Caitlin
Wow. Just wow. That’s all.
I feel incredible. The sub drop lifted. Maybe it wasn’t sub drop-maybe it was just one of those orgasms that makes you cry-is that the same thing? I don’t know.
All I know is that I feel great now.
Starving, but great.
Every cell in my body is alive. Tingling. My body is sated, but I still feel sexy as hell. Beautiful, even.
I blink at myself in the mirror. The rug burn on my cheek is going to turn into a bright raspberry. That’s too bad. But no biggie. I don’t mind wearing sex badges as proof of my accomplishments. If only they made those Girl Scout patches-I’d be all over collecting them.
I cup my breasts and gaze back at my reflection. My skin is flushed, my eyes are bright.
I look… happy.
Hell, I feel happy.
Which I know is wrong. I have problems that can’t by fixed by good sex.
I’m going to go to jail.
It’s either that or my brother gets hurt by the man I took as a lover.
Except I’m finding it hard to believe he would hurt me. Or my brother. Oh, I’m sure he’s quite capable of it. I’m sure he does such things on a regular basis. But he just let me cry on his neck without blinking an eye. Without getting weird and pushing me away. Without judging me.
And now that I think about it, that might be the source of my current buoyancy.
It’s like I’ve been received-crazy and all-for the first time in my life. I’ve had doms provide aftercare during sub-drop before, but they still kept a distance. Or they were overly tender.
Paolo just accepted it. Didn’t make it a big deal.
And then he kissed me.
I look for a brush, but all Paolo has is a comb. I’ll never get it through the tangled mess that is my hair right now.
The door opens. As if Paolo read my mind, he plops my giant satchel purse on the counter. “I grabbed your toothbrush and shit from your place,” he says. “It’s all in there.”
I tip my head to the side. “Because this is just a big sleepover?”
His lips twitch. I seriously want to figure out how to make the guy smile. He catches my wrists and pulls me up against his hard body. My breath goes out with a whoosh. My knees go weak. “You know what you have to do, little hacker. Get me my money. Then I’ll take you home. Just like that.”
My heart hammers at my chest. “Just like that,” I repeat at a murmur.
“I’ll even let you ride in the front seat instead of the trunk. It doesn’t have to be hard.”
“Can I drive?”
“No chance.”
“Kidding. I don’t know how to drive, anyway.” One of the perks of hitting driving age without a parent. I blink up at him. “I need more time, Paolo,” I plead. “Let me pay it over time. Tack on more interest. Please?”
He shakes his head. “Sorry, doll. End of tomorrow is your deadline. You didn’t come to me for a loan. You stole from me. Only reason I’m not putting the hurt on is because you’re so fucking adorable.”
I’m not sure why that makes me blush.
My reaction is ridiculous. Who cares if he thinks I’m adorable? My life is essentially over now.
And it’s his fault.
Except I know that’s not exactly true. It’s my own damn fault. And it was probably my dad’s damn fault for getting himself killed, too. I guess it runs in the family. Thank God Trevor seems to have missed out on the stupid gene.
My stomach grumbles.
“You hungry? What do you want for lunch?”
Well, if he’s asking… “Are you too Italian for take-out pizza?”
He grins. A real, genuine grin. Short-lived, but I saw it. “I’ll do pizza. What do you like on it?
“Sausage and jalapeño.” I lift my chin in challenge to my strange request and the grin reappears for a flash.
“I might be too Italian for that. Nah, I can deal. Sausage and jalapeño it is. I don’t need to tie you up and cover your mouth with tape when the delivery boy gets here, right?”
I shrug, affecting a sort of interested look. “Well, I’ve never had two doms at once, but I’m definitely interested in trying.”
Of all the things I’ve done to shock him-and yeah, I can admit it-I do use the crazy thing for effect, this is the one that he actually responds to. His brows slam down and he wraps one meaty palm around my throat. He doesn’t use it to squeeze, but he holds me in place. His forehead drops down to mine. “I don’t share, doll. Remember that.”
A shiver runs through me and my pussy clenches. “Noted.”
He releases my throat and runs his thumb down the goosebumps on my arm. “I washed your clothes. They’re on the bed.”
He washed my clothes. Is it just me or does this hitman seem awfully domesticated? Pancakes? Clothes washing? I’m having a hard time assimilating it all.
And that might be the understatement of the year.
I search through my bag and find the toothbrush, my hairbrush and my cosmetic bag. Did he think I’d want to put on makeup for him while he holds me prisoner and threatens my brother’s life?
Clearly.
And I think I will. I step into the shower even though I had a bath last night. I want to wash and condition my hair and rinse off the carpet dust.
Not that his carpet wasn’t perfectly new, fluffy and clean. It was. Is. Whatever.
I turn on the spray of water, enjoying the renewal of pain when the warm water hits my whipped ass and the rug burns.
Ahhhh, yes. The sensations that ground me.
Paolo
Caitlin stays in the bathroom a full forty-five minutes. She might have stayed there all day, but I call her when the pizza arrives.
She comes out looking adorable in her workout clothes, her hair wet, her lips that bright pink candy gloss.
