Arranged Mafia Marriage

I glance up at the face of my kidnapper. He sits in the chair opposite me. Elbows on the armrests, fingers steepled together in front of him, his legs are spread apart, powerful thighs stretching the soft fabric of his tailor-made pants, and between them, the unmistakable bulge of- I jerk my chin up, meet his gaze. “Private jet, huh? I guess crime really does pay well. How did you acquire it? Did you kill the owner?”

“Tortured him, actually. By the time I was done with him, there was no blood left in his sorry-ass body.”

I blanche.

He laughs and I can’t tell if it’s because it’s true or he just likes the look on my face and wants to torment me.

“Do you want more water?”

Maybe both. Jerk.

“What I want…” I tighten my grip on the glass, “is to smash your face in.” I pull my arm back and hurl the glass at him. It catches him at the side of the temple, then falls to the carpet with a soft thud. Blood blooms from the gash, a trickle of scarlet that rolls down his temple, over the razor-sharp, high cheekbone.

There’s a sudden movement, then the barrel of gun is pushed against my temple. “Want me to kill her, Michael?” A hard male voice sounds from somewhere to the side and above me. I swallow; my pulse begins to race.

Michael rubs his chin as he considers me.

The barrel of the gun digs deeper into my temple. I wince, but don’t take my gaze off the asshole opposite.

Finally, Michael tilts his head. “Not yet,” he rumbles, and I stiffen.

The cold metal disappears from my skin, and I am not ashamed to say that the tension drains from my body.

“Oh, and Antonio?”

Antonio tilts his head.

“No one gets to pull a gun on her, except me. No one hurts her, but me.” His lips curl.

I set my jaw and his grin widens. “Now leave us,” he growls and Antonio retreats to the far end of the cabin. Shit, now we are alone. Maybe it would be better if Antonio were still here. So what, if he held a gun to my temple? I’d rather face a weapon head-on, than the shark-faced, Mafia asshole who eyes me like I am the tastiest morsel ever. I tip up my chin, grip the handles of my seat, “If that was meant to frighten me-”

“Shut up.”

My breath hitches.

“Don’t talk to me like-”

He swoops forward so fast that the blood from his temple splashes onto my dress. “I mean it, Beauty. Keep those pretty lips zipped or I’ll stuff your mouth, and it won’t be with your favorite cupcake.”

My shoulder muscles lock, my core puckers. I squeeze my thighs together to stop the insidious moisture that drip-drip-drips from my treacherous core.

“Unless.” He taps his fingertips together, peruses my features. “Unless that’s what you want?”

No.

“Maybe that’s why you’ve been barking at me, scratching at me, demanding my attention, making it difficult for me to concentrate on anything but your face, your legs, the hard nipples of your breasts that tremble in anticipation of my touch, hmm?”

Of course, not. What the hell is he talking about?

“Is this what gets you off?” I drop my gaze to his crotch, where his bulge has grown noticeably bigger in the last few seconds. “Lording it over those helpless in front of you, those weaker than you? Does that make you feel more macho? Does it feed your manliness, you obnoxious bastard?”

“No, but this will.”

He grabs the hardness between his legs and squeezes it. I flinch. My toes curl. I should look away from how he cups the thick girth between those powerful thighs. My throat closes, my ribcage tightens, and moisture pools at my core.

“Down.”

“What?” I jerk my chin up.

He nods towards the space between his legs.

“No.”

“You have two choices.”

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“You get down on your knees and blow me or…”

Or?

“I get down on my knees, pull your legs apart and eat you out. And then I let you blow me.”

I squeeze my thighs together. No way. If he touches me now, he’ll know how…how wet I am. And I shouldn’t be. I hate him; hate him for how he pulls a response from me, by just being…himself. I blink. What I see with him is what I get, and that’s refreshing. In a way, he’s more decent than any other man I’ve encountered in my life. The hell am I thinking about?

“Which one’s it going to be, my Beauty?”

“I’m not your anything,” I snarl.

“Wrong, you’re my captive.”

I chuckle. “You don’t say?”

“Choose fast and choose wisely, for this sets the course of our future relationship.”

“Relationship?” I glower. “You are more deluded than what I first thought.”

“No more than what your father was.”

“The son shall not bear the iniquity of the father…” I stutter. A quote from the Bible? That’s the best I could do? Guess I was paying more attention than I realized to the daily, evening readings by the nuns. God bless their souls, they’d done their best for us. If it weren’t for them… I wouldn’t be alive.

I wouldn’t be here, facing down this absolute brute who, clearly, will not listen to reason, so why am I even trying?

“And the daughter? What is the daughter going to do, hmm?” The blood drips down his cheek and onto his shirt, smearing it scarlet.

“This daughter sure doesn’t owe her old man a single ounce of respect. What I do, I do out of choice.” I set my jaw.

“Which is…?

I draw in a breath, then unhook the seatbelt from around me and drop down to my knees.