Black Collar Queen (Black Collar Syndicate Book 2) (17 page)

Chapter 23.
Havana's Villa. November 19
^th
 

He
Has Retreated To A Wide Patio
, and stands with his arms resting against a
waist-high stucco wall. A highball of rum sits beside his arm, but he hasn't
touched it since he slipped out into the thick night—even though the rum seems
to be the only thing keeping his temper in check. The blow used to dull his
emotions, deaden his soul so that he could function without losing that
Biblically proportioned temper. Now, he finds the speed only makes the anger
worse.

What can he really say?
He warned his Cuban friends away from Emma, but she is of equal rank now, and
he can’t order her away from them. Not a single one of them made a move toward
her—whether out of respect or fear—and yet Seth's mind burns with the image of
her pale hand on a brown-skinned shoulder. The way her curls slid against a
tattooed chest when she leaned in to whisper in his ear.
 

Miguel. He is the same
age as Seth, and he was the one who oversaw Seth's very first execution.

Seth’s jaw clenches, and
his knuckles are white against the banister. She couldn't know that, couldn't
know that they had become good friends. Could he really expect his friend to
deny her advances? She is a Morgan, after all. He wants to spit, but he huffs
instead.
 

A familiar rage urges
him to fling the nearby glass patio table into a wall. Breaking glass always
makes him feel better. But this is not his house. He has to endure himself for
the sake of protocol. Fleetingly, he thinks about calling Vera, but he doesn't
have his phone. What good would that do anyway? Give him blue balls?
 

He hasn't thought about
sex since Nicolette died, but now that he's alone in this soft place and his
adrenaline is spiking in murderous thoughts—how utterly appalling for a king to
have to take care of himself, but he considers it. He could go out on the beach
and make love to the ocean. He huffs again in an attempt to rein in his
quickening breaths. He snatches his rum and takes a deep swallow. It's warm,
the best way in his opinion to drink good rum. It burns on its way to his
clenched stomach, but the spice warms his tension a bit.
 

“How can a man carry so
much tension on this island?”

The voice comes from
behind him, dressed in some sultry Latina tones that make him whirl around. He
reaches for his gun, then remembers he doesn't have it. He immediately finds a
pair of sharp, dark eyes on him, big and darkly lined.
 

She is a sacred temple
of a woman, a goddess with long caramel hair and sun-browned skin. She's
wearing a metallic gold bikini top, and a sheer black wrap tied around her
waist. She's the most perfect hourglass Seth has ever seen, her curves smooth
like the shore after high tide. His blood rushes to the surface, so he attempts
to recover some control over the situation. He just stares.

She sidles toward him,
her hips swaying with momentous effect as she takes a place beside him, and
looks out at the beach. A breeze toys with her hair, and her full lips are
curved in a smile. Surely she is used to the attention. She's stunning. It
takes every ounce of resolve for Seth not to jump her immediately. She knows
who he is. This sort of thing is not uncommon. Havana would often send women to
his men. The kind of women who only worked for him. But Jesus, this one is
above them.
 

“If I were to touch you,
you'd break into a thousand pieces,” she says without looking at him.
 

In but two sentences,
she has his desire baited like puppy, waiting for congratulations.

She's right——he knows
she is— but she can’t begin to know the ghosts that haunt him. His

eyes slide to her
sidelong, and she meets them, like she can feel his gaze. She's almost too
gorgeous to be real, and he remembers he used to think that when he looked at
Nicolette. Finally, he says, “Some things never stop, not even for this
island.”

She turns to him
slightly, turns those heavy eyes full to examine him. She cocks her head to the
side and says, “Did you bring all of New York on your shoulders with you to
Cuba?”

Her accent is thick, and
has a rolling cadence that in itself soothes him. He's so hard beneath his
jeans. His jaw grinds a little. She reaches toward him, but she moves slow,
unsure if he will let her so close. He stills his natural instinct to defend,
all his nerves that try to rise. Her grace flows like honey, and she works the
first button of his shirt loose, careful not to brush his body. She must know
he wants her to touch him.
 

