“Lia,” he breathes like it’s a relief I’ve accepted his offer.
With infinite slowness he stretches his massive body over mine. But instead of pressing his weight into me as I expect and want, he holds himself aloof. He brackets me, one elbow on either side of my chest.
Our noses brush before he kisses me. A touch of softness at first, a gentle prelude. But there’s a burning ache I must have fulfilled. Not by a toy or my fingers, but by him.
The man who fuelled a thousand dirty thoughts since we met. I mewl into his mouth with frustration.
The bastard has the temerity to chuckle.
But what did I expect? In my dreams he teases me, orders me, fucks me exactly the way I need. In real life, King was always going to do only what he wanted.
I stretch up to try to get some contact between us, and on my throbbing pussy.
My erect nipples brush the coarse hair of his chest and send pleasure pulsing down my body as his lips take mine in a lazy kiss.
“I could slip into you, Olivia,” he kisses along my jaw and murmurs into my ear. It sends delicious shivers down my spine. “There’s nothing you could do to stop me.”
My cheeks flush with heat at how much I crave that. To be totally at his mercy, him taking everything.
“Don’t fall asleep, King. You know I’m going to kill you.” It’s embarrassingly slutty of me that being tied down with only my smart mouth as a defence makes me want to lure King into losing control. “It’ll be all the sooner if I have the excuse you forced me.”
Because, yes, I need this big dark creature to maul and overwhelm me. But I haven’t forgotten who he is. King. What he is. The mafia boss of Camden who got to his position at the top by being utterly ruthless. By killing.
“Oh no darling,” he purrs, “I won’t make you do this. You’ll have to beg for me to fuck you. You’ll have to speak your desires. If you want to play at being the helpless defiled innocent, or any other game we might both enjoy, you must confess it to me first. But…” He shifts down my body, leaving my breasts exposed to the cool air. “Since you asked prettily for this ache to be eased, I’ll do that for you.”
He drags his tongue over me like he’s tasting me. The open-mouthed kisses—are they even kisses when he’s practically devouring me?—are so carnal and hungry that I writhe under him.
“I’ve been waiting too long,” he murmurs onto my skin. “I never thought I’d have you.”
Does he want this? My fuzzy brain can’t comprehend that, or what it might mean.
He draws inexorably down, so slowly and leaving one hand at my breast, trailing kisses as he goes. I’m too wound up to care that he’s the last person I should trust and desire.
His stubble brushes the sensitive skin of my inner thighs, sending a shiver through me. It’s not just the feel of him, it’s that it is him.
King murmurs that I’m lovely, delicious, his good girl, as explores my body. I can hardly hear, but it’s like every one of my cells knows King’s voice and is primed to respond.
His breath over my core makes me moan. He rolls one nipple between his fingers and licks my pussy.
I almost shoot off the bed. It’s a lightning bolt, this pleasure, unexpected. Another lick, again directly onto the place I need it most, and I’m practically sobbing, my wrists and ankles straining at the ropes. I have no way to touch him or reciprocate and that makes this even sexier.
It takes me a second to recognise the feel of his fingertip at my entrance, resting on my wet folds. The first there, excluding my own.
“Please,” I gasp.
King doesn’t answer in words. He slips in. I’m dripping with arousal, so he has no trouble sliding up to his knuckle. And the whole time he’s licking me in firm strokes. Lapping at my clit unrelentingly and teasing my nipple too. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt, certainly nothing I can do for myself. He’s big and overwhelming. He’s knowing, too. Every touch calculated to make me crazy. His attention on my every unintentional gasp and twitch enhances each of his strokes. Being tied down makes this infinitely hotter. I can’t move away. I can’t satisfy him. I can’t second-guess whether I’m doing the right thing in my inexperience. I can’t do anything but take what he gives me.
So I do. I take and take and take. I let his touch fill me with pulses and shakes that feel so good while building and tantalising into something more.
The release he promised creeps up on me, a warm shadow of tide that pushes forward, withdraws, floods and ebbs, until eventually it breaks over me.
It’s not gentle or quick or soft. I’m thankful to be tied down in the middle of nowhere because I jerk and shake and the scream that falls from my lips isn’t cute. I feel the orgasm down to my toes, impossibly.
