The longer we stared, the more lust thickened. My nipples hardened and his arms bunched on top of the sheet.
My fingers moved from his cheeks to his lips. His mouth parted, eyes shadowing from bright green to forest. I leaned in to kiss him. Eager for his taste. Desperate to connect.
Then … his stomach rumbled.
Loudly.
The noise turned a sexually charged moment into a comedic one.
I laughed.
Dropping my hand from his face to his stomach, I rubbed his sculptured abs. “Hungry?”
He smirked, looking younger than his years and nowhere near as scary as he did in leather and windswept dust. His perfect teeth were sharp and dangerous against his tanned face. “I’ve been hungry for the past five hours.”
“Then why didn’t you say something?”
“Because I didn’t want to get out of bed again.” His leg rubbed against mine. “I enjoyed having you in my arms too much.”
My heart melted. “And you were willing to suffer starvation for me?”
His gaze turned serious. “I’d be willing to suffer anything for you, Buttercup. I thought you knew that by now?”
I gasped.
His fingers trailed down my side, then skated across my chest. “I’m hungry for other things, too.” He rolled my nipple with delicious pressure.
My head fell back onto the pillow, delivering myself into his control. The ravenous need to have him inside me overrode hunger for physical food.
I groaned as he scooted down the bed and sucked the same nipple into his mouth. Clutching his head to my chest, I tangled my fingers into his hair. “Um … you can eat me. I don’t mind.”
He chuckled, his breath tickling my cleavage. “If I eat you, you’d be gone.”
I pulled on his hair. “But if you eat me, then I become you.”
He paused. Climbing my body again, he captured my chin, holding me firm. “You are me. And I am you. We might have separate thoughts and minds, Buttercup, but we have the same heart and soul.”
I couldn’t speak.
How could he go from violence and bloodshed to sprouting such tender, heartfelt things? He was the perfect man—prepared to do anything to protect me, while not afraid to be soft when it mattered.
Pushing at the sheet covering us, I glanced at his rapidly hardening erection.
We’d been naked all day. A fort of blankets protecting us from what’d happened and what was to come. I loved the sensation of being adrift in our own world.
His eyes burned mine. “You’re looking at me as if you would happily devour every inch of my body.”
I smiled wickedly. “Depends how many inches of you there were.”
His eyes widened, then hooded with need. “Goddammit, you tempt me.”
“If I tempt you, then don’t resist me.” I reached for his cock, ignoring food in favor of having him.
But I never managed to grab him.
He moved too swiftly. Pushing my shoulders, he pinned me to the bed and pecked a kiss on the tip of my nose. “That’s not yours to play with. Not yet, at least.”
I stuck out my bottom lip. “It is mine. Just like everything of me is yours.”
His eyes wandered down my front. He swallowed a groan. “You’re right, but I need to eat. I need energy so I can give you what you deserve.”
I love his train of thought.
His denial heated my blood until I was lava and fire. “And what do I deserve?”
His breath caught as he bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut. “Fuck, that sounded sexy.”
I arched upward as much as I could—submitting myself to a kiss—or whatever else he wanted to give me. The sheets tantalized my flesh. The warm air licked around my nipples. Everything was an aphrodisiac.
Suddenly, he growled and rolled away.
What the—
Climbing off the bed, his legs planted wide on the floor. My eyes trailed to his heavy cock as he scooped a pair of discarded black boxer briefs from the end of the bed and stepped into them. His muscles flexed and bowed, looking part fantasy, part illusion. Nobody should be that divine. Nobody could be that divine and be mine.
He looked like a demi-god ready to carry me off into the heavens only to corrupt me with decadent sin.
“You can’t stand there looking like that and expect me to behave,” I whispered, rubbing my thighs together.
Leaning down, he captured my wrist and pulled me toward the edge of the bed. Lifting me from the mattress, he plopped me onto my feet, then wrapped me in the tightest embrace. “Never stop being you, Buttercup. Never stop being bold or bossy or brave.”