“How is it? Did you try it?” She scrunches her hair as she walks toward me. Her wide mouth is stretched in a smile. I’m pretty sure she does this on purpose-acts like we’re the oldest friends-to manage her fears. Or to manage me. Not sure which.
Either way, I don’t mind it. I enjoy it, in fact.
I think she’s cute on wheels.
She comes over and scoops a piece of pizza out of the box with her hands and takes a bite. I offer her a plate but she’s not stopping to rest. The girl eats that whole slice standing up in my kitchen, without coming up for air.
Well, that’s what college students do.
She takes a second slice out of the box and tosses it on the plate, then walks back to her computer.
“Want me to delete your police record?” she asks with her mouth full.
I hesitate. Having a hacker at my disposal is damn appealing. What else could we hack? The FBI? I’d love to see what they’ve collected on the Family over the years.
But I shake my head. It’s not worth the risk. That’s what Nico’s been trying to tell us for the last five years. We can do things legally now. We have money.
“No, little hack. Work on getting me my money.”
“I am.” The slightly defensive tone to her voice amuses me. It’s more petulant than rude. Like she fully acknowledges I’m the boss of her. And that makes my dick hard.
She clicks on the keyboard, then adjusts her glasses on her nose and leans forward, like there’s something on her screen worth attending to.
Her fingers fly over the keys again and she’s at it for several more hours. Who knew hacking took so long? Maybe she really can’t get it done in two days. Or maybe she’s just stalling. Hard to say. I guess I’ll know soon enough.
I turn on the television and scroll through the channels, pausing on some kind of action movie with Bruce Willis.
“Oh my God, that’s R. E. D. I love this movie!” Caitlin surges to her feet, unplugs her computer and brings it to the couch, plopping down beside me. Right beside me, like she’s my girlfriend and we’re going to snuggle. I know it’s conscious, these quirks of hers. When I asked her if the crazy was an act, I saw the answer on her face. It definitely is. Some kind of defense mechanism.
So, like almost everything she’s thrown my way, I run with it and loop my arm over her shoulders to draw her even closer as we both divide our attention between her computer screen and the television.
Not surprisingly, she’s an excellent multi-tasker, working steadily on her computer while watching the movie.
She works all the way through the movie and halfway through the next before she gives a sigh and pushes her glasses up on her nose. “I’m in. You want the money in my account?”
“That’s right,” I say. Vlad, my bratva brother-in-law, knows how to move money around and make it untraceable. He’s the one we called in to trace our losses to Caitlin’s off-shore account and then finally to the payments made to Northwestern and some dummy scholarship fund.
She nods, all business now. She works for another forty-five minutes and then falls back.
“Is it done?”
“Yes. Well, no, not yet. It’s set up. I diverted all their transactions for the next day and a half to my account.” She lifts those cornflower blue eyes to my face. “Hopefully it will be enough.”
My heart starts beating faster, almost like it’s in tune with hers. She’s breathless, afraid.
I can’t tell her I’ll take anything less than what she owes me, but it’s getting harder and harder to keep the pressure on.
After the way she keeps offering that hot little body up to me, I almost feel like I’m in the deficit to her. I find myself wanting to figure out how I can give something back. Something besides pizza and an orgasm.
But I’m not going to let a woman turn me soft. She stole from my family, she’ll have to pay the price.
She looks away when I don’t answer, then stands up. “I need exercise,” she declares, like she’s on some kind of holiday and gets to follow her own itinerary.
I don’t know why I find it so damn appealing.
“You can work out in my gym,” I tell her. “Want to lift some weights?”
She gives me a wary look. “Um, okay. Sure.”
I stand and lead her to my home gym in the back of the house. The winter sun streams in through the windows. I go to shut the shades, but she exclaims, “Oh leave them open. I love the sun.”
“Of course you do,” I mutter. Because she’s as bright as that ball of fire. The kind of sun that is way too much to look at, the kind that scorches.
I’m already certain she’s burning her imprint into me.
Not sure I want to let her go.
Caitlin
Lifting weights is not my idea of a workout. I need cardio-I like to move to rhythm, get my heart rate up to music.
But beggars can’t be choosers.
The trouble is, I don’t really know what to do with any of this equipment. I bend over and try to pick up a dumbbell.
“Hang on, doll-”
I nearly break my back lifting it. It comes off the floor a half inch and crashes back down.
“Right. Too heavy.” I swivel to eye Paolo’s broad shoulders with new appreciation. No wonder he’s so strong. He’s in here lifting weights as heavy as a Mack truck.
His lips curl. It’s not quite a smile, but close. He saunters over and takes the weights off the ends of the bar, leaving only the two end pieces on. “Try it this way,” he says.
“That’s just a bar.” Oh. And it’s still plenty heavy. I change my grip and do ten two-handed curls with it, then groan as I drop it back down. “I don’t think this is going to work, Paolo.”
His lips twitch again. “Mr. Tacone to you.”
I lean into one hip and curl my hair around my finger. “I know.”
The element of danger is always there with this guy, which is perhaps why I enjoy ribbing him-flirting for me-so much. I get a thrill straight to the soles of my feet every time I dare. And of course I dare every time.