I come so hard I’m pretty sure I would have kicked him in the face if I wasn’t restrained.
My hands clutch at the bonds and my pussy at his fingers. Good but not enough.
As soon as the pleasure eases, I want more. I’m desperate for him.
I open my eyes and King’s meet mine, an infuriating, self-satisfied, prideful expression spread across his face. He made me come so intensely my back bowed and I might never be the same again, and he’s going to be an arsehole about it.
He murdered my friend. Trudy, who cared for me like I was the daughter she never had.
He probably murdered my father.
He’s the reason I ran from Camden, and everything I knew. But it’s really fucking difficult to focus on that when I’m still having aftershocks from my orgasm and drowning in the green of King’s eyes. A riverbank full of life, his eyes.
Even reminding myself he’s a killer doesn’t dissuade my body from responding.
I have to get out of here. Not just because I want my own life, away from being a pawn in the London mafia territories’ petty games, but because if I don’t, I will start thinking being with King is a good idea.
“Here’s the deal. I’m going to lock that window in the bathroom.” King crawls languorously up my body and holds himself over, aloof. “You can’t escape. And even if you did, all the land for miles around belongs to me. There’s no one to see you, or to run to.”
I’m mesmerised by his half-smile. I don’t understand it, and my gaze darts below his waist. He’s… I’ve never… My brain stutters. How can he think when he has an erection like that? I couldn’t make my brain work when he had me so worked up. I still can’t.
“If you run, I will chase you down. I’d enjoy it. But Lia, do not doubt for a moment: I will catch you.”
The clear, sweet mountain air is like breathing honey all of a sudden. I can’t bear it for the sheer need to be chased. By him.
“Why?”
“Because you’re safe here, with me.”
I roll my eyes. “Sure.”
He doesn’t comment, but undoes my bindings with careful hands, his palm smoothing over the place where the rope bit into my skin. He’s a contradiction. Big and harsh and powerful, and yet tender and generous.
Having released me, he throws open the wardrobe door, revealing a collection of suits and expensive sharp shirts, a pile of jeans and tracksuit bottoms, T-shirts, checked lumberjack shirts, and a whole stack of woollen jumpers.
I sit up to gaze at his toned buttocks for the two seconds they’re on show before he pulls on underwear, dark jeans and the softest-looking T-shirt I’ve ever seen.
I feel like I ought to turn away while he’s dressing, as though that is intruding, despite me watching him in the shower. But I shake off the sensation. I mean, how silly is it? He’s kidnapped me. He’s touched me. I’m not spying. He’s clothing himself in front of me as though it’s the most normal situation in the world. Like we’ve been together hundreds of times.
But my brain stutters on the simple act of him dressing, maybe because it’s not aggressive or sexual. It’s the sort of thing a lover sees. A partner.
“You going to choose something to wear?” He gestures at the wardrobe.
“As good as Harrods,” I snip back.
“We’ll get you some clothes.” His mouth twists. “In the meantime, if you want to cover up, here are your options. I’ll be in the kitchen.” He stalks out.
Nothing fits. Not even slightly.
I slide my fingertips over every garment and imagine it on King’s body. The smooth cotton, the rough wool. Eventually, I pick a green and grey checked shirt that falls almost to my knees, and the heavy fabric rubs on my erect nipples. I roll up the sleeves so I can use my hands, then pad through the house. I take my time to examine everything. I tell myself it’s because I’m looking for weapons, or a way out. But honestly, it is an insight into King that I always wanted and only once allowed myself to fantasise about.
That one night in the library, soon after he took over.
I thought that night I felt something hot and sweet in his gaze, but when I saw him next, it was gone, replaced by cool indifference.
It never mattered to my body, which flared to life whenever he was in the vicinity.
Focus, Olivia. You have an opportunity. It’s a crappy opportunity, yes, but haven’t I been wanting to kill King? To get revenge for everything that has gone on in Camden, and that drove me away. I don’t want to return, now I’m out. I like my wings. I like the freedom away from an arranged marriage and fear. I love my little job at the florist.
There’s no lack of potential weapons. Solid brass and stone sculptures line shelves and windowsills. I had no idea he loved art, but this house reveals a deep passion for quality. Everything just so. No item out of place.