The swift change from erotic to endearing left me stranded and swimming to catch up. My fingers latched on to his narrow hips, stroking the cotton of his underwear. “I’m bossy?”
Unable to help myself, I nipped at his pectoral, tracing the pink scar and tiny puncture holes left over from my stitches.
His back tightened but his chuckle echoed like a chorus inside my ears. “Very.” Holding me at arm’s length, he smiled. “But I like bossy women.”
Coldness entered my lava-blood, delivering once again the fear that he wasn’t as well as he made out. Tilting my head, I peered at him, hoping to read his secrets.
Why was he making such an effort to distract me?
Distract me from what?
“Wrong, Mr. Killian. You only prefer one bossy woman.”
Capturing my cheeks, he placed his lips against mine. “Only one. Only you.” His tongue slipped past my lips, tasting me, encouraging me to let go of what’d happened and allow myself to be swept away in this new cascade of togetherness.
Obeying his command, I did my best to let go. I did my best to live in the moment where his kiss was as fleeting as a comet and as precious as a falling star.
The kiss stopped as sweetly as it’d begun. Arthur brushed a fiery strand from my cheek. “Let’s go rectify the problem of my starvation. Savory first, then dessert.” Pinching my butt, he smiled. “And if you hadn’t guessed by now—you’re the dessert.”
Chapter Twelve
Kill
Genius was a gift. But obsession was a curse.
Problem was I’d never been able to have one without the other.
When I wanted something—I’d go after it. I’d chase it until I’d either solved it, or it no longer interested me. That sort of single-minded determination was fine—to some degree. But in some cases, it was the worst kind of punishment because I was never satisfied. Never content. Always driven for more. —Kill, age seventeen
I left Cleo in the bathroom as I threw on a T-shirt before descending the stairs.
The steps remained where they should and my eyes judged distances like normal. The reprieve after last night’s agony made me weak at the knees with gratefulness.
It wasn’t intentional to keep the seriousness of my condition from Cleo.
Who are you fucking kidding?
Okay, I was intentionally downplaying the agony in my head and the terrifying sludge where my intelligence used to be. But I couldn’t handle hurting her even more with a weakness I couldn’t control.
She didn’t need to fret. And I had the power to stop her worrying by simply withholding tiny details.
It was a worthwhile trade.
I stepped into the foyer with strong convictions that I’d done the right thing keeping her in the dark. My body wasn’t nearly as tense as it was yesterday, my eyes not nearly as bruised.
That was until I saw the letter.
Then I tensed up like a fucking fist.
The mail had been delivered.
Hardly a life-changing event, if it wasn’t for the very common and familiar envelope sitting on top of my utility bills.
Moving calmly, I stole the mail as if it was any other day.
My hand stayed steady as I took the correspondence into my office and sliced the paper with a letter opener.
The stationery brought back so many memories. Memories
of scribbling equations after equations, committing to memory Wallstreet’s famous trading sequence. Memories of jotting down names of newspaper editors, friendly police officers, and most importantly eager politicians—all so I would know who to contact when I found freedom.
Looking over my shoulder—never able to shake off the feeling of being watched—I unfolded the note from Florida State.
Wallstreet’s swift font indented the page.
Kill,
All plans change and ours have done just that. You received the one thing you thought you’d never see again and in return I want you to finish our ultimate goal.
It’s time.
Up until now you’ve been playing with inconsequential affairs. That was your training. Consider this your graduation.
You know what to do.
Wallstreet
He was right.
I did know what to do and I’d been expecting this letter for months. Having Cleo come back from the dead only expedited the inevitable.
And regardless of my concussion, I was ready to take on a new challenge. Ready to complete my final task. Ready for more.
To the outside world, I was just a biker.
To my brothers, I was just a president.
To Cleo, I was just Arthur the mathematician from her past.
