Page 113 of The Dark Obsession

Of things neither of us dares to voice.

Standing under the hot spray, he cups my cheek, his thumb stroking my flushed skin before he brings our foreheads together.

I love when he does that.

I love being treated with soft, delicate care. But I also love being manhandled and dominated, craving both sides of him equally.

Being with Tyson, I’ve learned so much about myself.

It helps that he’s always so perfectly attuned to me, able to read my body’s reactions before I know what I need myself.

The rest of the day is spent with us soaking in the bath, laying in each other’s embrace.

So when he finally lifts me from the tub to wrap me up in a fluffy towel and massage lotion into my aching muscles, I can hardly keep my eyes open. The man even applies my skin care so lightly it feels like butterflies ghosting my face.

Falling asleep tucked into Tyson’s side with his strong arms wrapped tightly around me, my head rests in the crook of his neck, my palm splayed on his beating heart.

A deep, restful sleep overcoming me as one last thought passes my mind.

I don’t want him to let me go. I don’t want this to end.

Ever.

Chapter Twenty

Tyson

The smell of sex, smoke and alcohol hits my lungs.

The heavy beat of base pounding in my head, pulsating in my temples. This is bringing back unpleasant memories, making me already regret my decision to come here.

The Death Trap.

The finest establishment in Los Angeles, if you can call a whorehouse that. Reserved only for the wealthiest and most depraved.

Well, officially it’s a just a club with the occasional stripper lounge, but no one would dare checking the back rooms.

Not if you don’t want to end up in a body bag since going against the Corso brothers in his city is a certain death sentence.

Perks of being as ruthless as we are.

While other cities on the West Coast that belong to the Italians get hit with the occasional attempt from the Bratva or the Irish Mob to gain a foothold, Los Angeles belongs wholly to the Camorra.

Secured with our blood.

And since my brother Dante took over this particular joint, he’s not only made it much more profitable, but ensured that none of the girls were held here against their will like it used to be during my father’s reign.

With a black balaclava covering my face, I slip in through the back entrance. None of the bouncers blinking an eye as I pass the VIP area, heading straight upstairs and away from the inebriated mass of grinding bodies.

As soon as I enter the code to my brother’s office, I’m greeted by the obnoxious sound of slurping with the occasional gagging in between.

The massive bulk of my eldest brother is slumped in a leather chair behind his vast oak desk. The room dark and uninviting just like the man himself.

But what throws me off me most is that there's stubble covering his wide jaw, his always neatly groomed hair in disarray.

Nonetheless, in his three-piece designer suit hiding the Camorra's tattoo on his chest, the ink I’ve never gotten for myself, the man still looks like a true king.

Brutal and merciless.

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