His gaze on me is anything but dangerous now, though. Sure, there are traces of hunger in it, but there’s actually warmth in his eyes. Indulgence.
He likes me.
For the first time in years, maybe ever, I’m starting to feel less broken. More special. It’s a strange experience for someone who’s been considered cray-cray for so long. All this time I sort of thought I was trying to hide my crazy from the world.
He made me realize it might be the other way around. I’ve been trying to hide my sanity. Because being sane in this world is too perfectly painful.
I would have to own up to all the shit that happened to me after my dad’s death, and I don’t want to do that.
He lifts his chin toward the treadmill. “You could run on that.”
“Oh,” I say brightly. “Right.” I’ve actually never used a treadmill, but it must be easy enough. I step on and flip switches.
Paolo comes up and stands on it behind me. “Hang on, speedy.” His warmth is at my back, arms reach around me to adjust settings. I push my ass back into him, and with nothing but yoga pants on, his heat bleeds right through. I like the way it feels to have him near me.
Safe.
Of course, the opposite is true.
Which makes it all the more exciting.
And now I’m back to believing I’m genuinely nutso.
Paolo steps off the treadmill and starts it. “How’s that speed?”
I start walking briskly. “Perfect.” I’m already smiling.
He crosses his arms over his chest.
“Are you just going to stand there and watch me?”
“Yeah. I think I am.”
My smile grows bigger. “Because you think I’m cute?”
Ha-I did it! A genuine smile splits his face. “Yeah, doll. Exactly.”
I keep smiling.
“So, how did you become a hacker? I’m guessing they don’t exactly teach that in school?”
“No, I’m self-taught. My dad picked the occupation for me, actually. He decided it would benefit him greatly if he had a kid who could get through alarm systems or rob online banks. He stole a laptop for me when I was eleven and brought me to this guy’s sketchy apartment to learn how to access the dark web.”
Paolo’s body goes taut and I have to rewind what I said that made him tense up.
Oh. The guy’s sketchy apartment.
“Nothing bad happened there,” I reassure him, although I don’t know why I should. The bad shit happened to me after my dad died. After he was murdered by the Tacones.
So I tell it to him straight. “After my dad was murdered, life sucked. I needed a super power and hacking seemed like the answer. Foster parents can’t take away your personal belongings and that laptop was mine. I used the hell out of it. I devoted every free minute I had to learning how to get past firewalls and hacking passwords. I started taking money for small hack jobs by the time I was sixteen. It helped me feel like I was capable of filing for emancipation and living on my own.”
“It is a super power, doll. Believe me, I’m tempted to exploit the hell out of it, but I’m trying to stay clean. Ish. The Family’s gone legit.”
The Family’s gone legit. That comes as news to me, but considering the money I’ve seen pumping through those Bellissimo accounts, I guess they don’t need to resort to extortion and loan-sharking anymore. They have more money than they can spend.
“So why even study computer science? Don’t you already know everything you need to know?”
I give him a wry grin. “I was trying to go legit, too. Ish. Too bad you’re screwing that up.”
He folds his arms over his burly bear chest and shakes his head. “Don’t blame me for applying consequences to your misdeeds.”
It’s unfortunate that my kinky side finds his enforcement so panty-melting.
I stay on that treadmill, images of all the dommy things he did to me flooding my brain as I heat under his watchful stare. When I’m done, I hop off and trip over to him, giving him a peck on the cheek before he knows what I’m doing.
“When this is all over, do you think we’ll be friends? Lovers? Go out on a date?” I’m play-acting. Doing the overly-familiar crazy girl thing.
But I suddenly wish I hadn’t asked the questions because I realize the answer might hurt me.
Genuinely hurt me.
I’m used to losing guys after a couple dates. I’m used to driving them away with my quirks and kinks and crazy.
And this isn’t a guy I’m dating or even want to date in the future.
He’s a Tacone, for Christ’s sake. His family killed my father. He’s a hitman who’s threatening my life and the life of my brother.
But I find I do care about his answer. I care very much.
Especially when a strange look comes over his face. It’s the first time I’ve shocked him, and I’ve tried at least a dozen times before.
“Of course we won’t,” I answer for him. “Nevermind.” I speed away, out of the room and when he lets me go, I know that I correctly guessed the answer.
And I hate what that knowledge does to my chest. The uneasy nervous edge that pushes into where warmth had been before.
I go back to his living room and turn on the television like it’s my home, opening Netflix and putting on my new binge watch series, Jane the Virgin. I’m in season four.
I don’t move from the couch for the rest of the afternoon into the evening. Not even when he orders in a nice dinner from a steakhouse and opens a bottle of wine.
He doesn’t make me-he just brings the food to the couch and hands it to me.
I think I half want him to. To take the remote, turn the TV off and take charge of me. Make me sit across from him at the table and pretend this is a date.
But I guess he’s not interested in that.
In me.
Of course he’s not. He was just happy to get his dick wet while he makes sure I return the money I stole.
For me to read anything else into this is insane.
Which of course, I am.