Dirty Chase: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Brooklyn Brotherhood Book 2) (4 page)

My mouth falls open.
What the hell
.

I should say no. I should get the hell out of here.

I should
not
be considering this.

Chase grins, like he knows he's got me. "Give me until dessert before you make up your mind. Even if we don't spend the night together. They do have the world's most amazing tiramisu, after all."

E
lle stares at me
, her sweet, full mouth hanging open in shock. She looks so fucking cute I can't help but grin. Goddamn, being next to her makes me feel…

Well, horny. Of course.

But also relaxed.

And…happy.

It's been a while since I've felt any of those things, much less all three at once.

"I—I don't know what to say." Then she gets a devilish glint in her eye. "First of all, you're not going to make me come. Not once."

I just raise my eyebrows and shake my head. "We shall see, Princess, we shall see."

Elle ignores my cocky attitude. "What happens if I make you come first?"

Elle smiles, reaching for her ice water. She dips her fingers in the water, grabs an ice cube, then holds it between her lips—for one second—before it disappears inside her lucky, luscious mouth.

Goddamn. Now I'm hard. And she knows it. She knows exactly what she's doing to me.

Elle winks. "Or, even worse, what happens if the tiramisu sucks?"

She's so fucking beautiful I can barely stand it. Her sky-blue eyes watch me; I can tell she's trying not to smile.

So she's having fun, too. I'm glad, especially after the hurt in her eyes when she mentioned her parents. I wanted to ask about it—but I shouldn't. No use opening up old wounds when you just want to get laid.

And she obviously doesn't want to talk about it, either.

I think she needs someone to distract her. Make her laugh.

Maybe take control.

Maybe this can work. For one night. A couple nights, even. Maybe I can pretend to be a normal man, with a normal job, and a normal—well, fucking exceptional—but basically normal, sweet, sexy-as-hell girl.

"I want—" Elle pauses, and I'm embarrassed to admit that, figuratively speaking, I'm on the edge of my seat.

"You want?" I say, leaning forward. Okay, fuck it, she's got me on the edge of my seat. On edge, in general. Ready to take a flying leap.

Elle leans forward, too, our faces now only inches apart. I can hear her short, quick breath. I can smell her sweet, light scent—like flowers and sugar and summer heat.

"I want you to be honest with me." Elle watches my face as she says this.

"Honest?" I say carefully. "About what?"

Suddenly I'm wary. She's beautiful, she's intriguing, she's smart—maybe too smart. I'm protective of Gray. Elle calls him my boss, and in a sense he is. For now. We came up on the streets together, after I fled my abusive grifter of a father. Then Gray helped me get the fuck out of New York. I've been a hitman for hire, for lack of a better term, for the better part of a decade. I've been free.

But for family reasons, Gray was tied to the Brooklyn syndicate. And then, when he discovered his girl Kat was in trouble, he made the decision to get involved. To rescue her from a real ladykiller—and I mean that literally. I was the first person he called.

The second was my brother from another (very Irish) mother, Declan Power.

Gray and Declan are the only other men I trust to have my back. But all three of us have secrets. Secrets that, if they see the light of day, could get us sent to prison. Or killed.

And as pretty—no, beautiful, not to mention sexy as hell—as Elle is, if she starts asking the wrong kinds of questions, she might be dangerous, too.

I wonder if Gray has checked into Elle's background. I'm sure he has, since she's his wife's best friend. There's no way he'd leave one stone unturned—not if it could affect his woman.

But still…

"How many women have you slept with this week?"

I can't keep another grin from spreading across my face.

She didn't want information about Gray, my job, or any of my contract hits.

She wanted information about
me
.

Sure, she thought I was a manwhore—and at one time, she would've been correct. But this—these types of questions—I can handle.

I lean close, lift her soft hand in mine, kiss her palm. I like that fucking little tremor that runs through her when I touch her. I like it a whole helluva lot, and I can't wait to see what happens when I
really
get my hands—and my lips, my tongue, my dick—on her. In her.

