22
Vasilije’s sexy mouth parted to say something, but he was wordless. I undid my seatbelt, said a silent prayer John would keep his focus on the road and not kill us all while I had my lips wrapped around a Markovic dick, and reached for Vasilije’s zipper.
I stared at him as he let me undo his pants and stroke him through the cotton of his designer underwear. He was already erect, filling my hand, and his eyes were terrifyingly gorgeous when they burned with lust.
“Oh, fuck,” he uttered. “You get me so goddamn hard.” He cupped the back of my neck, staying clear of my styled up-do, and pushed my head down into his crotch right as I tugged the elastic over his erection.
It was dark in the back seat, and since Vasilije was sitting behind the driver, it was unlikely John could see anything. But he could definitely hear the wet sounds as I lowered my mouth over the thick head of Vasilije’s cock and sucked it down as far as I could go. And if the driver couldn’t hear that, he had to notice the profanity streaming from Vasilije’s mouth, some of it in English, and some in Serbian.
I swirled my tongue, tumbling it over his damp, hard skin, as I worked up and down. I slid him between my lips, letting my teeth scrape over the veins pulsing in his firm muscle and he shuddered. The cold hand on the back of my neck tightened in response. I sucked and fucked him exactly as he liked it, but this time, I began to enjoy it, too.
I was in control of his pleasure, which meant I had the power. Every uneven, deep breath he took was like gaining ground in battle. Each dirty word he groaned was a tiny victory. It might be temporary, but he was currently under my spell and at my mercy.
So, I made the blowjob last. I moved at a languid pace, slow passes with just my tongue like he was candy I couldn’t get enough of, followed by deep sucks that hollowed my cheeks and made him sigh with satisfaction.
“That’s so fucking good,” he said, rasping. His left hand rested on his thigh and it curled into a tense fist. “Such a good girl. So good at sucking my cock.”
I moaned.
It just happened, and it turned me on. He sank back into the seat, spreading his legs wider so he could thrust up into my mouth. “You like it?” he whispered. “Oh, fuck, yeah. Me, too. Use your hands.”
He was slippery and throbbing as I ringed his shaft and pumped my grip on him, moving faster and gripping tighter as his responses encouraged me. It was sexy. So sexy, heat pooled in my body, and I grew damp between my thighs.
I shouldn’t like what I was doing.
Vasilije and his family sold drugs, and guns, and worst of all, girls who were forced to do the exact thing I was doing now. Plus, he’d murdered his father. And most of the time he treated me like I was an object and not a person, although the last one wasn’t as big of a deal—I rarely felt like a person anymore. I was just an empty husk, fueled by the need for justice. Or revenge. I couldn’t see the difference between the two and no longer cared to.
All that mattered was the goal.
Despite everything, in addition to the fact Vasilije and I weren’t alone in this vehicle, I couldn’t stop my heart from racing, or my nipples from hardening inside my bra. I was turned on so much it was painful. I felt it all over, from my sensitive skin brushing against the expensive lace, to the dull ache where he’d fucked me last night.
His loud, labored breathing was the only thing I could hear, and getting him to the edge was all I could think about. Listening to him come was . . . intense. Exciting and still so new.
“Fucking get me deeper in your mouth.” His demand was strangled with desperate need.
I tried to relax and allowed him to pump upward with force while he held me down with a firm hand on my neck. My eyes watered as he pushed past the point of comfort, but I blinked back the sensation and endured. He quickened his tempo until he was jerking in and out of my mouth, his legs flexing and straining, and . . .
He came, hot and hard, blasting his thick liquid into my mouth where it pooled, and I awaited his command, listening to his pants of uneven breath sandwiched between swear words.
“Swallow.” His voice was like gravel.
It was strange how this sex act was solely about his pleasure, and yet when I followed his order and he shuddered with an aftershock, I felt it, too. All the way down my spine, to the tips of my toes. I drew back from him when he let me up, and tried to wipe my damp lips, but his hand never came off my neck. He used it to pull me into his savage kiss.
He was . . . disorienting.
Everything came to a standstill when his lips pressed to mine. His kiss took from me. My power. My submission. And I gave it all up without a fight.
When the kiss ended, his eyes were closed and our foreheads pressed together. He was still struggling to catch his breath when he spoke. “Don’t say anything tonight. Not unless I tell you it’s okay to speak. Got it?”
Vasilije’s tone was different. Was it the aftereffects of his orgasm? Instead of ordering me around, it seemed like he was concerned. It wasn’t possible. The devil didn’t care about anyone but himself. The car hit a bump, jostling us, and broke the spell. I was shoved out of his way as he did up his pants, and his eyes turned cold.
