“I don’t have to worry about Jamie-the-Chef breaking down my door in the morning, do I?” Cross asked as he shed his suit jacket and loosened his tie. “Because I would hate to have to clean up blood before noon.”
Catherine’s brow furrowed in the sweetest way, and then recognition lit up in her eyes. “First, I’m not with him or dating him, so no.”
“But you were, at some point.”
“Would you like to go over the women you’ve hooked up with since we were together?” she asked with a condescending smile.
Cross tucked his hands in his pockets. “No, not particularly.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“Second?”
“You’re a jealous prick.”
Only for her.
“That’s accurate.”
Catherine moved silently through the open floor of the penthouse, and her fingers drifted over the shiny, black Baby Grand piano. “This is new.”
“New to the penthouse. Not a new item.”
She shot a look over her shoulder, but he didn’t explain further.
Stepping up to the wall of windows that overlooked the outside deck and the high-rise condo across the way, Catherine kept her back turned to him as she sighed. “So you didn’t sell the place, then? I thought you had, or something.”
Cross’s brow dipped. “When, or why, did you think that?”
She waved a hand. “It doesn’t matter. I’m just thinking out loud.”
He reached for the gold tinted whiskey bottle on the wet bar, but hesitated. “You don’t mind if I drink, do you?”
Catherine didn’t even turn around. “Why would I?”
“It crossed my mind, considering your … you know.”
“My history?” She laughed. “It’s my responsibility to handle my triggers and navigate daily life that are filled with said triggers. It is not everyone else’s responsibility around me to change their lifestyles and preferences to manage my needs. It is my choice not to drink; it is not your choice or necessity.”
“Although they could manage it, if you needed them to.”
“Except I don’t,” she said simply. “I don’t mind, Cross. Honestly.”
Cross was kind of shocked at Catherine’s depth in her explanation, and how flippantly she offered it. As though it was something she had been told again and again, and likely repeated to herself over and over.
Maybe it was.
How was he to know?
Cross poured his whiskey into a lowball and sipped from the glass, all the while keeping an eye on Catherine. “I assumed alcoholics—”
“I’m not an alcoholic, or a drug addict,” Catherine interjected quietly. “I am someone who suffers from spells of clinical depression, accompanied by crippling anxiety caused by trauma. I used to self-medicate in an effort to feel better during those spells, which led my body into a dependency, as it does when you use frequently and a lot. That doesn’t make me an alcoholic or addict. I don’t crave either of those things like addicts do. I crave normalcy, happiness, and calm. For me, I mean. It’s not the same thing.”
“I didn’t know that,” Cross admitted.
And he kind of hated himself for it.
A lot.
Catherine shrugged, and still didn’t turn around. “It is what it is, but it’s better that I know why I do what I do … or did, I guess. It’s not for anyone else around me to worry about, to be honest. They’re not the ones who need to crawl their way out of depression. The tools they have won’t stand me back up again. I do all of that on my own. I learned to do it on my own.”
“Yet, you still choose not to drink, even if you’re not an alcoholic.”
“Drinking is a trigger, much like stress or strange men that smell a certain way.”
Cross frowned into his glass. “Strange men?”
“Men I don’t know.”
“And they have to smell like what, exactly?”
“Like my rapist did.” She looked at him again over her shoulder. Those green eyes of hers burrowing into him, and pinning him in place. “I said no talking, remember? We’re not supposed to be talking, Cross. We were going to skip all of that.”
He grinned around the rim of his glass. “I’m enjoying this, Catty. It’s been a long time. Don’t fault me for it.”
“No more talking,” she said simply.
Cross had a feeling he had gotten all the conversation he was going to get out of Catherine for the moment. Besides, if she was more interested in jumping into his bed for the evening, he was perfectly fine with providing her that.
It was something.
Something between them.
He could work with that.
“Strip,” he murmured.
Catherine’s shoulders stiffened as she turned, and put her back to the windows. “What did you just say?”
“Strip, babe. Take that dress off. Keep the heels. Let your hair down out of that chignon. Show me what’s going on under that dress. You know how this goes.”
She gestured at the windows. “Where everyone can see, huh?”
“The lights are off in here. For the most part, you’ll look like a shadow. A very beautiful, sexy shadow. Don’t act shy, Catherine. It’s not even the tenth time we’ve fucked in front of those windows. You were barely beyond eighteen the first time. Strip.”