Her eyes follow her
hands down his front until she has parted the fabric, and exposed his lean cut.
She makes no pains to hide her appraisal, then her fingers brush the raised
scar—the devil ray—and she smiles, a dark, secretive smile. Her hands travel up
his abs, the ridges of his ribs, so gently over the ugly newness of the bullet
scar as they push the linen off of him. He doesn't move as it drops to the
patio. He's afraid that if he does move, it will be to rip that wrap off of her
and bend her over the banister.
 

She leans in, her face
so close to his neck, so close the hairs on his skin rise. One hand ghosts up
his throat, then along his jawline. That gold bikini top brushes against his
chest, and she says against his ear, “Give your troubles to Mother Ocean, and
give that tension to me.”

He goes rigid beneath
her heady presence, but when she starts to pull away, his body comes to life.
His speed makes her gasp, as he grabs a handful of hair and pulls her lips to
his. Her body all but melts against him, all her supple curves and soft skin.
He devours her lips like they're his way to salvation, and his free hand gets a
rough hold on one firm ass cheek. She makes a soft moan into his mouth, and the
fire in his kiss doubles. Her hands are roaming, and she grinds against his
still-confined, rock-hard dick.
 

He doesn't hesitate to
pull on the strings that hold the top in place. His hands are hungry as they
slide down and do the same to the wrap. More strings, and then the bikini
bottom falls away. He pushes her back a step to look at her, brown and naked,
breasts large, exquisite. It should be illegal to look like that, and naturally
so.
 

His hands move without
his mind, nearly rip the button from his jeans as he tries to free it. He
pushes his pants and his boxers down at once, and finally his cock is free. She
mutters to the Mother Mary in Spanish at the sight of him naked, and that's
enough to make him lose his mind.

Again, his speed takes
him, and he ignores the pain in his shoulder as he pushes her hips against the
wall, and pins her there by fitting himself behind her. He holds her back to
his chest with one hand squeezing a breast, and he pushes inside of her. She
gasps, and he grunts. She's so wet, so wet and warm and tight around him.
 

She snakes one arm over
her shoulder, her fingers tightening on the back of his neck. He groans against
her throat and pounds her against the stucco. Her moans mingle with the sound
of the waves, so they become a siren song, come to lull him into ecstatic
oblivion. If the pain he knows comes with each thrust bothers her, she makes no
indication. She just tenses and shivers, and comes. So he again fists her hair,
and pulls just the slightest bit.
 

His tongue glides over
her throat, and he can feel the vibrations of her voice as he gets her off,
over and over. Then he pushes her arm down, and shoves her forward so that she
must catch her hands on the banister, or be leaning over it. He grips her ass
with both hands, so hard he's sure it'll bruise, and he fucks her
relentlessly—until her back is arched forward, and her head is tilted backward,
and her mouth is an O singing his praises.
 

He fucks her until he
can no longer maintain, until he feels himself slipping, reaching the peak. And
he pulls out, comes on the wall, but leaves himself fitting between her thighs
as he pulls her body back against him. He likes it there, if just for this
moment, so soft.
 

She heaves beneath his
hold, trying to catch her composure. Her hair is wild, that just-got-fucked
kind of hair. It is incredibly sexy, all crazy around her face, and those nude
chic lips. Her head falls back against his good shoulder. She is so comfortable
with him, not intimidated at all, completely confident in the creature that she
is. Maybe she's just used to being around powerful and deadly men. She purrs
when she says, “Maybe that will help you sleep tonight,
pequeño rey
.”

He bristles. Little
king? Comfortable, indeed. And she laughs. He hadn't stopped to consider it,
but she's older than he is. He can tell by that single laugh, like music and
teasing. Finally, he relinquishes his hold on her and remembers his rum.
 
“I'm not ready for bed just yet,” he says.

“You fuck like a king,”
she says as he takes a drink. Then she stretches her hands far above her head,
both of them well aware that she's still naked.

He swiftly grasps her
nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and pinches sharply. She gasps again,
and he pulls her to him with just that hold. He roughly kisses her lips,
knowing he tastes like rum, then he says, “No, I'm not quite done with you.”

Chapter 24.
Havana's Villa. November 19
^th

She
Knew Being Here
would bring out a different side of him. She was curious about it
in New York. What change would foreign soil produce in her dark prince? But she
didn’t expect this. Not even after the month on the island, seeing him loose
and relaxed.
 

