Pepper

I walk to my dressing room, wiping sweat with the small hand towel Izzy, our blue-haired, combat boot-wearing stage manager, hands me. She gives me a half-hearted pat on the shoulder, as if to say, Yeah, this sucks.

She’s the silent, brooding type, but lately I think I’m catching sympathetic vibes from her. Like she knows this ship’s going down.

Hugh made me go through every bit of choreography, even though we’ve done this sixty-four times in the last three months. Yes, I said choreography.

It’s humiliating and sad. I may have started as the emo alternative singer, but the producers long since shoved me into the role of pop star. Which means I have backup dancers. And I have to dance with them.

He doesn’t make me sing. That’s because I can’t. I mean, literally, if I tried to sing now, the laryngitis would leave me mute by the time the concert rolls around. And I still have to at least talk to my fans.

Because if I can’t do that, we can’t pull off the cringe-worthy lip sync act I’ve been forced to do the past three nights.

My gut twists with the shame of it.

If word gets out, it will be a career-ender.

We should’ve cancelled the rest of this tour three weeks ago when I got sick and collapsed coming off stage. But we can’t.

Not with Tony Brando breathing down our necks.

The show must go on.

I open my dressing room door and find a champagne bucket with a bottle of Moet on ice. The card beside it says, Compliments of Tony Brando.

I ball my fingers into fists. Maybe I’m nuts. Maybe I’ve hit my limit, but the gesture sends a shock of white hot anger through me. It’s one thing to force me to denigrate myself by playing in your damn casino. It’s another to gloat. Or pretend I’m an honored guest, when really I’m your fucking slave.

I pick up the bottle by the neck and march out, still in my sweat-soaked crop top and skin tight boy shorts. I hop off the front of the stage.

“Where you going, Pepper?” Farley, my eighteen-year-old guitarist calls out. His identical twin, Scott, comes to stand behind him. Hiring the home-schooled Wonder Twins a few years ago was one of Hugh’s better ideas. It was gimmicky plan, done solely for the purpose of milking press articles, but they’re actually great. Easy to work with, madly talented, and generally nice guys.

“Everything okay?” Izzy calls out.

“I’m going to have a discussion with management.” I stomp back through the empty theater and out the door.

“Excuse me? Can you tell me where to find Tony Brando?” I ask a security guy at the door.

His eyes pop out of his head, probably surprised to see me unescorted, and he fumbles with the earpiece in his ear. “Uh, yeah. I’ll take you to him, Ms. Heart. Right this way.”

He leads me through the casino.

And yeah. I should’ve stopped to change. Because I’m definitely not blending in. Everyone and her sister gawks at me as I pass by. The security guy does his best to block the sight of me with his body, which is sweet, really. We end up down a hallway of offices, where he knocks on a door, then pushes it open when a grunt comes from inside.

He inclines his head and holds a deprecating hand out. “Here you are, Ms. Heart. Mr. Brando for you.”

Tony’s enormous frame unfolds from behind his desk, his eyes traveling over me with the same satisfied perusal he gave me outside, only this time, there’s a hint of surprise. Curiosity.

The door shuts behind the security guard. Brando says nothing, just quirks a brow.

My stomach is shoved up so high, it’s tucked under my ribs, keeping my lungs from expanding. I pant, suddenly intensely aware of the way my sweat-soaked shirt molds to my breasts, the prick of my nipples against the built in bra. The fact that my dance shorts are barely more than a pair of panties.

And judging by the way Brando loosens his tie, I’d say he finds my outfit as provocative as it’s meant to be—from the safety of the stage. Not up close and personal in a mafia enforcer’s swanky office.

I grip the champagne bottle tighter and hold it up. “Really? Champagne?” I snap. I shouldn’t be so careless with my vocal chords, but fortunately, my words come out clear, only the barest of rasping around the edges.

He tilts his head to the side, like he’s trying to decode my words.

I walk forward and set the champagne bottle down with a loud thud. “You and I both know you own me, Mr. Brando.” I meet his dark-lashed eyes boldly. “Pepper Heart, Inc. owes you, and you’re going to get your share every way you can. So you can skip the wine and dine. If you’re exacting payment from me”—I squeeze my breasts roughly—“just lube up and do it. Otherwise, leave me the hell alone.”

Shock flickers over his face, and then his brows slam down. He stalks around the desk toward me like a giant lion, graceful and terrifying. It takes everything in me to hold my position, keep my chin tilted up, the defiance in my gaze.

He crowds me against the desk until my ass perches on the edge and one of his thighs stands between mine. He’s so close, I feel his heat everywhere, yet somehow he manages not to touch me. My breath stalls up in my throat.

“Oh, sweetheart.” His voice is so deep and rumbly, eyes gleam dark and angry. I catch a whiff of his scent—not cigars and leather, like I might have expected. No, it’s coffee grounds and earthy spice. “I don’t have to pay for sex. And I certainly never force it.” A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Anyone who tells you different is a liar.”

My nipples burn, they’re so hard. I swear I feel the heat of his thigh right between my legs. If I just rock down, I might relieve the ache there.

As if he reads my exact thoughts, his gaze drops between us, down to the points of my erect nips, to the splay of my legs around his. “But if it turns you on to feel owned”—he lifts the back of his knuckle to my left nipple, brushes it ever-so-lightly, like he’s testing to see if I’ll move away—“I might play along.” His voice is deeper, softer.

The idea is ludicrous, but God help me, I rock my pelvis forward, grind my needy little clit against his pant leg.