A wicked gleam lit up her eyes, and Cross knew then that he had her caught. As she began to tug the pins from her hair, he moved past the couch to a chaise. It had been situated to overlook the windows or the piano. He sat down just as she was tugging the zipper down on the side of her black dress.
The dress hit the hardwood floor with barely any sound at all, and Catherine stepped out of it, careful not to trip in her heels on the fabric. Black lace covered her tits, and matching panties hid the heaven between her thighs.
For a moment, Cross simply let his gaze wander. It had been far too fucking long since he could appreciate the beauty of Catherine in barely anything at all. Heels and lace. She was all legs, olive-toned skin, and hair that fell to her mid-back. Delicious, addictive curves from her thighs, to her hips, her waist, and her breasts. He had always appreciated that Catherine was not a woman who associated her worth to the number on a scale. She was tone, sure, but not unhealthy.
Dainty shoulders that had carried too much weight, and collarbones that showed, and begged to be bitten. A sweet, teasing mouth with a perfect Cupid’s bow and full enough to look sinful wrapped around his cock.
Catherine wet her lips, and smiled at him. “Stare much?”
“Only at the most beautiful things,” he admitted.
She certainly fit that bill.
Catherine glanced away. “Careful, Cross. Start going in that direction, and we’ll be back to talking again.”
“Oh?”
He didn’t think that was a bad thing.
She clearly did.
“Yes, we’ll talk, and you’ll be sweet. Instead of fucking, like we’re supposed to do, we’ll end up making love. I don’t want that, okay?”
Didn’t she know? Even when he fucked her, he was loving her.
Cross chose not to point that out. He set his glass of whiskey aside. “Come here, babe.”
Catherine only had a few steps to get to him, but each one was damn near mesmerizing. She stopped in front of him, and from where he sat on the chaise, he was eye-level with the diamond tipped barbell in her navel. Unable to stop the rising urge to get a taste of that diamond and gold piece of jewelry, he reached out to grab her waist.
His hand still fit in the curve beautifully. Like she had been crafted and made only for him.
Cross pulled Catherine closer, and his mouth encased her navel. His tongue flicked against the larger diamond on the barbell, and he looked up at her. Catherine grinned back at him.
She reached over and dipped two fingers into his glass of whiskey. Cross was already kissing down her smooth stomach when she made a wet line of whiskey from just above his lips to that goddamn navel piercing.
Really, he didn’t mind.
He licked and kissed his way back up that line of alcohol, and felt the heat rise to the surface of her skin while a shiver tremored under his fingertips. He slipped his other hand between her legs, and under the line of her lace panties.
Shifting the material to the side, he stroked the line of her soft, bare sex with two fingers. Her tart-smelling arousal soaked his fingers when he stroked harder, and let his digits slide into her slit. Just enough to feel—hot, wet, and tight. All the while, he kept his gaze lifted to watch Catherine above him.
He was teasing himself.
Badly.
Catherine let out a soft, shaky sigh. “Don’t ruin my panties, Cross. I have to wear them home.”
“Is that a challenge?”
“You’re terrible.”
“That’s not news. Let’s see if you still sound the same when my face is between your thighs, Catty. Widen those legs, right now.”
She did what he said without question. His fingers slid deep into her clenching pussy at the same time his whiskey-tasting tongue burrowed into her clit. The flavor of her juices hadn’t changed a bit, nor did the way she sounded gasping out his name.
Breathless.
High.
Strung and spun.
Catherine’s hands weaved into his hair as he fucked her with his fingers and mouth. Each stroke made her louder, and every thrust made her shaking increase. Cross loved the way she pushed her cunt harder into his mouth with every flick of his tongue.
Without warning, he pulled away from her sex, grabbed her hips, and fell back on the chaise. Catherine came with him. She straddled his face with a sexy little grin.
“Fucking eat me, Cross.”
“Then get down here, babe.”
He yanked her panties to the side again, and she sat on his face. His mouth covered her sex, his tongue sinking into her wet pussy, and lapping up all of her tart arousal. He got two handfuls of her ass, and dug his fingers in roughly just to keep her in place. She wasn’t fucking moving until he was done. Just as fast, he was back up to her clit, driving his tongue into the throbbing little nub with relentless intent. Her legs tightened around his head and shoulders while her thighs rocked with tremors.
“Jesus Christ,” Catherine mumbled above him. “You better fucking make me come, Cross.”
Her sweet little cries came higher and airless. He felt her orgasm race through her cunt first, and he sucked hard on her clit as she shouted his name. Her head tossed back, and her shoulders quaked.
