Page 57 of A Dark Mafia Christmas

I can’t breathe. I can’t think, not with Nikolai this close, and for the first time since the fourth grade, I fucking stutter. “W-well, i-if you wanted a d-dance. All you had to do was ask.”Jesus. Fuck. Get it together, Gwendolyn.

His nose grazes mine. “Dance for me.”

“When?” He slides his phone into my hand.

“Tomorrow. Let me take you out and show you the lifestyle you’re supposed to be living.” My mouth parts mindlessly, and Igather all the shallow breaths I possibly can as I type my number into his phone.

“Pick me up at 8,” I say. Nikolai lets me go, and I immediately feel the chill of the night consume me.

He winks at me, not even checking if I gave him my real number, the cocky bastard.

Chapter3

NIKOLAI

Gwen,my little hellcat, stands in a thin, skin-tight black dress adorned with sparkles in the bay window of the little two-bedroom house she and her grandmother Rose live in.

I am supposed to be here at 8, but I can’t help myself from getting here early when all I could think about was her ass in that sparkly emerald green lingerie set with fishnets and neck-breaking heels.

She looked magnificent as she stood in an alley, with a cracked beer bottle in her hand and mouth too sharp for her own good.

If she talked to me the way she spoke to half of the guys in that club, I’d have her writhing over my knee, her perfect bottom stained with my handprint as she begged for me to fill that filthy mouth of hers with my cock. I smile at the image of her big hazel eyes, almost brimming with tears, so turned on and frustrated with me that she curses my name, and I, in turn, punish her for it.

I bet she’s a brat.Fuck.I adjust myself in my slacks as I stare at her, continuing to mess with her curly hair. She keeps fluffingher black curls, spilling down her back in spirals. They are more airy and free than they were at the club, swaying along her spine as she smiles at herself in the mirror. I keep flexing my hand in and out, waiting to thread my fingers in her hair and pull her into me.

I’ve wanted to run my hands along the curve of her waist, grip her hips, and make her feel what she has done to me since I saw her dancing. She had every man’s eyes on her. Every man was fixing their cocks in their pants. Every man under her siren song, like the little minx she is.

She could be a modern-day Cleopatra, have men killing themselves just for a moment in her presence, and I could be her Caesar, but then I heard our modern-day Cleo speak, and she spoke like a warrior.

Men fawned over her, and she kept them where they belonged, kissing at her feet, so of course, when I saw that fucker try to rape her, I took his pinky. Fuck, I would have taken his life if she asked, but Gwen is a merciful queen.

I look at the time again: 7:55, which is early but a respectable early. I slide out of my Rolls Royce, adjust my suit jacket, and grab the bouquet of pink roses because Gwen texted me thatI better not be fucking unoriginaland bring red. Bringing pink was a minor submission, anticipating when I had her on her knees begging for me.

I knock on the peeling white door. A pair of wide eyes and the slick smirk of an old lady greet me.

“Oh my.” She fans her face, her eyes roaming over my body as I flash my most parent-friendly smile. “You must be Nikolai.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, kissing Nana Rose’s hand. “And you must be Nana Rose?”

I wink at her, and a warm smile spreads on her wrinkled face. A gasp leaves her lips. “Oh.” She points at me with her other hand. “You’re good. I bet you’re a charmer.”

“Not as much as your granddaughter.” I rise, smiling as she turns her body to the side, letting me into the small living area.

“Well, she got it from me!” Nana Rose claps. “Back in the day, I was a brick house. That’s old lady talk for I was the shit.”

“I bet you were,” I laugh as Nana Rose’s slippers click past me.

“Oh, I got the pictures to prove it! But make yourself at home while I see what’s taking her so long.” I nod, looking around the living room, cast in the soft glow of an aged lamp in the corner. From down the hallway, I hear Nana Rose call out, “Gwen, that man is fine, and he is waiting! Don’t keep good-looking waiting!”

I look around, my curiosity about Gwen only growing as I take in more of her house. A pink and cream flower couch and a worn wooden coffee table adorned with colorful delicate lace doily sit in the room’s center.

I roam over to a weathered brown bookshelf peeling tan against the far wall, its shelves filled with an eclectic mix of novels and a family photo of Gwen as a child sitting on the lap of a smiling man with a salt n’ pepper mustache. I pick up the image, focusing on Gwen’s wide, toothy smile.

“Well, shoot. If I knew you were going to go snooping, I would have told Nana to leave you outside.” Gwen’s snort breaks me out of the trance of the photo.

I return the frame and remark, “Consequences for keeping me waiting.” When I turn around, her hazel eyes are hooded, her pink lips are glossed and slightly apart in a smile, and her hands are holding a small clutch in front of her.

She whispers, “Are there always consequences with you?”

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