He draws in a shuddering breath, a muscle ticking along his scarred jaw. If he’d shown more arrogance, if he’d mocked me, I would’ve kneed him in the balls—I’m lined up perfectly to do so. But seeing my affect on him calms me. Emboldens me. I grind some more.

He leans a hand beside my ass and inhales, like he’s breathing in my scent. When he pinches my nipple between two knuckles, my pussy clenches.

But fortunately, my brain returns. This is a man who has threatened Hugh with bodily harm. He represents a deadly threat to me and my family. Just because he’s over two hundred pounds of sexy man-beef, just because he seems to know more about what turns me on than I do, is no reason to offer myself up for his taking.

I shove myself off the desk, against his hard, muscled body, pushing his torso away with my hands.

Thankfully, he backs right off.

After the way he bristled at my accusation earlier, I’m not surprised. Apparently Tony Brando operates under some code of ethics that involves treating women with respect.

Well good for him.

Doesn’t mean I want to tangle with his sexy Italian manhood.

Tony

Pepper opens my office door, and the struggle between hiding my hard cock and letting her go out there without a bodyguard becomes real. I mutter a curse and follow her out.

“Wait up,” I call to her tight little ass. Because, yeah, that’s where my focus can’t help but stay glued. She’s wearing these little shorts—these fucking tiny shorts—that are all spandex and leave half her ass cheeks exposed.

And she has a super hot ass. Muscular, shapely. Cute.

“I’m not letting you out there without a guard.”

She ignores me and keeps on sashaying down the hall. Swinging those hips on purpose.

I catch up quickly with my long legs, and I have to work hard to keep from popping her butt. “Next time you parade through this casino in your panties I’m gonna smack that ass pink,” I growl just behind her.

She flips me the bird, but when she throws a glance over her shoulder, I see a smirk. And a slight blush.

Good. I read her right. She may be offended by me; she may hate that I’m the guy whose thumb she’s under, but sexually? Sexually, she’s a little bent.

Maybe she likes to be tied up. Maybe she wants to be held down. Or she’s got a thing for a guy’s fingers around her throat. I don’t know; I just get the vibe. Women who are turned on by me aren’t vanilla. They see big and tattooed and they think daddy. Or a bad boy. They want dark and dangerous—maybe with a splash of pain. Maybe punishment.

And for Pepper Heart, I’d be happy to oblige. Yeah, I’d tie her up and fuck her senseless. Keep her on the brink of an orgasm for hours straight before I let her come. Wake her up three times a night with my fist in her hair and cock in hand.

She wants it dark? I’ll give it to her dark.

But she’s gonna have to ask nicely.

She can’t come skidding into my office accusing me of owning her unless she admits to herself she wants to be owned.

We’re halfway through the casino when I realize she’s lost. Basically, she’s about to walk in a full circle. I get it; it’s a big place and she had an escort when she found me. When she stops in front of a bank of elevators and looks both ways, I sidle up behind her.

“Did you want to go up to your room?” I stand too close, partly to unnerve her, partly because I wanted to get another whiff of her crisp apple and cucumber scent.

She whirls to face me, her mouth tight. Her eyes dart right and left.

I cock my head, waiting.

“I don’t even know my room number,” she admits on an exhale. Her voice sounds throaty.

Adorable. I can’t say what it is about her that gets my cock so hard. Something about the achingly beautiful features offset by the punk trimmings, maybe. Big brown eyes against such pale skin. The glint of the diamond in her nose. She has a sex-fairy quality to her. Tough, yet feminine.

I hide my smile. “I’d be happy to escort you to your room, Ms. Heart.” I indicate a different bank of elevators—the ones that go to the higher levels.

She lifts her chin and walks to them. All around us, people hold up their phones and snap pictures of her.

I grind my teeth, the urge to pound all of them into the ground surprisingly strong. I hold the elevator door for her. “Take the next one,” I growl at the guests gutsy enough to try to dart on with us.

Pepper sighs and brushes her hair out of her face with trembling fingers when the doors close. I eye her, using my all-access keycard to punch in her floor number.

“You shaking because of me or them?”

I expect more feistiness, but when her chest sags, she appears weary beyond her years. She lifts her slender shoulders, but doesn’t answer me. Instead, she puts her hand to her throat, like she’s warding off being choked. Or remembering it.

Seeing Pepper diminished does something uncomfortable to my insides—even though I’ve been the one antagonizing her. I want the Pepper who flipped me off to return, but this one stares straight ahead with a zombie-like emptiness. The elevator stops and the doors open.

“It’s this way,” I tell her. “Suite 1460.” I escort her to the room—one of our premium suites—and use my keycard to open it. Out of long practice, I step in to check for threats and make sure her luggage has been delivered before I back toward the door. “You need anything?”

She rotates to stare at me, like she’s not sure if I’m for real or not.

I shrug.

“No thanks.” Her voice sounds rusty.

I love the way she stares at me, a mixture of bald curiosity and defiance. It’s the same intense study she gave me when we first met outside. I’m the kinda guy who attracts plenty of attention. I’m big. I have a deep voice. I swagger.

But all people see is the role I portray—mafia enforcer. Or around the Bellissimo, where we no longer engage in organized crime activities, big man in charge.

No one ever looks past it, stares right into my eyes like they want to unearth my secrets.

That’s how Pepper looks at me now.

It awakens in me the desire to be someone. Someone else. Someone with secrets that wouldn’t make her run and hide.

“I’m looking forward to your show tonight,” I tell her, which is true. Especially now that I’ve met her.

And seen what she wears to rehearsal.

I hope for all of our sakes, her show blows the audience away.