But everyone was wrong.
Only Wallstreet knew the real me. He knew me because he’d groomed me into what I’d become.
We both knew I had bigger dreams, loftier goals. It wasn’t that I didn’t value my success or ranking within my Club—it was just … not entirely what I wanted.
I wanted retribution. I wanted to live in a world where evil and corruption didn’t win over love and togetherness.
I wanted a great many things and not all of them achievable in the lifestyle I lived now.
And that’s why I need to become someone else … someone more equipped to deliver my promises.
My obsession for more had threatened to cripple me with my never-ending desperate drive. The pressure for more money, more security, more freedom.
More. More. More.
Wallstreet had seen that. He said that was what made him choose me—even over my intelligence and gift with numbers.
To him I was an entrepreneur, harbinger, and founder all in one.
Because inside me resided not a man who could take orders and make them a reality, nor was I employee who obeyed what his commander told him.
I was so much more than that.
I had a goal. A goal that mirrored Wallstreet’s. One that made us a match made in heaven.
He wanted more, too.
In fact, he wanted everything.
And the only way to get everything was to rule everyone.
And who ruled everyone?
The men who made the laws.
The motherfucking government.
Chapter Thirteen
Cleo
Would he ever be satisfied?
I’d never admit it aloud, but I was afraid I wasn’t enough for him. I wanted to give him everything. He already owned my heart and soul—I had nothing else to give. Most of the time, it seemed like enough. But then there were the other times. The times where I’d catch him watching me with hunger in his eyes. Hunger that had nothing to do with lust or friendship. Hunger that I didn’t understand. —Cleo, diary entry, age fourteen
“Where did you learn to cook?”
I perched on the marble countertop in a singlet and panties as Arthur moved swiftly and surely around the pristine kitchen. His boxer briefs left his legs naked and seductive—the redheaded mermaid inked into his thigh twitched her tail with his every step. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the delicious sight he made with shaggy, bed-mussed hair, tight boxers, and the charcoal T-shirt he’d thrown on highlighting his toned chest.
As much as I loved his mermaid tattoo and the Libra star signs hidden in the whitewash of a wave, I was glad his T-shirt covered his full-back tattoo with its Dagger Rose emblem drawn over by Pure Corruption. It spoke of two responsibilities and oaths. Two sentences and obligations. The ink cast a terrible premonition that Arthur wasn’t free—that he was bound to others.
He’s bound to me, no one else. Even if Arthur is so loyal to Wallstreet.
I didn’t know why, but whenever I thought about Wallstreet I grew temperamental. Arthur explained a little about why he was so steadfast to that man, but to me it seemed like Wallstreet was the biggest user of all.
I won’t stand for it.
Especially after everything Arthur had done for him.
“I never learned. Self-taught I suppose,” Arthur replied, pulling out bowls and chopsticks. “I don’t do it often. Too busy.” His eyes darkened. “And what’s the point of cooking when it’s only for one?”
Throwing me a look twisted with levity, he couldn’t hide the hint of self-pity.
He’s been so lonely.
Redirecting the conversation to lighter things, I joked, “I assumed you couldn’t even boil water.”
“Why?” He chuckled. “Because you still see the boy who burned everything his mother tried to teach?”
My mind filled with images of Diane Killian laughing hilariously as smoke spewed from her oven for the thirtieth time. Arthur was never destined to follow her and become a baker. Not with his track record.
Kicking my legs, banging my naked heels against the glossy cabinets, I smiled. “No, I assumed because of all the fancy delivered meals. Those weekly menus are fabulous but not exactly conducive to getting someone in the kitchen.”
Grabbing a strainer, he plopped steaming hot water and rice noodles into it, letting the water sift into the sink. “I’m hurt that you have such little faith in me.” He spun around to splat the noodles into a wok filled with soy sauce and other spices, but he stumbled and grabbed the counter instead.