Seth isn't relaxed. He's
wound tight, his eyes roving even as he laughs and talks to the men around him
in that rolling Spanish that sounds completely natural from him. But there is
an ease about him that startles her, a happy lightness she hasn't seen in
years. He's laughing, the kind of laughter she heard when Seth was
carefree—before Cuba and Caleb's murder and Gabe.
 

And there is the
kingpin, and the way he was with Seth. She never thought she would be jealous
of a man, but she was. And she hated it.
 

Seth is treating her
differently. A tiny distance that wasn't there before the hit. She wants to say
something—anything—that will make that distance disappear. No one will look at
her directly. There are glances, fleeting and sliding away as soon as her
attention shifts. Coke is pounding through her veins and she
wants
. Teasing Miguel was just a symptom
of that want, and a way to annoy Seth. He isn’t being fair—the warning on the
boat, and the possessive glares here. The way he slips so easily into Spanish,
like a second skin that she can’t recognize.
 

And the real reason
she’s irritated—the way he quietly, gently shut her down in the pool.

If she closes her eyes,
she can taste him, feel that delicious pressure, and it makes her shiver.

Her phone rings again,
and she stifles her irritated sigh as she moves to the door, abandoning the
party to deal with Rama.
 

“How is it?” he asks,
and she can hear tired tension in his voice.
 

Even now, he isn't happy
she is gone.
 

“Strange. He threw a
party to welcome Seth back.”

“That is not so strange,
is it?”
 

She swallows her
irritation. She wants to snap at him, but that isn't fair. “No. But seeing him
here, is. He's different.”
 

His voice is strained
when he asks, “Will you be safe?”
 

“There is no one trying
to kill me here,” she reminds him. “I'm safer here than I am New York.”

“But I am not there.”

“You can't always be
with me. One day you will go back to Thailand.”

“When will you quit
pushing me away?” She flinches from the quiet violence in his tone. She hates
that she likes it when he is like this. When she pushes him past his quiet
reserve and into anger. “I have blood on my hands, defending you. I carry your
tattoo. I took a fucking bullet for you.”

She stares at the water
and wonders if Caleb ever pushed him, just to see that rare anger.

“Why do you never talk
about Caleb?”
 

There is a beat of
silence and then: “Is that what you want? More stories of your cousin?”

There is something ugly
and accusing in his tone that makes her shudder. “I have to go.”
 

“
Mali
,” he starts, and she can hear the anger draining away,
replaced with a plea. She doesn't want that. Not right now.
 

“He was my best friend
and you loved him. Not everything I do is because—” She chokes off, refusing to
say it, to voice the dirty accusation implied in his question. For a moment, she
can hear Johnny Hughes’ mocking voice again, calling her a whore.
 

He's quiet, and she can
feel the long miles stretching between them, keeping them apart.

Destroying them.
 

“He was my brother,
Rama,” she says softly. The words she hasn't spoken out loud, a quiet truth.
She hangs up abruptly. She's not ready to hear that he knew, not ready to face
questions. The phone rings immediately and she silences it before turning it
off.
 

“Bad news?”

The voice startles her
and she jerks, hand going instinctively for her gun. It's the one Seth seemed
genuinely happy to see—Miguel—and she relaxes a little. She might have used him
just to piss off Seth, but the dark Cuban is intriguing and distracting, and
she needs a distraction.

“Nothing to worry over,”
she says, lightly.
 

A smile crooks his lips.
“Do you worry, little Morgan?”

She shrugs. “Yes. But
not tonight.”

She looks past him, to
where the party rages against the heavy darkness. Her skin feels tight and
itchy, the argument with Rama mixing with the blow, leaving her anxious for
something. Anything. But not ready, not quite, to step over the line that Seth
has drawn. Not here, in a foreign court. Even if Miguel’s eyes are inviting in
the darkness. “Would you tell Seth I'm ready to leave?”

A small smile twists his
lips. “
Yuma
is gone. He found—private
entertainment.”

Rage flickers in her
veins, mixing with jealousy. That he would take what he’s forbidden for her is
infuriating. She refuses to let herself consider that her rage might be because
he’s with someone else. Someone who will never be her.