“Put your seatbelt back on,” he said.
I sat against the leather seat, latched the buckle, and turned away from him to watch the traffic, even as his taste lingered in my mouth
♪
The sign over the door to the restaurant read Il Piacere, and pinpricks of awareness tingled in my mind. I’d heard of the place before . . . but where? What was the significance of this upscale Italian restaurant in the Chicago Loop? John pulled along the curb, and one of the valets opened my door. He eyed my lack of coat with interest, but then Vasilije got out behind me and wrapped an arm around my waist, propelling me under the awning and through the glass doors.
The lobby was travertine tile, exposed brick and textured walls. Soft, warm lighting twinkled from hidden spaces, making the restaurant space feel intimate and inviting. All of the tables were empty except one. That wasn’t too strange. It was the night before Thanksgiving, and most people were home cooking, or traveling to be with family.
The large, round table in the back of the room was draped in a white tablecloth, and although it had six men sitting at it, my attention zeroed in on one. Goran Markovic was distinguished looking and handsome. His once-black hair was now mostly gray, but his black eyes were as alert as Vasilije’s and twice as scary.
He sat facing the door, giving him the best line of sight of the exit, which was the same thing my father did when he went out. Goran’s focus went to Vasilije, and then settled on his hand cupping my arm, just above my elbow. The discerning gaze continued up to meet mine, and I shivered.
It had nothing to do with the cold.
Confusion played on the older Markovic man’s face, and his scowl intensified as Vasilije escorted me toward the table.
Nerves bubbled in my bloodstream, but I stayed calm and collected, planting one steady high heel in front of the other as we closed in. There was no need to be intimidated, I told myself. I knew worse men than Goran. In fact, I was the product of one of them.
“Vasilije,” Goran said, and although his tone was mildly pleasant on the surface, I could hear the contempt beneath. “I need to remind you this is a business meeting?”
“This girl is part of the business,” Vasilije answered.
There were other men sitting at the table, and I jolted to a stop, stumbling on my heels. My blood froze in my veins. My heart refused to keep pumping. All functions ceased.
My father stared at me with stunned eyes that were the same color as razor blades.
What the hell was happening?
I tried to get my mind to work. I must have been made. Maybe Vasilije had brought me here as some sort of bargaining chip to trade. But if so . . . why was he now staring at me with confusion?
The restaurant name clicked into place suddenly. Il Piacere was the restaurant where the Serbians had met us to negotiate the truce last year. It was neutral ground, so no matter what was about to go down, in theory, I should be safe here. But what was happening? Were the Russians and Serbians about to negotiate a new truce, and I was part of it?
Vasilije’s fingers bit into my arm, wordlessly demanding I keep up, and I did the best I could. “It’s the new shoes,” I whispered, not sure what else to say. I’d play my part until the bitter end.
Sergey Petrov, the man who’d made me a bastard, was seated to Goran’s right, with a bodyguard separating them. My father’s straight, graying hair was parted perfectly to one side and as exacting as his personality. I’d been told by my friends that he was attractive as far as older men went, but I didn’t see it. His long nose and equally long face seemed to be cast in a permanent look of disdain . . . at least that was how he always looked at me.
He peered at me with barely-hidden contempt, as if I were going to get him killed. Who the fuck was in more danger here?
Vasilije grabbed one of the empty chairs and pulled it out, and the moment hung in suspension. I realized it at the same moment everyone else did. He’d pulled out the chair for me. The rest of the men at the table lumbered to their feet, standing until I took my seat. My half-brother stood beside my father, and Konstantine’s expression was pure shock, although I couldn’t tell if it was at seeing me, or at what Vasilije had just done. A Markovic pulling out a chair for a Russian, who didn’t carry the Petrov name, but was Petrov blood.
This was the most surreal moment of my life.
It was a table full of murderers acting like they were gentlemen, and regarding me as a lady. I sat hesitantly and allowed Vasilije to scoot the chair in, and then everyone else settled down into seats. My gaze flicked to Goran, who was directly across from me. His scrutiny was so sharp, it felt as if he were peeling the skin from my body, one layer at a time.
“It’s nice to see you again, Sergey,” Vasilije said, and my eyes widened at his friendly, familiar tone. He nodded toward my brother. “Konstantine.”
My father’s lips pulled back into a thin smile, but his eyes were dead. “You, too, Vasilije.” His gaze slid to me, but he asked it casually. “Who’s the girl?”
Vasilije grinned. “You don’t recognize her?”