Cross kissed the seam of her sex and winked up at her. “You still look damn good when you come, babe.”
Catherine dragged shaky fingers through her hair. “Only with you.”
He was going to question her on that, but stopped himself just in time. No talking. Only fucking. He wasn’t about to send her running because he had questions.
Cross’s hands slid up from Catherine’s ass to her back. He held tight to keep her steady as he lifted off the chaise and flipped then over. She was on her back, then, and looking up at him.
“This is a shame,” he said quietly.
Catherine watched him under lowered lashes. “What is?”
“I got a taste of your cunt before your mouth, and it’s a shame.”
“Fix it, then.”
“Gladly.”
Cross closed the small distance between them, and caught her soft lips with his own. His tongue still tasted of her sex, and she groaned into his kiss. It was such a familiar dance for them, he found. After all that time, kissing her was still as natural as breathing, and he couldn’t fucking get enough. He moved to kiss her jaw, and then her quivering chin. Her chest heaved with deep breaths when his hands slid the straps of her bra down, and freed her tits from the lacey cups.
Catherine’s pink nipples peaked under the strokes of his thumbs. The three-day stubble on his cheeks rubbed against soft, sweet-smelling skin when he sucked one of her nipples into his mouth, and then bit down just hard enough to make her gasp.
“Fuck,” Catherine breathed, “you need to—”
“Fuck you?”
“Now.”
She was quick to help him out of his clothes, never once breaking their kiss unless she absolutely had to. Then, she tensed.
Cross saw her gaze dart to his shoulder, and then the tips of her fingers roved over the scar there. “This looks like it hurt.”
Her unspoken question was as clear as day. He had no intention of answering. At least not right then.
“It’s fine,” he promised.
Now.
“How did it happen?”
Cross sighed a little and pushed up to lean over her. “Somebody’s bullet.”
Catherine’s eyes widened, but her attention quickly went elsewhere. Her fingertips rolled over his skin again, although lower this time. Over his tattoo—the Italian script on his ribcage that held all his secrets.
“Do you know how much it pisses my parents off that I never bothered to learn enough Italian to carry a conversation?” she asked.
He chuckled. “Oh?”
“Yeah, it’s a source of disappointment.” She traced the tattoo again. “What’s it say?”
“Love is strong.”
Catherine pursed her lips. “Except morte means death, Cross. I know enough, remember. I just can’t carry a conversation.”
Smart girl.
“Like death,” he said quieter.
Catherine’s lashes dipped lower as her gaze skirted away from his. “Love is strong …”
“Like death.”
“Okay, that’s enough talking.”
Yeah, he figured. Too much. Too deep. She wasn’t there for that. He closed the distance between their mouths once more, needing to kiss that entire fucking conversation away if he could manage it.
Cross only left her long enough to shirk his pants off, but not before grabbing the foil packet in the back pocket.
Catherine snatched the condom from his hand as he leaned back between her thighs on the chaise. Her warm palm tightened around his length, and stroked him fast and firm. Just the fucking way he liked. He was already hard as hell. She made his cock throb with the feeling of her manicured fingernails grazing the sensitive tip and dragging down the vein on the underside of his shaft.
With a promisingly sinful smirk, Catherine let him go long enough to rip the condom open, and fit it down his length with teasing fingers. The spiked heels of her Louboutin shoes found the backs of his thighs, and with a tightening of her legs, he was already coming closer.
Cross’s hand slipped underneath Catherine’s jaw, and she tipped her head back over the end of the chaise. Brown waves of hair spilled over the floor when he sunk his cock into her cunt. He swore every single one of her inner muscles squeezed him to death on that first flex.
Nothing felt better than her.
It was still just her for him.
Catherine let out a hard exhale, and her blown pupils danced with pleasure. “Fuck me.”
“Yeah?”
He held off on moving, though it damn near killed him to do it.
“Fuck me, Cross,” she repeated.
“You need it bad, babe?”
The huskiness in his tone edged his words.
“Cross, I swear …”
He flashed her a single grin as he pulled out of her, and then slammed right back in again. There was no pause between his thrusts after that. She didn’t want gentle either, so he fucked her hard. She sucked two of his fingers between her reddened lips as she shook her way through another orgasm.
Cross pulled her off the chaise and bent her over it before she had even finished. His cock was balls-deep into her cunt once more, feeling the aftershocks of her orgasm shuddering through her pussy.
