Page 15 of The Kingpin's Call Girl

LUKA

I can hear her soft, sharp breaths behind me. Those lips parted just so.

Even if I couldn’t hear her, she’s practically vibrating with emotion. Where the fuck did Dardan find her? God knows what he planned for her. Not that it matters.

I tell myself that this was in no way a rescue. I’m the last person to be in the rescue business.

I took her because I could. Because I like to take what’s not mine. Nothing more. Nothing less.

I pour another drink.

My voice, when it comes, sounds eighty percent normal. “Then strip. Now. Unless you don’t care about the dress. Keep the heels on.”

No sound, not even the rustle of fabric. She’s probably still where I put her, glaring at me with her full wattage. I pull off my tie. Maybe I’ll use it. Maybe I won’t.

She’s fucking delicious, and I have this sense that I might not ever get enough of her, which is probably a good reason to send her away. But I won’t be doing that.

I turn to her. “What the fuck are your clothes still doing on? You don’t like the dress? Is that it?”

“I hate the dress,” she whispers, eyes sparkling.

She’s different. I should ask her about Arianiti’s eagle, but that’s not the point. It’s the spark that’s the point.

I approach her slowly, my eyes never leaving hers. When I reach her, I grasp the edges of her plunge-neck bodice between my fingers, feeling the delicate fabric and sensing her breath quicken in anticipation. With deliberate slowness, I pull the sides apart. The fabric surrenders with a soft, satisfying tear, parting down the middle to reveal the swell of her breasts in a push-up bra, her skin flushed and warm.

“You like it better now?” I ask, my voice dropping to a whisper as I take in the sight of her. “I know I do.”

She watches me from under her eyelashes, this indignant little girl who’s thrown herself to the wolves for whatever reason. A little lamb to the slaughter. I don’t have a taste for lamb, but I do enjoy a few things that would make her quake in her ten-dollar hooker heels.

“Take off the bra and touch them,” I growl.

She frowns. Doesn’t move. She’s thinking about it a little bit. Struggling with herself. She’d do it if it were her alone or with anybody else, but she doesn’t like that I told her to because she doesn’t want to take orders from the Antichrist or whatever I am to her.

She’s just too fucking delectable, and she has no idea.

I take her hands and put them on her breasts. “Not a request. And don’t just phone it in.”

She takes off the bra to expose pretty breasts and nipples, pink and swollen.

I narrow my eyes as she moves her trembling fingers around on her nipples with a disdainful glare.

“Jesus, yes. Whatever you do, you can’t stop looking at me like that.”

“Looking at you like what?”

“You know what. The heat. The hate.”

She purses her lips, doing that judgmental thing where her top lip swells slightly over her bottom one, creating that perfect pout of contempt.

“What are you thinking when you look at me like that?”

She shakes her head.

I fist her hair and force her to sit up. “Tell me the truth—or else. And I’ll know if you’re lying.”

“I—I’m thinking… you’re a bad person.”

“You got that right. There’s not a good bone in my body. What else?”

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