When I get to touch her, everywhere.

"Ask me your question again."

Elle narrows her eyes but leaves her hand in my grasp. "How many women have you slept with this week?"

"Zero, Princess."

In one swift motion I pull her and her chair a half-foot closer, so we're right next to each other. I run just one finger from her bare left shoulder down along her clavicle. It's so, so tempting to go just a few inches further south, to caress those delicious swells her ridiculous top barely hides, but I control myself. Her skin is so smooth, so fragile, so warm, her chest rising and falling beneath my touch as she takes a deep breath. I end my invisible path on her other shoulder, caress it, run my hand down her arm.

"What are you doing?" Elle whispers.

Seducing you
.

"I figure, since I'm being honest, every time you ask me a question, I get to touch you. After all, I've got to try and make you come before dessert. Three times. If I want to win the bet."

Elle tilts her head up. She's so effortlessly regal, she deserves that crown I paid way too much fucking money for. I decide right then and there, if it's the last thing I do before I die, I'm going to see her naked, wearing only that tiara, in my bed.

Or my couch.

The floor. Fuck it: the kitchen counter.

Anywhere'll do.

"You're going to lose that bet," Elle says. "How many women have you slept with in the past
month
?"

"Zero, Princess."

I fist my hand in her long hair, near the base of her skull where I can hold her, control her, but not hurt her. My girl's eyes widen and dilate, her nostrils flaring. If I had my hand over her heart, I know her pulse would be soaring.

Just like mine.

I pull her to me, meet her in the middle between our two seats. She doesn't pull away. Her lips are slightly parted, her breath teasing my lips.

She looks me in the eyes and softly says, "Bullshit. You exude sex like a teenage boy exudes Axe Body Spray."

I bark out a laugh.

"I haven't slept with a woman in—" I pause to count, and Elle frowns. She's so fucking cute when she's pissed, I'm half-tempted to fuck with her a little bit.

"Twenty-nine days."

Elle gasps. "That's a
month
, you asshole!"

"Not if you're talking about February." I grin to let her know I'm just giving her shit. "You're fun to tease, babes. I was kidding. Honestly, I haven’t been with a woman—in
any
way—in six months. I was on an extended job that didn't have a lot of time for…extracurriculars."

"And now you have time for these
extracurriculars
? And you think I want to take part in them?"

I stare into those pretty, light-blue eyes.

"You sure as fuck do."

"But you don't want a relationship," she says.

"I thought you didn't, either. Is that so wrong? For two young, incredibly attractive people to enjoy each other's company—and bodies—for a night?"

"You make a compelling argument. I'm not against one-night stands. But I'm also not stupid. No offense, but you've got 'manwhore' written all over you."

I glance down at my chest. "Shit, I thought I washed that off this morning."

Elle bites the inside of her cheek so she doesn't smile. But her eyes are laughing.

"Elle, I've been tested. I'm clean. I'm safe. And I want you."

"I have a feeling you're the farthest thing from safe," Elle whispers.

"Princess, if I'm dangerous, you're fucking deadly."

I have one second to admire her pretty, shocked face. Then I crush my lips to hers. The second kiss is as good as the first. Better. I stop fisting her hair, but keep my fingers in those long, golden curls. She's hot, eager, tastes like fucking sunshine.

I kiss her softly, nipping at her top lip, sucking on her bottom lip. I slow down even further, let go of her hair and pull back, enjoy the fuck out of how she leans forward, grabbing onto my T-shirt, tugging me back toward her mouth.

"Greedy little Princess," I whisper into her open mouth. When she moans slightly and shifts that amazing ass on her chair, I get harder than I think I've been in ten years.

"Ahem. Your…appetizers."

Elle jumps at the waiter's voice.

"Oh my God," she whispers, pulling back, trying to smooth out her wild hair.

Shit, if it looks that good after a kiss, I can't wait to see what it looks like after a night in my bed.

