Perfectly Bad: a bad boy romance

BOOK: Perfectly Bad: a bad boy romance
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The wet eyes of Adelina Bontempi, the stunning young woman and wife of his business partner, blazed up at Pierce Agostini. Seeing her in public, you’d think she was a fashion model, probably a little aloof, well-behaved and most likely quite prim and proper.

Well, the first part would be right. Adelina Kean had been a model and she still made appearances as a brand ambassador and at charity functions. She didn’t seem too aloof, though, on her knees in the back of Pierce’s Bentley.

While he had her by the hair, she showed no sign of being unwilling to do what he wanted, and it was hardly what a well-behaved girl would do, much less someone else’s prim and proper wife.

She knew that Pierce wanted a copy of a document on her husband’s computer. She told him that she knew how to get it. Oh, but wasn’t there something that he could do for her?

Didn’t matter how beautiful she was, how many fashion magazine covers those full, wet lips had pouted on or how many double-page spreads her long legs had sprawled over, all of that cooing and simpering grated on his ear.

He could respect a woman who would just tell him straight, ‘I want your hard cock to fill my mouth and stretch the length of my throat, to rev up the soft heat between my tits. Then I want you to spread my thighs and split me wide, prise me open and pound me over the edge of endurance.’

Why couldn’t they ever just say what they meant? ‘Rip through the clinging wet velvet of my hungry walls and ram into the backs of my thighs with the ridges of your rock-hard abs until I bite and scream and gush.’

That was what she meant and they both knew it. In the cozy hush in the back of his sapphire Bentley, she hadn’t waited five minutes to slip her tongue between his lips, to nuzzle down the ridges of his chest and all the way down his perfect white cotton shirt. Then to flash her dark eyes and shimmy out of her expensive satin dress.

After that, she panted as she slid her silky lingerie and her soft, peachy flesh all over his suit, over his shirt, inside his jacket. Snuck her fingernails in the gaps between his shirt buttons and shoved her eager hands into his pants.

She didn’t care about people on the street who could maybe see in through the tinted windows. She didn’t even care about Callaghan and Calhoun, sat up front both staring rigidly straight ahead.

She stretched and squeezed and cooed against the rising heat in his suit pants and then she peered up into his eye as she hauled his zipper down. Her hot breath made him so hard it hurt.

Her cool fingers trembled while they gripped him, as she leaped up to get her tongue down his throat. He smelled her perfume and her own scent as she blew and flicked her tongue in his ear.

Her soft, warm mouth made a slow journey down the side of his neck, over his chest and his stomach until her lips were sliding over the head of his aching pole.

He knew if he didn’t do something, she’d be there all night, so he flung her face-first into the upholstery. He could tell that she’d like that.

She howled like a drunken schoolgirl as he reamed and rammed her, doggy style, and slammed her sprawling into the deep softness of thick black leather. All she did was mewl and whimper when he stopped. By the time they got to the club, she’d got her breath back and started to beg for more.

Watching her shamelessly buck and roll along the hard length of his hot cock as she brimmed and burst took him up to the edge. He yanked her hair, and the cheeks of her bare ass rippled as he slapped them.

When she whimpered his name, his anger propelled him on to pump and fill her in hot, pulsing bolts. When he finished, she slumped, exhausted, and crawled to rest her head in his lap. She made it awkward for him to pull his clothes together and he resented her very presence.

Still, he needed her husband’s plan. He drew a slow breath, thinking that he might have to fuck her again to get it. He’d avoid that if he could. However much he wanted a woman when he first saw them, as far as he was concerned once he had them they were all used up. He hadn’t found one yet that he could stand to be around afterwards.

Like this one, the more he tried to get rid of them, the more they wanted him again. Each time he nudged her out of the way, she crawled back into his lap like a stray cat that slinks in out of a freezing cold night.

She was beautiful, like they all were. Sexy as hell, but they all were that, too. And looking at her reminded him, as they all did, of why his rule was such a good one, ‘One time and one time only. No exceptions.’

He thought she was going to follow him out of the car naked, but somehow she got herself covered and tottered behind him into the club. The nightclub was part two of the plan.

Princess loved almost every part of her work, except while she was actually doing it. In the dark and discrete basement off Wall Street, which was her daddy’s nightclub, she greeted the guests by name. She waited tables and knew all of their tastes.

The clientele were mainly rich men in the financial sector, and sometimes their egos would get the better of them. That was how she put it to Ethan, her BFF, and she especially described it in those—or even milder—terms to her daddy.

The members, almost all of them men, treated Princess with a respect that she enjoyed, and while she had more than her share of compliments and admiring looks, the men understood that whatever else went on in the club, she was off-limits. There were always some who still had to test the theory.

However big the tips, the explosive testosterone of an overweight and over-intoxicated man in his fifties could be a challenge to deal with. The more so because Princess walked a diplomatic high-wire. If she didn’t, the club could run out of customers fast.
 

