Tales of Chills and Thrills: The Mystery Thriller Horror Box Set (7 Mystery Thriller Horror Novels) (13 page)

Nicki was stunned. Oh God, this couldn’t be happening again. But it was. She was in Rafe’s arms and he was whispering soft crooning words. Words that sent shivers of desire from her breasts to her core and back to her hardening nipples. She fought to remember the pain she felt when he’d pushed her away. To hear his crushing words.
You’re not the kind of woman I fuck, Nicki.
But it was no use. Here, now with his wicked tongue wakening receptive nerve endings, she was helpless to resist him.

All of her plans to leave, her anguish at hurting Katya, the angry conversation with her father—none of it mattered. At least for now. At this moment she could think of only one thing. If Rafe didn’t make love to her now, she might die of deprivation.

He wove his tongue across her throat, licking, sucking the sensitive skin, then he nipped at the throbbing pulse sending a cascade of desire to her core.

“Oh God, Rafe. Don’t…don’t stop.”

He groaned. “Damn, Nicki. I don’t think I can. I…I want you, Princess. So damn bad.”

Any response she could have made was swallowed up when he captured her mouth with his lips. Unlike before he wasn’t gentle, delicately probing. No, this time he was fierce, powerful, demanding. He forced her lips open and drove his tongue deep in her mouth mimicking strokes her body ached for. She was as fierce as he was. All the pain and anguish she’d been feeling were blasted into her kiss. She tangled with his tongue, fought against his teeth. Winding her hands in his hair, she dug her fingernails in his scalp and pulled him closer.

He moaned, a deep harsh sound.

“Holy Christ, Nicki.”

His face was flushed, his forest green eyes shot pangs of desire through her body.

Rafe jerked at her tank top pulling the stretchy fabric down to her waist revealing her breasts imprisoned behind the straining curtain of her black lace bra. His eyes widened and he gave a low appreciative whistle. Leaning down he ran his tongue over one taut nipple tugging it to a hard peak through the lacy barrier. Replacing his tongue with his skillful fingertips, he turned to the other nipple sucking it hungrily though the silk. She cried out, unable to contain her raging response. With a soft moan he tugged the lacy straps over her shoulders and down her arms, then with his thumb and forefinger unsnapped the front closure freeing her breasts. He cradled the full mounds in his big hands and looked down at her, his eyes wide with wonder.

“God, baby. Look at you. Jesus, Nicki. My hands fit around your waist. How can you have breasts like these, so soft, so full? And Princess, your nipples. Lush, pink. And look what they do when I suckle you. Look how hard they are. So responsive.”

Her words caught in her throat. She’d never felt like this. Wanton, open, drunk with lust. She wanted him to suck on her breasts, run his tongue around the sensitive nubs. And then…Oh God, she cried out when he sucked one nipple deep in his mouth and bit down hard.

He grunted when she grabbed at his t-shirt yanking at the hem. She wanted to feel his bare skin against hers, taste him, suck on him the way he was sucking on her. Reaching for the bottom of his shirt he yanked it over his head and tossed it to the floor Baring his strong muscular chest, his taut abs and arms rippling with muscle, he grinned at her.

“Is that what you want, baby? To feel me the way I’m feeling you.”

She gave an incoherent moan then stroked the taut muscles, tugging at the tufts of hair dusting his chest. Reaching for his nipple, she ran her tongue over the tight nub then drew it in her mouth. At his groan, she sucked on the rigid peak then bit down the way he bit her. He gasped then uttered a deep male sound of approval. Surprising herself at her brazenness she suckled him deep into her mouth then caught his other nipple between her fingers and thumb, twisting it, pinching it.

His ragged moans drove her lust higher. She was stunned at her response. The other night she had been tentative, afraid. Now she was bold, audacious. She couldn’t get enough of him. Of his taste, the sexy smell of his sweaty body. His musky male odor. She wanted more. His hard arousal bruising her hip thrilled her. Gratified that he wanted her as much as she wanted him. His haunting words flashed through her lust-addled brain. But she shoved them down. Maybe she wasn’t the kind of woman he fucked—but dammit tonight she was. She’d waited her whole life for this. And if one night was all she got from him she would take it, every bit of it, and live her life thankful, without regrets.

Kisses weren’t enough. She wanted to touch him, press against him. She wanted it all and she wanted it now. Her fingers caught in the wiry curls at the top of his pants. Feeling wanton, brazen, Nicki tugged at the button on his pants, needing to see and feel that throbbing member pressing insistently between her legs.

