As much as I am his.
“Close,” I sob, clawing at his back as I feel the pressure threaten to explode. “So close, Ghost… Oh God!”
“Come for me,gioia mia.” His hand drops between us and finds my clit, rubbing it in firm circles as he hammers into me. I scream as the climax tears through me and everything in me shakes. I feel the delicious pleasure that bursts between us spread to the tips of my toes, making them curl. I bury my face in his neck, sobbing as his shaft drills into me, faster and harder, drawing out my orgasm until I’m certain I’m going to die from the intensity of it.
“Fuck, fuck baby. Fuuuuck!” he growls into my neck as he thrusts into me, driving hard and deep like an animal giving into his baser needs. He pumps once then twice before his entire body shudders against mine. He comes with a deep groan and I feel his warm release. Along with every shudder that rolls through his body. I soak in his moans as he rocks into me, his cock jerking as he buries his seed deep into my womb.
His breathing is jagged when he collapses against me and it’s a wonder we both don’t roll down to the floor. I slide my hands into his hair as much to soothe the tremors rolling through his body as to keep the connection. “No one has ever made me feel like you do,” I whisper, dropping my shoulder onto his shoulder.
“I’ve never wanted anyone as much as I want you, Iris. Never wanted to touch a woman as badly as I want to touch you.”
It’s not a love confession but Christ, why does it feel like one? Do I want it to be? Maybe. I’ve only known this man for a week. Well, longer than that but before the incident with Víboras Gemelas, Ghost and I never spoke. And now, we’re sneaking into private lounges to have sex.
What happens when it all comes to an end. Will he still want me?
I try to push out the thought as Ghost helps me off the table. We try to clean up as best as we can before he accompanies me to the ladies’ bathroom and waits outside as I try to make myself as presentable as possible. After all, I have a shift to finish. I notice the love bites on my neck as I stare into the bathroom mirror. I don’t remember getting those. It’s clear ownership and I can tell he did it intentionally.
If the people inside didn’t hear us having sex, then the love bites will be enough to announce his claim.
Chapter Four
Ghost
Before I joined the Steel Sinners, I was certain I would never want to work for another morally grey organization. I was done with the dark life and I wanted to just…die. Still hurting from a bullet wound and aching from several injuries all over my body, I left New York with every intention of drinking myself into a coma, and if that didn’t work, I planned on picking a fight with a man brave enough to kill me.
And that was when I met Pope. He and a group of other guys wearing matching jackets with clear motorcycle club insignia all over them were drinking in a bar at a different casino. They had the intensity of a group that had done dark, potentially life-ending things before. They were just the guys I needed. .
So, I approached them.
Pope was clearly the leader of the group so I tried to bait him into fighting me. It was my last fight so I figured why not go with someone my own size. At least I would die by the hands of a man who matched me in strength. I had nothing else to live for. I’d burned the bridges back home, got myself rightfully disowned by my own family, and sent into exile. Myonly companion was alcohol, it didn’t matter what kind as long as it gave me a good buzz. As long as it made me forget the fact that I’d lost my damn mind and kidnapped the wife of Matteo Rossi, the don of the most powerful Italian mob in New York, who was also my step-brother. I was never meant to be don, and if I hadn’t lost myself in the bottle, I would have seen that. But I was blind to the truth so I kidnapped Matteo’s wife as revenge. I had no intention of harming Sophia as I had never hurt any woman before, but taking her was a betrayal to the family.
I should have been killed. Almost was.
But they let me live. My real brother, Nico, who was Matteo’sconsigliere,couldn’t bring himself to kill me when the decision was left in his hands. Instead, he let me leave New York with just a gunshot wound and a few other injuries. My real punishment was exile.
And still, even with the mercy afforded to me, I wanted to die.
Pope wouldn’t let me. He fought me when I baited him into a fight, letting me wear myself down until I was too weak to argue. He took me back to the clubhouse, and I’ve been loyal to him ever since. That day, two years ago, bleeding from my old and new injuries, Bruno Benito died, and Ghost was born.
The man who had left New York, a hopeless alcoholic in self-destruct mode was gone and, in his place, emerged a man who wouldn’t touch the bottle with a ten-foot pole. One whose family wore leather jackets and rode together. Lived and died together.
As I stare at Pope’s office door, I can’t help but be transported to that day when I challenged the man to a fight. No questions. No judgment. Just acceptance.
I knock on the door once before letting myself in. I find the man in question seated behind a large mahogany desk, flipping through the files littered on his desk with a look of frustration written all over his face.
“Busy?” I ask when he looks up.
“No, come in. I could use a fucking break,” Pope responds, tossing a look of disgust over what I imagine are the club books.
“Have you considered hiring an assistant or someone to help with some of the bookkeeping?”
“We have a fucking accountant,” he rages, pushing up from his chair and stalking to the minibar. He tosses me a bottle of water then I watch as he pours himself a drink and downs it in one gulp. He pours another and walks back to his desk, pushing back the files to make space for his whiskey. “I don’t know how my old man did it alone. He used to lock himself up in the office for days working and I honestly thought he was doing it to avoid Bishop and me. I guess now I know that was only part of the reason.”
The man’s been dead for five months and all his business was left to Pope to manage, a man who spent most of his life working in the field and rarely locked away in an office trying to keep up with bookkeeping.
“Is this a bad time to talk about Iris Turner and the fucking Víboras Gemelas?”
“Right,” he says, taking a sip of his whiskey before turning to me. “How is she doing?”