“Come on, babe, take my fucking cock,” Cross murmured in her ear.
Catherine sighed, pleased, as his fingers weaved into her hair and tugged her head back. “Don’t fucking stop.”
Never.
Between the music of her cries, she begged.
For him.
For more.
To come one more time.
Cross had found heaven again. He’d been living in hell for far too long.
The bed was colder than it should have been. That was how Cross knew he was alone. Still, he gave Catherine the benefit of the doubt that she hadn’t taken off before he could even wake up. Blinking fully awake, he noted the empty side of the bed where Catherine had crawled in beside him the night before.
The pillow was untouched, as she had tucked into his side. The blankets were crumpled.
His dick was half hard.
It had not been a dream.
Cross still gave her the benefit of the doubt that she was somewhere inside his goddamn penthouse even as he pushed out of the bed with tired muscles. Despite heading to the gym four times a week for two and three hour sessions, fucking Catherine was a workout.
One he liked a whole lot.
The attached master bath was empty as he relieved himself and washed his hands. He shrugged on a pair of sweats from the walk-in closet, and headed out of the bedroom. Still, he gave her the benefit of the doubt.
Yet, his penthouse was empty.
That just left Cross pissed.
On the counter, he found a small note Catherine had written on a piece of mail.
Sorry. –C, it read.
Nothing more.
Because she knew he would be pissed she up and left without as much as a goodbye. Regardless of what Catherine tried to play off between them the night before, it had not just been fucking. It could never be just fucking with them.
So she ran.
Like a scared little deer.
Cross wanted to be surprised, but he wasn’t. He scrubbed a hand over his stubble as he looked over her hastily written note once more. Pretty, delicate handwriting that hadn’t changed in all her years, yet still showed shakiness in the curves from her nerves.
He tossed the note aside with a heavy, “Fuck.”
Cross had news for Catherine. He asked around, and knew exactly where she lived. He certainly didn’t mind playing a game with her, as long as he got a heads up about what kind of game she planned to play.
She owed him a conversation.
At least.
The conversation would have to wait, unfortunately. The ring of his cell phone on the counter—a ringtone he saved just for his new brother-in-law and people down in Chicago—told him business was coming.
Cross found he was right when he picked up the call. “Donati here.”
“The Canadian’s guns are in, man,” came a familiar voice on the other end.
Theo DeLuca.
“I thought they were supposed to be another two weeks or so?”
“Well, they weren’t. Early drop means extra cash from Guzzi. I mean, you can chill for a bit if you want, but I would prefer you get these guns over the New Brunswick border within a week.”
Cross sighed.
Theo, a front boss for the Chicago Outfit, had been the door that opened for Cross where gunrunning was concerned all those years ago. The man set him up with some of the best of the best in the business when he learned Cross had a knack for gunrunning. Cross was particular on planning, meticulous on details, and knew how every single gun worked that they put in front of his face.
He owed the man a lot, really.
“Yeah, I’ll be there by tonight,” Cross assured.
“See you then.”
“Tomorrow,” he corrected. “I owe my sister and her new husband a visit this time, if I’m going to be in town.”
“Tomorrow,” Theo agreed.
The phone clicked.
Cross’s gaze went to that goddamn note again.
Catherine and her disappearing act would have to wait.
“Cross!”
Camilla’s smile widened as she opened the front door to her three-level Melrose home. Instantly, he wrapped his little sister in his embrace, and ruffled her blonde hair with his hand. She batted him away as she stepped back.
“Back to blonde, huh?” he asked.
Camilla shrugged. “The red got boring.”
“I don’t know how all of your hair hasn’t fallen out yet.”
“Good genes?”
“Maybe.”
His sister could leave the house one day as a brunette, and come back with purple and pink streaks through platinum blonde curls. She never kept one hairstyle or color long enough for people to get used to it. Sometimes, it was shocking.
But that was just Cam.
“You going to let me come in, or what?” he asked.
“Let the arrogant prick in,” his brother-in-law said.
Camilla stepped back from the front door with a shake of her head. Cross entered the house to find Tommaso already had a glass of whiskey waiting for him. “Thank you.”
“O’Hare is a bitch of an airport,” Tommaso said.
Cross agreed.
It had yet to get better.
He downed the whiskey in one go, and handed it back to his longtime friend.
“You could have told me he was coming,” Camilla said as she headed past her husband.
