting over a woman.

“I asked you to come up because I need to remain impartial,” Tucker intones. “Marco will represent M. de Hainault. You, Nathan, will represent Mr. Ferrara.”

Like this is a fucking courtroom trial?

The urge to hit things returns with a vengeance. My fingers curl into fists while I nod like this is normal and, what the hell; I do this all the time.

It’s this damned job. Sooner or later it’s going to kill me.

You don’t try to reach above your station. Understand? And that’s a good thing because weapons are important. They help us get shit done without a lot of fuss.

Tucker may have called moving me inside the organization a promotion, but I knew he was lying. I’m a weapon. I always will be a weapon. Since I’m not a lawyer or even a manager, my presence means I’m insurance in case things get ugly. With Ferrara involved, ugly is almost a given. Since Tucker put me on Ferrara, it means de Hainault is the target. . .

If it comes to that.

But, message received. I give Tucker a slow nod. All I get in response is a flicker of his eyes, but it’s enough. We’re on the same page.

I cross the room and stand next to Ferrara. The billionaire smiles. “Interesting, don’t you think, that we’re finally on the same side?”

My heartbeat pounds in my ears. Blue light from the bank of computer monitors sweeps across Ferrara’s face, painting his tanned skin and blue eyes with a sinister look. He’s always played on his handsome, golden appearance as if he honestly is an angel come down to earth. He hires PR firms to spin every greedy corporate decision he makes into something that’s either good for the Earth or good for the people of the planet or, best of all, both. Maybe he believes his own crap. That work has turned him into an icon with the tree-huggers and the climate-change crowd. The truth is that only one thing matters to him, and that’s Alexander Ferrara.

When I stalked him back when I was planning to take him out for blackballing me with the syndicate, that trait made him predictable. It was the only advantage I discovered and even then, it wasn’t enough of an advantage to overcome his massive security infrastructure.

Now I’m standing six inches away from one of the wealthiest and most powerful men on the planet.

Five years ago, I’d have given my left nut to get this close to the bastard. I smile back at him, and it’s genuine. “Yes, you’re right, it is interesting.”

He extends a manicured hand. “I’m willing to let bygones be bygones if you are.”

That surprises me.

And tells me Ferrara has another agenda, one that’s bigger than tangling with a flustered and sexually frustrated European industrialist long past his sell-by date. One thing I know for sure: sooner or later, Ferrara’s going to want to use my services.

I shake his hand and understand there’s no going back now. I’ve made a deal with the devil.

BROOKE

When I’ve finally put myself back together, I do the best job I can of making sure the rip in Caylee’s dress is as unobtrusive as possible. At least, the club is dark, so the rip won’t show until I hit the streetlights on the sidewalk outside. The jacket I left at the coat check won’t cover the tear or my side boob. I tell myself I don’t know any of these people, and I’ll never see them again. It helps a little but doesn’t take away the embarrassment. I’m too much of a good girl, the kind of girl who always follows the rules to chalk up a night like this to experience and head home laughing.