Daddy tried and tried to persuade her to go away to college, to learn other skills, meet different people, but she was determined to stay in Hotsteppa’s.

Princess had grown up among the explosive mix of bankers, jazz musicians, and the women who flocked to cluster around them. It was the life she was born into.

Her neat black blouse and skirt, the seamed stockings, and the black stilettos were her suit of power. Her battle dress. Her simple makeup, pale tan foundation with ruby red lips and nails, were her armor.

In Hotsteppa’s, Princess felt strong and in charge, even though Daddy was the law there. The outside world always seemed to her like a dull second best.

He told her she could learn and gain some experience of life, travel some, then come back if she wanted to. As far as Princess was concerned, there was more than enough education and experience to be had in the nightlife right here. The streets and neighborhoods of the financial district were all the travel that she craved, save for an occasional journey to Coney Island or up the Long Island Expressway.

To encourage her out, Daddy stopped paying her a while back, but since she lived rent-free upstairs and did well enough on tips not to mind, it was a pretty minor inconvenience.

When he told her there was no point waiting for a handsome prince to come and take her away, she said that he was her handsome prince and she didn’t want to be taken. If she had to have a handsome prince, she’d rather wait for one who would come and help out behind the bar.

Anyway, it wasn’t long before Daddy started to give her an allowance, and that happened to be about the same as she would have been earning.

Daddy worried about the male company that Princess was surrounded by. Since she was little, Daddy had told her not to trust the kind of men that visited Hotsteppa’s, or any of the men that he did business with, but she grew up accustomed to men looking at her and approaching her in the club.

Most of them thought of themselves as Wall Street bulls. That’s the term one of them used. He’d cornered her in a small booth. Her blouse was a little open and her lips were ready to part. The big, swaggering banker with dark eyes and smoky breath, dressed in an expensively tailored suit, said, “The whole country, the whole world, has to do what the Wall Street bull says.”

“Oh, yeah?” Princess was ready for a man to tell her what to do. To make her do it. She tested him, saying, “No man has the balls to make me do anything I don’t want to.” In that instant, he looked angry like a spoiled kid. Any authority that he might have had with her had evaporated between them, right there.

It wasn’t uncommon for a patron to proposition her or make a pass. They’d whisper low, whiskey and cigar breath in her ear and on her neck, suggesting something in a secluded corner or even away in a hotel room. Musicians and DJs, too, but less often. They were “club natives” and had better club manners, as Daddy said.

Princess was more club native than most and she had little difficulty fending off unwanted attention. Getting the more wanted kind of attention, finding the kind of a man she’d want to sneak off into the shadows with—that hadn’t really been happening so far.

But Hotsteppa’s was her world. It was where she grew up, and she loved it.

One electric night, Pierce Agostini’s thousand-dollar Italian heels clacked down the ironwork spiral stairway into the club and everything changed.

Princess was setting out drinks from a silver tray. The moment he stepped into the room, the tone in the club shifted. The suits in the alcove huddled and whispered about Agostini. The sharp intensity of their attention made Princess turn to see what kind of a man they could be talking about.

Tall, broad, and dark, he descended the stairs and entered like the owner of all he surveyed. An animal of muscle and restrained aggression, poured into a thousand-dollar suit.
 

He moved like a panther, a predator, slow and easy in the immaculately tailored suit, and he wore it like it was a t-shirt and jeans. His searing blue eyes scanned every nook and alcove like laser sights.

Rumor had it he grew up in a tough Sicilian neighborhood in Staten Island. It was said that he had brought the Mafia to Wall Street. The word was that he operated boiler rooms of unscrupulous traders, pumping worthless—or even non-existent—stocks to pensioners and workers reeling from the shock of recent redundancy checks.

Everyone knew who Pierce Agostini was. At the same time, nobody knew one sure thing about him. He had money was about all, but no one could say whether any of it was his own. Agostini had been accused of everything from running investment schemes that were thinly disguised confidence tricks to loan sharking with a gang of enforcers who wielded baseball bats.

The woman who clopped down into the club behind him was falling out of a wrinkled, silky dress in a pale blueish-gray. She had obviously made hasty wardrobe adjustments and very recently. Without the aid of a mirror, Princess guessed. The woman kept her face down, but Princess thought that she recognized her.

Two heavy-set black men with close-cropped hair and black shades followed her down the steps. They moved slowly and were almost identical in tailored black suits, like a gangster’s idea of formal menswear. Shiny, buttoned tight over their bulging frames, they showed extravagant French cuffs. They were easily a head taller than Agostini.

The crowd parted into two waves to let Agostini pass through. Women fluttered their eyelashes or pouted their lips. Men straightened to stand taller. Made their faces serious. Nobody even pretended to ignore him or to not notice.

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