She’s so tired. Tired of
wanting the one thing she knows damn well she can never have. Miguel is
standing there, all long, lean lines and curious smiles, a memory from Seth’s
past that she can’t resist.
 
She releases
a small puff of laughter. “Maybe I should do the same, hmm?”
 

Miguel glances at her,
and she sees the blatant interest there. “Seth would be displeased.”
 

That decides her, and
she gives him a sultry smile, all sex appeal and royal Morgan charm. A heady
mix of sweet innocence edged with deviance. All of her natural, careless grace
loosed in one smoldering smirk. Miguel inhales sharply and she turns away, her
hips swaying as she takes a few steps away. “Can one of the girls show me to my
room?”

There is a moment of
hesitation and then he moves, taking her arm as he says, gruffly,

“Come.”

The order sets her blood
humming but she doesn't say or do anything. Just quietly follows him away from
the beach. He hesitates at a small cabana and she moves, the tension spinning
between them finally snapping as he falters. She steps into his space and
presses an open mouthed kiss to the back of his neck. She can feel the full
shudder he gives, the sway of his body toward her.
 

“Stay with me,” she
murmurs, invitation and command.
 

“Seth,” Miguel gasps, a
weak protest. He’s already turning, his hands coming up to find her hips.
 

She sways toward him,
inhaling the scent of his sweat and spice of cologne. It's different from
anything she knows, and intoxicating.
 

“I'll deal with Seth.”

He stares at her, and
then he's kissing her, a clash of lips and teeth and groping hands. His tongue
strokes against hers, and then he bites down on her lip, and she rewards him
with a soft gasp, a tiny noise. His lips trace down, over her curving throat,
as his thumbs circle her nipples through her thin sundress and lace bra. She
groans against him and reaches down, finding his erection hot and hard. She
cups him, stroking through the linen of his pants. He curses and shifts, gripping
her hips. She gasps as he lifts her, pinning her between him and the door of
the cabana. Her skirt is up, crushed between them as he reaches between them
and slips his fingers between her legs.

She's hot and wet, and
she bites down on his neck as he strokes her, his fingers slick with her
arousal. His eyes flash at her. Then he rips her panties off and it only makes
her wetter, want him more, and his hands leave her for a moment. She wants to
shriek her anger because she wants so badly, and then he's back, shifting her
body, and she does shriek as she slides down his cock, so long and thick it
hurts, but it's that perfect blend of pain and pleasure, flashing through her
like fire. Her eyes close, and everything, every concern she hasn’t been able
to let go of, rolls away, until there is nothing but the pure sensation of him
inside her.

Miguel freezes as he
seats himself in her, and she whimpers, rolling her hips in tight little
circles so that his hips buck against her, and it breaks the last of their
control, and they’re moving against each other, hands clawing, lips searching,
as pleasure spikes higher and higher. He fucks like a dancer, precise skill
that is so perfect it is almost painful, and leaves her aching for more, even
as his voice whispers in her ear, that gorgeous rolling language that she can
hear on Seth’s lips.

The orgasm hits like a
hammer, pleasure slamming through her, and she screams, her voice breaking the
darkness. He curses sharply and covers her mouth with his, drinking down her
pleasure as he bucks against her again. She feels him swell, a groan pouring
from him as he climaxes, spilling inside her, his fingers on her pulling tiny
ripples of pleasure from her as the pleasure spins out.
 

They stay that way for a
long moment, sweat cooling on their skin, sense returning.
 

Emma pushes lightly on
his shoulders and he breathes a laugh against her skin. He is all casual smiles
as he tucks his dick away and grins at her. “Dismissing me?”

She shrugs as her feet
hit the ground and she adjusts her skirt. Something like sorrow and regret—but
not quite either—are ebbing in as the pleasure fades. The weight of what they
did is settling in and she says, simply, “Seth.”
 

It's not a lot of
explanation, but it's all she needs to kill the look in his eyes. Except, it
doesn't. He draws her close by the waist, and kisses her softly, and a dark
smile forms when he pulls away.
 

"I'll deal with
Seth," he says, her words echoed back at her. And then he draws her into
the small cabana and shuts the door on the night.