Immediately, my heart skyrocketed. “You okay?” I gripped the marble edge, ready to hurl myself across the space and grab him.
A second ticked past before he moved—slower this time. “I’m fine. Stop fussing. You’ll drive me crazy.” With measured strokes, he turned on the gas and tossed the now glistening and fragrant rice noodles, before folding shallots and bean sprouts into the mess.
Biting my lip, I didn’t say a word as he kept his back toward me and cooked. I didn’t know if his reluctance to face me was due to his concussion or just concentration on his culinary masterpiece.
Either way, I didn’t take my eyes off him the entire time he cooked.
Finally, with the scent of exotic dinner making my mouth water, Arthur divided up the portions and presented a perfect Pad Thai.
My mouth popped open. “Wow, Art. It looks scrumptious.”
“Oh, wait.” He headed to the pantry, grabbed a packet of crushed peanuts, and scattered a pinch over the steamy noodles. “Now it’s ready.”
Lifting his bowl to my nose, he said, “Sniff. Does it smell authentic?”
I inhaled deeply, instantly recognizing the spicy allurement of chilies and the mouthwatering aroma of garlic. “Yes. It smells exactly like a Pad Thai from my local takeout.”
Arthur scowled. “Takeout? Really. You never got to travel with your foster family?”
“No.” I looked away. “They tried to take me to Corfu once, but I refused.”
“Why?”
I shivered as the old lostness and fear of my mind-black-hole came back. “Because I was afraid of going somewhere where I might’ve been before. Afraid of running into people who …” My eyes trailed to my scars. They were answer enough.
Arthur sighed. “Even apart we were still living with the same trials. Both alone—just in different ways.”
We slipped into silence as I accepted a pair of chopsticks, then scooted off the countertop to sit at the breakfast bar. Sliding onto high stools, we sat haloed in light from three glass-domed Edison bulbs.
Arthur waited until I’d sat and devoured a few mouthfuls of his incredible dish before saying, “So … tell
me. What have you been up to the past few years?”
I was mesmerized by his expert use of chopsticks and the way his throat tensed as he swallowed.
I laughed even as my heart thundered. “We’re truly doing this?”
He frowned. “Doing what?”
“Getting to know each other.”
Putting down his chopsticks, his forehead furrowed. “Not getting to know you, Buttercup. I already know your soul. It’s been mine since I set eyes on you. But I want to know the type of existence you had when I wasn’t there. I want to decide if I should be pissed off with your foster family for keeping your memories hostage, or silently grateful that they gave you a better life than the one you would’ve had if you’d remembered.”
The ache returned full force. I rubbed my chest with the heel of my palm. “Every time you do that I feel terrible.”
“Do what?”
Our banter dissolved, showing black and white beneath the colors of where we’d been living. We loved each other. It was undeniable. But where our souls remembered and adored, our personalities had evolved due to circumstances beyond our power.
We’re strangers.
“Remind me that it was me who left you.” My skin flashed with heat. “I know you don’t mean it, but it hurts to think it was my fault—”
Arthur slammed his hands on the marble. “None of this is your fault, Cleo.”
I hung my head, poking my noodles with no appetite.
How had this happened again? Could we not talk about anything without bringing up the past and ruining our simple fun?
Taking my hand, he rubbed his thumb over my knuckles. His eyes were strained and hollow. “Forget all of that. I want to know about you. Just you.”
“There isn’t really much to tell.” Bravery strengthened my resolve as Arthur smiled encouragingly.
Okay … I guess we’re talking. Truly talking. For the first time in eight years.
Trying to tame my heart from kicking with first date nerves, I sucked in a breath. “I suppose, in a nutshell, I achieved the dreams I set for myself. I graduated and earned my veterinary degree. I—” Cutting myself off, I waved my hand. “You know all this. I feel like I’m repeating myself.” I stabbed the chopsticks in his direction. “What about you? I want to know about you.”