I mean, in
her
bed. I don't bring women to where I'm staying. Even if I can't get the image of her tanned skin and golden curves—in my bed, riding me, bent over in front of me—out of my mind.

It's obviously been too long, and I just need to get laid.

"Put it on the table, Joey," I order, glancing briefly at the waiter. He's a young guy, cousin to the owner, and therefore trustworthy. He knows how to keep his mouth shut.

Rafe Brunello, the owner of Il Duca, got his start with family money, and by that I mean
famiglia
money. This restaurant has come to be known as neutral ground by New York crime families, with even warring factions sitting down to discuss their issues over the amazing food.

Everyone says it's because Rafe understands the lifestyle—and will kick your fucking ass if you so much as scratch one of his expensive tables.

I personally think it's also related to all the men wanting to check out the racks of famous starlets, but everyone acts too hard to admit that.

It doesn't hurt that Rafe has at least five armed men on each floor of this place, at all times. I remind myself that must be why I'm so relaxed, why I'm able to get so lost in Elle's eyes.

It's just a relatively safe place, as safe as any in New York.

It's not the girl.

Old words come back to haunt me, a shitty little whisper in my ear, like my old man used to use—so soft and crooning—right before he'd beat the shit out of me:
Don't be a liar, Chase. Don't you fucking lie to me.

I'm not a liar
, I'd shout
—
usually a lie, but it didn't matter. The beating would come, no matter what.

A take my Scotch and watch as Joey sets various appetizer plates in front of us, including a large platter of ice with oysters piled high on top.

"We've got Wellfleet oysters from Cape Cod, the Alpine Bays from Prince Edward Island are mild and lightly briny, and the Beach Blonde oysters from Rhode Island are sweeter—"

"I prefer my blondes from Brooklyn." I take a plate and begin to pile oysters on it for Elle. "What do you say, Princess: Are you briny or sweet?"

Elle blushes and gives me a
shut the hell up
look with her eyes.

Joey reddens slightly, but continues talking. "Lobster bisque, potato gnocchi with nettle pesto, a kale Caesar salad—"

I groan. I thought I'd at least get away from the fucking clean-eating crowd that's taken over Brooklyn.

"Nettle
what
?" I growl. "A nettle sounds like a weed by the fucking highway. And they had to put
kale
in a fucking
Caesar salad
?"

"Chase!" Elle admonishes me, her face bright red.

"Don't worry, Elle. The food here is great, but apparently the owner has gotten pretentious as shit—you tell Rafe I said that, Joey."

I glance at Elle's pretty, bright-pink cheeks. "Don't worry, darlin'," I drawl. "I know the owner. He'll appreciate my constructive feedback."

I turn to Joey. "Never mind, just put everything down, have the chef make us something delicious for the main course, and don't come back before it's finished, unless you hear a woman scream."

I turn to Elle. Forget about the fucking food—I'm ready to eat her up.

"Actually, Joey, don't come back
especially
if you hear a woman scream."

C
hase glances
over at whatever Joey's doing, then turns back to me. He smiles, a grin so dirty and private I know I'm blushing.

I hear the waiter move away.

"Are we alone now?" I ask.

"Mmm," is all Chase says before he's kissing me again, this time trailing his calloused fingers up and down my bare back. He leaves a trail of shivers in his wake before pulling me to him again.

Chase is surprisingly gentle. I feel cradled—by his hands delicately holding my face, by our bodies forming a circle next to the circular table in the floating blue bubble that is this room. Chase kisses me like he has all the time in the damn world, not trying to rush things, not even trying to part my lips the slightest bit. He just lightly savors my lower lip, then my upper lip, then both together.

This time, it's me who gets impatient. His gentle, slow, perfect kisses put a spell on me. I lean forward, grabbing his shoulders. God, he's huge. His T-shirt is soft, like he's worn and washed it a thousand times, but underneath he's rock-hard muscle, everywhere.

