I scoot a little closer, still holding my dick, feeling blood pulse beneath my fingertips. “’Bout anything you want to happen, hon.”
Her smile turns sultry and she gives me that look again, scraping down my body but not quite going below the waist. Then she reaches up and runs a finger across my lip. Presses into the cut there. It hurts, and I can’t help but wince a little. Not because of the pain but because I didn’t expect that from her.
“You think you’ve got what it takes?”
I catch her hand before she can lower it and push it down against mine where I’m cupping myself. It’s delicate in mine. Long fingers, smoothly manicured. My hand feels rough and awkward around hers. “Check for yourself.”
She just tilts her eyes up toward me, that smile still on her mouth. She doesn’t pull her hand away. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”
Oh no. She’s not going to pull that shit on me. I move just a little closer. Just enough that her hand and mine are both shoving against the rock-hard length of my dick. “I know who you are, Ms. Spada,” I tell her in a low voice. “I know exactly who you are, and I don’t care what your father thinks. Now—you want to go someplace a little more private?”
She twitches her fingers so her nails scrape the denim next to my fly. I have to fight to not start shaking. “Yeah,” she says. “I think that’s a damn good plan.”
I slide in, let my lips rest right against her ear. “My place is only a few blocks—”
She backs off. Not a lot, but enough to let me know I’ve said the wrong thing. She’s having second thoughts. And I know exactly what she’s thinking. So I move square with her, looking her straight in the eye. My shoulders make her look tiny, sitting there on the barstool, and suddenly her eyes are wary, vulnerable.
“Look,” I say quietly. There’s a small pool of silence around us, just enough so we can hear each other, but no one else around us has a damn clue what we’re saying. It’s perfect. I tip my head toward her, catching her eyes, and lay a hand on her shoulder. Again, my body makes hers look so small. Breakable. “I know what’s going on in that head of yours, and I don’t like it.”
“Oh really?” Her tone is grating. She’s putting on tough airs—except I’m not entirely sure they’re airs. She can’t be any kind of shrinking violet, not with a father like Phil Spada. She’s had to learn to protect herself. From him and, right now, from me.
I move my hand against her shoulder in a soothing motion. I’ll tame her if I have to, although I don’t really want to take the time. I just want inside her where it’s hot and wet and tight. I want to fuck her into oblivion. I want to own her. Because she’s something I want, and she’s something I can take from Phil Fucking Spada.
“You’re afraid your dad’s going to go ape shit if he finds out you went home with me. Because I’m just one of his filthy fighters—I’m not good enough for you. Well, guess what? I agree. I’m definitely not good enough for you.” I lean forward, talking again right into her ear. “But you know what? I can fuck you from here to next Sunday and make you scream like you’ve never screamed before. I can fuck you so hard you’ll taste me in the back of your throat ’til Christmas.”
I feel her shaking a little under my hand. Yeah, that’s gotten to her. It’s not fear; I know that much. She wants me. Bad. She wants everything I just told her I could do to her. I lean back just enough so I can look into her eyes. “You want that,” I tell her. “You’ve always wanted that, but you’ve never had the balls to ask anybody for it.”
There’s a moment of silence then, finally, minutely, she nods.
“All right, then. I don’t give a shit what your daddy thinks, and I don’t give a shit what he thinks he owns and doesn’t own. But I do know I want you. Right now. Over and under and any way I want to take you. Now…” This time I draw my hand away from her and lean back. “Are you ready to go?”
She slides off the barstool and straightens. She’s a little shorter than I expected. God, I could toss this girl over my shoulder and carry her out of here like some kind of goddamn caveman claiming a mate. Maybe I will.
But she tilts her head and her eyes meet mine, and she says, “Fine. But, Cain, I’m taking my own car.”
#
My house isn’t exactly a Beverly Hills mansion, but real estate in Los Angeles is fucking expensive, and the little two-level condo is a damn sight better than anyplace I ever lived growing up. Of course, growing up in the system like I did, you don’t have much choice. You go wherever they send you, and half the time it’s shit.