I find his study. A top-end computer, plus all the tech. I sink into the plush leather desk chair. It’s too big for me, and I feel small and delicate in it. Behind the computer the window reveals a view of outstanding stark beauty. A clear sky, mountains fading into misty blue at the horizon. A fabulous garden in the foreground, a riot of herbs and flowers. I tear my gaze away to focus on looking for clues. This room is more modern than the refined comfort and old-world quality of the rest of the house. Still, the white walls are hung with art and the enormous desk has trinkets and—
My eyes snag on one object.
A knife. A familiar knife.
With shaking hands, I lift it off its custom-made wooden cradle.
Why does he have my knife? There’s nothing very pretty or unique in it. Though my father gave it to me, and it has a nice metal handle engraved with flowers, it’s out of keeping with all his other possessions, which are of the finest craftsmanship.
Maybe it has a value I don’t know about? I examine it for a few seconds but find no more than what I already knew: it’s a small silver knife.
It takes me a few moments to figure out how to secret the blade into the shirt, but eventually I tuck it into one bulky rolled sleeve, and you can’t see it. Much.
His kitchen is filled with the scent of a delicious stew. King is chopping herbs.
How the hell did he get those?
“From the garden,” he replies when he shoots a sidelong glance at me.
“I wasn’t wondering,” I lie. And it’s only then that I realise the thought I should have been having was about acquiring that knife he’s using.
“You were. Your face is an audiobook. Even when you’re in disguise.”
I wish I could deny it. I should be better at this whole being a peerless, poised beauty thing. But actually, I can’t. I am not poised. I am a bit untidy and wilful, and I love swimming.
I look at the hob and wonder where King learned to cook, then turn so he can’t see that question too. Instead, I gravitate to the window. The view of the hills, mottled with shades of green and the odd rocky outcrop is breathtaking. The sky is a perfect streak of pink to orange, like a bouquet of fragrant roses. It’s lovely in the way a simple item of ideal utility is beautiful.
Like King. Perfectly proportioned. Even his imperfections are aesthetically pleasing. That long slash of a scar I saw on his upper arm, and the circular wound on his side make him only more appealing. Those flaws prevent him from being too gorgeous to be believed, but my mind circles back to why I’ve been trying to ignore his appearance.
“Why did you kill Trudy?”
My question is the toll of a bell. Clear and ringing through the air.
I don’t turn around. King isn’t going to murder me tonight after chopping herbs, so I might as well find answers to what’s been bugging me all this time.
“I didn’t.”
I snort. “Who did then? The boogie man?” I’m a little disappointed. I thought King would admit it.
“Henry.” He appears beside me and passes over a mug. Our fingers brush as I accept it and the contact sends a pulse of longing through me as though now I’ve been touched by him my body will reach out towards him at every opportunity.
“His mother.” I don’t bother hiding my disbelief. “He murdered his mother.”
“Yeah.”
Tea. Exactly the shade I prefer, milky. I take a sip and find it has half a sugar. When I meet his eyes over the rim of the mug, they’re implacable. He knows how I drink my tea.
What else does he know? Hopefully not how he makes my blood heat, or that I have a knife hidden in my shirt sleeve.
His shirt.
Whatever.
“I really thought you’d have a better story, King. Something with sharks would have been more believable.” I look back at the sunset.
He nods. “I’ll bear that in mind next time I’m accused of a murder I didn’t commit. Sharks.”
“Big ones. White teeth.”
“Noted.”
I fiddle with the handle of my mug. So ordinary and yet not. I’ve never done this before—well, I’ve drunk tea of course, I’m a Brit, I was born drinking tea. But not orgasms and lingering eye fucking and asking things likely to get me killed.
Not the shirt wearing, either. Henry might have been my fiancé, but it was a political arrangement and we never did anything like that. My father was old-fashioned, and until I realised how vulnerable I was without him, I toed the line as a good girl. Pure. Sweet. Innocent.
Not the sort who would kill with a poisoned knife.
I turn back to where King is pouring a glass of wine, setting out flatware, and plating up our food like I’m his guest for dinner.
I screw up my courage and ask the question he is waiting patiently for.
“Why would Henry kill his mother?”