I grab his shirt, make a fist, and pull him toward me. His smiles against my lips, and I revel in that for about half a second before I slip my tongue, just a little, inside his mouth. He lets me play for half a second longer before growling.
God
, it's a sound I feel down to my toes. I pull him closer, closer. We kiss like mad, like we're on a boat and it's sinking, like only we can give each other oxygen.

Somewhere out in the hall I hear glasses clinking, the muted sound of plates being stacked. I don’t move away from Chase. I can't. I'm held captive by his hands, his lips, his eyes, but mostly by my wildly beating heart.

"What are we doing?" I whisper.

Chase pulls back, his eyes heavy-lidded, turned-on. "Letting the food get cold."

I glance over at the oysters on ice, then back at him. I expect Chase to keep making out—or move things along, try to get in my pants, win his ridiculous bet. Instead, he leans back and adjusts himself—
holy shit, I should
not
have looked down. I think he has a python in his pants
.

When I glance back up at Chase, his eyes are shining with laughter.

"Busted, Princess. Checking out the crown jewels?"

I throw my napkin at him. "You're a dork."

"Don't get mad just because you got caught." He expertly prepares an oyster for me, squeezing fresh-cut lemon juice on the shell, then glancing at me to see if I want hot sauce.

"I like it hot," I say. I smile when he shifts his body like he wants to adjust himself again. Good, I'm glad he's hard. I know my nipples feel like pebbles inside this shirt, and I am so flushed I must look like I've been running for miles.

At least I'm not the only one.

Chase puts a small amount of hot sauce on the oyster, then brings the shell to my lips. I open my mouth, just so, the hard, cold shell a rough, delicious texture against my tongue.

I like oysters, but I
love
the way Chase can't keep his eyes off of me.

I open my mouth further, holding eye contact the entire time, and he slips the cold, briny treat inside my mouth. I swallow it and lick the salt off my lips.

I prepare an oyster for him, holding it up to his lips. I can't believe what I'm looking at: the hottest guy I've ever seen in real life. He speaks with a slow, Southern drawl. He moves smooth like water. His tattoos run and dance over the muscles in his arms. He smells like aftershave, a run in the park, and something spicy—something uniquely him.

And when he looks at me, I feel like I'm igniting from the inside. A slow burn.

I press my legs together as he eats a few oysters, eyeing me like he's got dirty, dirty thoughts in his head.

"You're not hungry?" Chase takes a sip of whiskey and grins. "Or at least, not for food?"

I feel myself blushing and taste the gnocchi. "Delicious. I don't know where you've been, but nettles are all the rage." It actually
is
delicious, but I certainly can't tell the difference between regular pesto and nettle pesto. Probably the only difference is the thirty-five-dollar price tag on the appetizer.

Chase tastes the lobster bisque. "Damn, Rafe knows what he's doing."

"Who's Rafe?" I say.

Chase hesitates for a moment. "Raffaello Brunello. He's the owner of Il Duca. A friend of the syndicate, you could say."

I know my eyes must be popping out of my face. The owner of the hottest celebrity hangout has
mafia
connections?

"But I don't want to talk about that." Chase puts his drink down, and places his arm back around my chair.

"What do you want to talk about?" I say, moving my fork around the Caesar salad. I'm starving, but I don't want food. "Kale salad?" I hold up a bite and smile.

"Fuck kale," Chase says.

"I have competition from the salad?" I say. I can't believe my own balls. Or my libido.

Chase's eyes glow even brighter, it seems.

"No competition," he whispers as he scoots my chair closer to him. He leans in, bites my earlobe just enough to make me shiver. "So are we done playing games?"

Then he trails the back of his hand down my chest, this time boldly caressing my cleavage above the bustier. I swallow, hard. His hands are rough, but his touch is gentle. I'm frozen like a statue, and it's only each turn of his palm that seems to bring me to life.

I turn my head toward him, wanting to kiss him, taste him.

"Or are we just getting started?" Chase whispers.