Tommaso smirked. “What fun would that have been? You would have spent all day cleaning the house, and it’s already fucking clean, Cam.”
“The house is always fine,” Cross said.
“There’s dust,” Camilla defended.
“You sound like Ma, Cam.”
“Shut up, Cross.”
His sister punched him hard in the gut, and headed down the hallway out of sight. Despite being younger than him at almost twenty-three, she was not a girl he liked to mess with. Even as a kid, his sister gave him a run for his money.
God, he loved her though.
Tommaso laughed as Cross regained his breath. “Dinner?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“She was just getting ready to pull it out of the oven. Come on.”
Cross followed behind his old friend. Tommaso was only two years younger than Cross, but the two had been friends since … forever. Around nineteen or so, Cross met Tommaso when he first started running guns for Chicago. Tommaso had been his partner on that very first gun run.
For the most part, Cross was not a people person. He didn’t like to interact with others socially. He did not make friendships that were worth keeping. Yet, he had with Tommaso. It was still going strong.
Cross was pleased his sister had at least married a man that he did not want to kill every time he looked at the guy.
Tommaso waved at the captain’s chair at the other end of the table, and sat down at the head of the table where a glass of water was already half empty. He sat his whiskey down beside it. Cross sunk into the chair with relief.
“I should have just drove,” Cross muttered. “That plane was packed. Sardines in a can.”
His brother-in-law cringed. “Fly private.”
“Waste of money.”
“And yet, you complain.”
Cross lifted a single shoulder. “What can you do? That’s life.”
“I’m just going to plate the steaks, and I’ll be out,” Camilla called from the kitchen.
“Yeah, it’s fine, Cam.”
Tommaso picked up his whiskey and swirled the amber liquid. “Theo mentioned the Canadian’s guns came in early yesterday.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
His friend nodded. “It’ll be an easy run for you.”
“Already had it planned two months ago.”
“I’m not even surprised.”
“You should come with me,” Cross offered. “It’s been a couple of years, Tom. Run some guns.”
Tommaso laughed. “I would, but my father would probably have my nuts when I got back.”
“Spoiled little underboss,” Cross joked.
“Says another underboss.”
“Yeah, but I still run my guns, man.”
“Truth.” Tommaso sipped from his whiskey before saying, “It’s risky, though, and Dad doesn’t like that. We’re already on corkboards in some FBI agent’s office, right? Why give them more reason to look at me than they already have.”
“Everything in this business is risky, Tom.”
“I still follow orders, Cross.”
“Shame,” he murmured, “it could have been fun.”
“I bet.”
“Also, I’ll be taking some time off from Chicago for the next little while. Three months, maybe a bit more. You won’t get another chance to do a run with me for a bit except this one.”
Tommaso’s brow furrowed. “Why?”
“Between us?”
“Yeah, of course.”
Cross quickly explained the deal he had made with Andino Marcello, and what had come of it so far. He never worked several large runs at a time because it was too many details and issues spread out between several drops and buyers. It just made for bad situations. He liked clean, carefully planned runs.
Tommaso cleared his throat when Cross finished. “I feel like I have to warn you, man.”
“About what?”
“Theo or Tommas find out you’re running guns for somebody else’s family, and they’ll have your heart on a platter.”
Cross frowned. “Yeah, I know, but it’s not like I had a choice.”
“Actually, you did, years ago. It was you who made it clear you were only running guns for the Outfit. When approached, you turned down offers and pushed the traders to us to make deals with you as a promise on the runs. If you’re going to start branching out after all these years, you’re going to cost the Outfit a lot of money.”
“I’m aware.”
“Money is the only thread that keeps this business and the peace together.”
“It’s only this one run, Tom.”
His brother-in-law still didn’t look pleased. “It better be.”
“Marcellos give the Outfit a lot of competition in illegal arms in this country, huh?”
“Cross, the Marcellos are our only competition.”
Point taken.
“I mean, I’ll have your back,” Tommaso assured, “because I get the situation you’re in. If they do find out you’re running guns for them, you’ll be lucky to make it out alive. If you do make it out alive, you’ll never be welcomed back in Chicago again. Consider that.”
Cross nodded once. “Got it.”
Camilla strolled into the dining room, dishes in hand. “Ready to eat?”
“You know it,” Cross said.
Tommaso passed him a look, silently repeating his warning, even though his words said something else. “Let the queen of the house have her chair, Cross.”
Cross moved with a chuckle.
Every house had a queen, after all.
This house was not his.