Rafe choked at her touch. Any thought he’d had of holding back, testing her resolve was lost at her erotic touch. With a harsh groan, he scooped her up in his arms and strode toward the sofa. Growling in her ear all the outrageous things he wanted to do to her body, he’d barely laid her down on the soft cushions before they were tearing at each other’s clothes. He ripped open the buttons on her pants, then stripped them down to her ankles and jerked them off. She was panting, whimpering in frustration as she tugged at the tight snap at his waistband.

He grasped her hands and shook his head, “No, No. Wait, Princess. Let me look at you first. Jesus, baby. I want to touch you and taste you. Do what I’ve been dreaming about since the first day I saw you. Yes, Nicki? Yes?”

At her sob of consent, he grasped her legs and positioned her bottom on the edge of the sofa. Dropping to his knees in front of her, he bent her legs, opening her to his gaze. She cried out and thrust her hips toward him, a blatant invitation.

Groaning in anticipation, Rafe gazed at the triangle of lace-edged satin covering her mound. He reveled in her sexy underwear. It screamed sensuality. Pulling her closer, he spread her legs and wedged his broad shoulders between her thighs, breathing in her heady odors. He grinned at the audacious jewel buried in her belly button then grasped the top of her thong and ripped it off.

His grin froze. His gasp lodged in his throat. Not sure he would ever again take a full breath, he gazed at the sight below. Instead of the tangle of red-gold curls he’d expected, she was bare except for the brightly-colored sinuous Boomslang snake, its protruding tongue audaciously pointing to the treasures below.

Too stunned to do more than stare, he barely heard the sound of Grayson’s voice through the din of air rushing through his ears. Only the sound of a key turning in the lock and Nicki’s horrified cry, wrenched him back to the present. Grabbing for her pants that he’d tossed to the floor, he covered Nicki’s body with his bare torso, shielding her body from view the best he could.

Grayson stood in the doorway his mouth open, his eyes wide.

“Goddamn, Rafe. Nicki. Christ. I’m sorry as hell. If I’d known you were here, Nicki…”

Rafe’s voice was hoarse, ragged.

“Jesus, Grayson! It damn well better be important.”

Grayson held up his hands in front of him warding off Rafe’s furious glare.

“Hell, man, in a million years I wouldn’t want to interrupt this scene. But you gotta come. Both of you. Bernie’s on the line. He’s been trying to reach you. He’s heard from the kidnappers. They’re tired of waiting. The stakes just went up. Exponentially!”

Chapter 15

“You got any blow, bro?”

Not hiding his revulsion, Boris glared at the ebony-skinned man they called Jamal. The smartass tipped the bottle of Boris’s best vodka to his lips and chugged the equivalent of four shots. He was decked out in what appeared to be the gang’s regulation uniform. A doo rag tied back his shoulder length dreads. Gang tats covered most of his available skin. A Miami Heat sleeveless bro-tank with armholes ripped to his waist made certain that the tats covering his abs were also visible. His baggy pants hung down past his ass, showing crack high boxers, his only nod to modesty. A pair of LeBron James Hyperdunk sneakers that Jamal proudly claimed set him back a cool $350 completed the disgusting picture.

“First of all, you piece of shit, I’m not your bro. And second, no, I do not have any “blow” and if I did, the last person I would give it to is you. Third, not that you would understand, but civilized people do not guzzle Stoli Elit Vodka out of the bottle.”

The big man was 6’4” and clocked in easily at 280. His scowl should have frightened Boris into silence but at that moment the Russian had bigger worries than the scum sitting around the table stuffing their faces and downing his premium vodka. Each of them was playing with a weapon of some kind: knives, police issue Glocks, custom made Sig Saurs, at least four AK47u’s, plus a goddamned machete decorated the table. After ten days of dealing with the riffraff, Boris barely noticed their deadly paraphernalia.

Exiting down the hallway, Boris hunted for Aiden. Without knocking he barged into the large room that Aiden had claimed as his office. The floor to ceiling windows overlooked the Brooklyn Bridge Park. Boris’ “partner” was lounging behind a huge desk that he’d had delivered several days earlier, along with a trendy suite of matching office furniture. An overstuffed wraparound Italian sofa and matching armchairs encircled a 60-inch television. The whole package cost nearly fifty thousand dollars. Naturally Aiden had the invoice sent to Boris.

Aiden threw him an insolent frown.