Then he leans back, his left hand still teasing the delicate skin around my neck, caressing me. He winks while reaching for his Scotch. I watch the amber liquid meet his lips, and then he surprises me by suddenly pulling down the front of my bustier. My breasts pop out, and I gasp, glancing toward the door and moving to cover myself.

"No one's going to see you," Chase assures me. "I won't let them. Now put your hands down. Hold onto your chair."

I bite my lower lip. This feels like a big choice: am I giving in? Doing what he says? Playing out this ridiculous scenario?

Or going home to eat ice cream and watch true-crime TV. Alone. Again.

I slowly lower my arms and hold onto the sides of the upholstered chair. The fabric is textured and nubby beneath my fingers. The air is cool, and it's the craziest feeling to be sitting, topless, in a fancy restaurant. My nipples harden and turn to small, pink pebbles, as much from Chase's gaze as from the cool air.

And then he does…nothing. He just casually sips his drink again, licking his lips. I watch his tongue as he watches me. I'm vibrating, exposed. I can feel my breasts rise and fall as I breathe.

Then finally—
finally
—Chase leans forward. He runs his hand under my aching breasts, around and around my skin, drawing invisible tattoos all over my upper body.

Everywhere, that is, except the two places I ache the most. He won't touch my nipples, which are rock-hard and begging for attention. For release.

"Look at that," Chase says, approval in his slow, deep twang. "I didn't think your skin could get any prettier." It sounds like
purtier
. His voice is getting huskier and a more distinct Southern accent is emerging. The accent—and the obvious bulge in his pants—are the only signs he's affected by me.

"But look at how your golden skin turns pink as I tease you."

I lick my lips despite myself, and dig my nails into the side of the chair.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I lie. I turn my head toward the door and sniff. "Do you think our dinner's ready? It's getting late." I fake a yawn, even though I feel like I'll go out of my mind if he doesn't
touch me already
.

Chase watches me, one hand running up my neck, along my jawline. I bite the inside of my cheek.
I will not lean into him, I will not lean into him
. I don't know exactly what game I'm playing anymore. Why did I say I didn't want to come? What was I holding back for?

And then Chase runs his hands back down my neck and rests it over my beating heart, a possessive, confident gesture that just about undoes me. And then he does it—
thank God, thank God!
—he reaches my nipples, slowly caressing one with just his thumb.

I jump.

He smiles.

He puts down his glass.

Without a word, he stands, kicks his chair back a few feet, then drops to his knees. He's so big that even kneeling on the floor, his head comes up to my chin.

He's still teasing, teasing, teasing just that one, hard nipple with the edge of his thumbnail. It's not enough. I raise my hand up to grab him, make him do
something
, anything—but quicker than I would've thought possible, he grabs my wrist.

"Hands down, or you lose my touch," he growls.

My eyes grow wide. "Who the hell do you think you are?" I gasp, frustration leaching into my voice.

"Chase Masters," he drawls. Then he draws back and raises an eyebrow, and I can't believe it, but I lower my hands and clench the seat with all my might.

How many times have I been groped by a man, wishing I didn't have to tell him,
harder, no softer, no—ouch!
How many times has a man though he was rocking my world when he was, in fact, lulling me to sleep?

Not Chase. It's like he's mastered my body already, and I've never even touched him.

I feel so damn awake. So alive. Every nerve is singing, and there's a growing heat between my legs. It's like my chest is connected by an invisible, burning string to my secret core. Every time he plays me, he pulls on that string.

Holy shit, I might just come from him teasing me like this.

I close my eyes and let me head fall back. I feel my long hair falling down my back.

And then: freezing cold. I jerk upright and look down to see Chase, my left nipple in his ice-cold mouth. So that's why he wasn't speaking. He'd stolen an ice cube from water glass. His talented tongue moves it around and around my hardened nub, numbing the area that he'd just brought to life.

It's still not enough. I feel wild, pent-up, desperate for a deeper, rougher touch.

"Quit playing around," I moan. Then he swallows the ice cube—I hear it, the smallest sound in the quiet room—and then the beautiful bastard bites me.