Making my way up to my room, I change into a pair of riding jeans, a tight black tank top, black leather riding jacket, and boots. The riding jeans have Kevlar along the legs in case I wreck. I leave my guns behind and only carry my knives and the garrote on my belt. My helmet is the last thing I grab as I head out to the garage where my all-black Triumph Street Triple R sits. I put on my helmet, then sync my phone to it and cinch the strap.
Now to get this fucker to follow me. I put on a song I like from Digital Daggers, “The Devil Within.” This song is so me. I take off, opening the throttle. Security barely gets the gate open before I’m through it and heading down the street to where I feel the eyes. I see the dark-colored sedan and make sure not to make eye contact with the driver as I pass it. I keep my eyes focused on where I’m going. At the first stoplight, I notice the same sedan several cars back.
Yep, someone is following me.
Checking for oncoming traffic around me, I jump the light and I’m through it before any of the other cars take off. I weave through traffic and get on the freeway to head toward my warehouse. I look in my mirror and sure enough, the sedan is still back there.
Okay, buddy, let’s play.
I take off, pushing the limits of my abilities until I get close to the warehouse. I slow down and let the sedan catch back up. It’s still a bit behind me, but the driver won’t lose me now. I need them to know where I’m going for this plan to work. I’m setting a trap for them, and I will find out what they want. I hit the button on my bike to open the sliding door. Pulling in, I park next to my car. I kick the stand down and slip off the bike, keeping my helmet on as if I’m not paying attention to them.
Not aware of the eyes watching me.
I can’t make out the driver, but I doubt it’s a woman from their size. I disengage the alarm and head toward the stairs. If they’re good, they’ll pick the lock, if not, I’ll sneak up on them later. I slip off my helmet and jacket, dropping them on the bench against the wall at the entrance of my loft. The hardwood floors allow my boots to echo as I cross them. I don’t walk quietly so they will know exactly where I am. They won’t expect me to be trained. I stop at the bar and pour a shot of Beluga Gold Line vodka straight from Russia. I sense them before I hear them.
“Want a glass?” I ask in Italian, thinking it’s one of Capo’s enemies who thinks taking me out will allow them to get to him.
“What?” the strong accented voice says in English. I keep my back to them. In the reflection of the ice bucket, I see a large man but can’t make out his details.
I try again in Russian. “Vodka chistaya?” I ask if he wants his vodka straight.
“Nyet,” he replies, and now I turn.
A Russian.
Interesting.
Years of training helps me hide the shock at seeing the man from the courthouse. He’s dressed in a black button-down shirt and jeans with the knees ripped out but soft along his legs. A chain hangs at his side for his wallet. He’s pushing to look more American. His chestnut brown hair is pulled back again like before, but this time it’s knotted at the back of his head. He has earrings in both ears, and his nose and an eyebrow are pierced as well. His beard and mustache are trimmed close to his face, but there’s enough there to leave a nice burn on the skin. His chest and arms are straining the shirt’s capacity. The jeans are tight across his thighs, his muscles bulging and flexing as he moves. The boots on his feet are big, and he didn’t make noise like I did when crossing the wooden floor until the end. He’s trained. But how trained?
“Why are you here?” I ask him in Russian.
“How do you know Russian?” He asks without answering my question. He doesn’t know me. Doesn’t know who or what I am. I lift the glass to my lips and swallow. I was raised on vodka like any good Russian girl, so it doesn’t cause me to shiver. He watches my every movement. Setting the glass on the bar, I push off it and move to the side of him, toward the outside of the room. He circles but gives me space. Both of us not sure what to expect from the other and who will make the first move.
So that’s the game.
I’m always up for a good fight.
I don’t give him a chance to come at me. I run at him and jump, my fist aiming for him. He shifts but not enough and I hit his shoulder. He flinches back and rounds on me swinging. When I land to his side, I spin around and hit him with the back of my hand then twist away from him.
I love it when they fight back.
I smile at him and he smiles back at me. He’s the first to move this time, coming at me with his big arms open, trying to grab me, but I don’t let him. I bat one arm away and follow with a punch to his side. He shakes his head and his smile grows bigger. He’s enjoying this as much as I am. My nipples pebble behind my bra, my core spasms and dampens my panties. I swing around and this time aim for his face. I hit him square, snapping his head back. His hand swipes at the blood on his lip.
“Good hit, krasota.” He calls me beauty as his eyes move over my body.
“You’re not so bad yourself.” I return the complement in Russian. I’m distracted and he gets in a hit to my ribs. I roll with the hit, sucking in my breath. When I come up, the shock on his face is almost disappointing. I swing around and take him out at the knees. He falls to the floor and rolls, taking me down too.
He’s up faster than I am and over my body. His big body wedges between my legs. Both of us are breathing heavily and looking at each other. I want him. And from the feel of his cock, he wants me too. His eyes flare wide before he leans down and takes my mouth in a bruising kiss. His tongue brushes my lips and I open, but as soon as his tongue enters my mouth, I bite down, tighten my legs around his hips, and buck against him. He holds tight and goes up on his knees as he pulls away from my mouth, holding my legs above me, causing my back to arch.
“You want to play rough, beauty?” he growls, and it makes my core spasm.
“Can you take me?” I raise my eyebrow in challenge.
“Does the kitten have claws?” He taunts me, and I squeeze as I flip back off him, using his body as leverage. I land on my hands and flip up to standing.
“I’m not a kitten, and if you want to see claws, here you go,” I say in English as I pull out one of my knives from my back.
He continues to smile but lifts that pierced brow at me like it’s a game.