“Wassup, Boss Man Boris? Immigration on your ass, comrade?”

Boris choked back his anger, refusing to telegraph that the acid burning his gullet threatened to spill over any minute. Swallowing the bitter bile, he focused on his despicable nemesis. He lowered his bulk into one of the black leather chairs in front of the desk. It’d cost him $2,500.

Looking at the cocky young man grinning at him, Boris was glad that at least Aiden dressed like an entrepreneur and not a reject from the mean streets of Harlem. He should look good. According to the invoice from Barneys, his GQ wardrobe ran Boris close to $5,000 for this outfit alone. When he’d objected, Aiden had flipped him off saying that being the partner of such an important man as the famous import/export financier Boris Lubvick required classy rags.

“Aiden, this is serious. If you’re going to be a 50/50 partner you need to step in and control those animals out there. I swear to God if one of those Neanderthals so much as touches any of the girls, we’re done. Finished.”

“Easy, Boris, my man. What makes you think my boys are shaggin’ the merchandise? While they don’t give a shit what you have to say, they do listen to me. And at least for the time being, those high-priced pussycats are off limits.”

Aiden pulled a 10-inch blade out of his lizard skin boot holster and started to carve what looked like a gang symbol in the $10,000 desk.

Grinning at Boris’s gasp, he quipped. “Just makin’ sure you know who this belongs to. To clarify, Boris. While the pussies are off limits to the animals, as you delicately refer to my men, the rules don’t apply to me.”

Boris jerked up.

“Dammit, Aiden. Don’t you get it? If we’re going to auction off the girls to the highest bidder they have to be in pristine shape. No marks anywhere, do you understand?”

“I understand Boris; the question is, do you?”

Boris did his best to hold his gaze, but for the life of him, every time he looked at Aiden, the image of that unfortunate disemboweled man loomed up in his sight. Staring at his shoes, he choked on the bile swirling in his mouth. He dragged out a filthy handkerchief and spit the loathsome expectorant into it.

Aiden continued as if Boris hadn’t coughed up his guts into a filthy handkerchief.

“Look man, givin’ credit where credit is overdue, I gotta say, you surprised me. The idea of double dipping—getting a ransom plus holding an auction for your high level international cronies—is a brilliant move. But whether I shag those girls or not is none of your fuckin’ business. Damn, Boris, you’re not so naive to think that any of them are virgins! Still got unpopped cherries? Hell, most of them have been screwing up their lives since they were in junior high school. If their daddy’s didn’t get to them sooner. And not to get your panties in a bunch, there’s only a couple of them in the pen that I haven’t already sampled. As for the rest? It’s only a matter of time, my man, a matter of time.”

Boris lurched to his feet and staggered toward the door. He couldn’t face the supercilious asshole another minute. Every second in Aiden’s presence confirmed how close he was to losing control. Of the biggest venture he’d ever engineered.

He stopped at the doorway when Aiden called out.

“One more thing, Boss Man Boris. At the party on Saturday night, I’ll be picking the girls. I’ve been pimping since I was expelled from Sister Carmelita’s fourth grade class for lookin’ up Mary Kate O’Reilly’s little plaid skirt. At the tender age of nine years old, the good nuns decided I was irredeemable and kicked my ass to the streets. I’ve been an expert pussy picker since. On Saturday night, in ten seconds I’ll know how much money each one of those little candy asses will bring in.”

When Boris demurred, Aiden added, “Your job is to see that each of their daddies understands what’s at stake. Make it clear: So much as a murmur to the authorities and we start sending body parts to Mom and Dad. And remember Boris, our ace in the hole is that money is nothing to these filthy rich bastards. They care a hell of a lot more that their priceless property, their ‘innocent’ young daughters don’t disgrace them publically. And what could be more disgraceful than being raped by one of those ‘animals’ out there?”

An evil grin quirked his lips.

“Fuck, just think about it. A side by side shot of Jamal next to one of those pedigreed little heiresses? On every breaking news cable show? The news vultures’d cream their pants for a story like that! They’d run it 24/7 for months! Trust me, Boss Man Boris. Those pure little girls’ daddies would give their left nut to prevent that from happening. Not the rape you understand. Just the publicity. They’re more afraid of a press release than they are of coughing up a million bucks. The more I think about it, Boss Man, it’s a great idea. Let’s have a little fun with those proud papas. Let’s send them a few rap sheets of the men who are taking care of their little girls. Let them start envisioning some of the possible fallout. See if that ransom money doesn’t start pouring in.”