"Wh...what?" She glances over her shoulders. "Don’t you like it?"
I stare at her. "Do I look as if I'm liking this?"
"Then why are you?—?"
"Shut up," I command.
And her pupils dilate.
Shit. Apparently, the meaner you are, the more they like it. Who knew?
I slap my palms on either side of her, limiting my contact to where my dick is inside of her. I arch my hips, ram into her, propel myself forward, in and out, in and out. She begins tomoan, and I hiss in her ear, "Keep the noise levels down, I need to think."
"Wha—?" She blinks rapidly, but complies.
I proceed to thrust in and out of her again and again, until my dick finally lengthens, throbs. My balls grow heavy and I come, shooting my load inside her.
I pull out immediately, then yank off the condom and tie it up. I walk over to the wastepaper basket in the corner of the room and dispose it off. There. Now about that deal; if I can simply hold my position just a few hours more?—
"Hey!"
There's a touch on my arm. I shrug it off.
I zip myself up, walk toward the door.
"Hey, you arsehole." The woman grabs my arm. I pull it out of her grasp, keep going.
"You bastard." She swings around to stand in front of me. I sidestep her, head for the exit.
"You're a piece of shit, you know that?" she screeches. "You didn’t even get me off."
"Consider it a privilege that I fucked you with my dick, a mistake I won't repeat again, by the way."
"You... you..." I hear a choking sound behind me and can't stop the smirk curving my lips.
I hold up my hand, wiggle my fingers. "Don’t forget to collect your panties on the way out."
8
Sinclair
The crowd gasps as Baron launches himself across the short space that constitutes the fighting ring of the street-fight organized by the Bratva. Also dubbed Fight Club, for obvious reasons, though the spectators are anything but salaried men. Dressed in faded jeans, leather jackets, leather pants, hoodies and tattoos, the assembled throng resembles the kind of people you don’t want to rub shoulders with in the light of day. Inside this warehouse in London's East End, with the cold light filtering down from the windows high up in the walls, somehow, they fit right in.
Baron’s opponent shakes him off with a twist of his torso. Baron hits the floor with a thud that seems to shake the entire space.
I wince, dig my fingers into the steel squares of the temporary steel panels that fence off the fighting space from the crowd. Yeah, that’s the kind of outfit this is. Temporary enough that if the cops broke in, we could be off and running with no signs left behind.
Shit, what is wrong with us? When had we descended to this level? Us. The kids who went to one of the best private schools in the country, who had been upended by the incident enough to seek out thrills wherever we could get them. It’s the only way we can stay connected to this life, apparently. The only way to fight the devils that crowd in on us if there’s nothing on the outside to distract us.
"Go, Dima."
"Dima."
"Dima."
The crowd chants its support for the Bratva’s guy as Baron squares off with him. The two circle each other. Dima is shorter than Baron, but solidly built. His shoulders are about twice the size of Baron’s nineteen-year-old frame. Shit, what did I do? Why hadn’t I agreed for Arpad Asshole to volunteer for us. Baron doesn’t stand a chance. Not when Dima flexes his gigantic shoulders, cracks his neck, then roars and springs off the ground like a bloody jack in a fuckin’ box.
He smashes into Baron and the two go down. I can’t see Baron, damn it. Is he okay? Is he hurt? What the fuck? I head for the entrance to the makeshift ring, but the guys are ahead of me. Edward shoves at the man guarding the gate. The stranger throws his fist. Edward ducks, rushes in, and Arpad follows.
