Labored breathing fills the air between us.
“Do it.” I instruct.
Jerking her hand over her lip, wincing on contact, she cuts a small slit through the flesh. “Like this?” she asks, her pupils dilating. A red tear blossoms on her fair skin, making my dick strain against my zipper.
“Yes, it’s perfect.”
Pulling my cock from my slacks, I grip the base and stroke my fist up. My shaft throbs, pulsing in my palm when her eyes widen.
It hasn’t stopped aching since I pushed up against Alyssa’s back. She smelled of need and summer, her little frame shuddering beneath me.
Any normal girl would run from the big bad wolf—she stalked the beast, taunted and teased him. My little Red wants to be eaten.
“What do you want me to do now?” The woman asks, shifting in her seat.
“Don’t move, I want to look at you.”
My phone rings from beside me, Marcos’s name flashing onto the screen. Holding my finger up to the woman, I answer the call, “What is it?”
“Sorry to disturb you, sir, but your brother’s friend Carlos is insisting he speak with you.” That little runt hasn’t learned his lesson. Brave to come back to the house after the beating he took.
I un-fist my cock and push the hand through my hair, agitated.
“Keep him there,” I order, ending the call and looking back over at the girl in front of me.
“The hair,” I growl. Her lips part, small fingers reach up to her hair.
“I was told you wanted a tight ponytail.” She quirks a neat brow, the blood dripping from her chin to her chest.
“Let it down,” I command, my voice gruff.
Movement in my peripheral view, draws my eye to the back exit door of Vino’s opening. Two figures stepping out, laughter chiming through the air like music.
Alyssa.
Her gaze follows the path to mine, only I know she can’t see me through the blackout, bulletproof glass.
She not alone, the bartender says something to her making her smile before she gets into his BMW. My fists clench as a growl climbs up my throat.
I should want this—let her be with a nobody like him. It’s safer that way.
Small hands rub up my thighs, the imitation of Alyssa getting bold. “Want me to taste you?” she purrs, but my cock is already losing its erection. It wants the real thing.
“No. You can leave,” I tell her, pushing her away from me. I stuff my cock back in my slacks. “Thomas will take you home.”
“Did I do something wrong?” she asks, her hand swiping across the blood.
“No. I did,” I grumble.
I move through the house, a thunderstorm riding my back making the staff scatter like ants.
My office door is open Marcos’s frame looms against the back wall hands fisted in front of him, the fires crackling and sat in one of my armchairs like a house pet is Carlos.
“Can I get you something, a saucer of milk perhaps?” I mock, rolling down my sleeves.
He startles at my voice, was this prick napping?
The dimmed light illuminates purple bruising under his eyes, a scabby wound across his nose looks angry.
“I need to speak to you.” He straightens his spine not giving eye contact.
“Leave us,” I order to Marcos, taking a seat behind my desk. “What could you possibly want to speak to me about?” I ask, templing my hands on the wood.
His fingers shake as he brings them up to rub at his brow, looking sheepish, “Antonio…he—”
Motherfucker.
“He what?” I shout, banging my fist on the table, a pen rolls off the desk to the carpet.
“Fire,” he blurts, his eyes widening. “He’s setting those nightclubs on fire.”
What the hell? I shoot from my chair, almost toppling it over. “Where is he?” I stab out each word.
“Downtown,” he sighs, rubbing his hands down his thighs. “He’s drunk. I thought I’d better come get you.”
Of course, he’s drunk, when isn’t he. Damn that bastard.
“Marcos,” I bark. The door opens, his heavy built frame enters walking toward me, filling the space in front of my desk.
“Sir?”
“Take this rat,” I jerk a finger to Carlos. “And a few men and go collect my brother.”
He nods his head, grabbing Carlos by the back of his shirt, “I’ll walk.” Carlos cries out, almost lifting off the floor when Marcos yanks him up, Marcos’s strength easily over powering him shoves him toward the door, he almost trips on his own feet.
“Move.” Marcos warns him.
“I’m going, I’m going, why is everyone so angry all the time.” I hear his cocky retort and fight the urge to paint the walls with his insides.
I swipe my phone from the desk and call Marcello, while going to the drink cabinet. The ambiance of this room is warm, relaxed, but I’m anything but.
He answers on the second ring. “I’m busy, cousin. Can this wait?”
I don’t wait for anyone.
“No.”
This day is never ending and keeps getting worse.