Page 81 of Only for Him
He looks at me, amusement flickering in his eyes. “We have to play the part.”
He opens the passenger door for me. “After you, little viper.”
What a gentleman.
You don’t want a gentleman.You never have, and you never will. Definitely not now that you’ve had… this.
The seat is butter-soft leather, and the car smells like midnight and expensive secrets. He gets in, starts the engine, and the entire car vibrates. I feel it everywhere, radiating from my thighs to my temples, flooding my mouth with the taste of iron and cum again.
We glide into the night, the city opening up before us.
I look over at him, and for a second I see the man behind the mask: blue eyes, intent on the road, jaw set, every muscle wired for violence and pleasure. He doesn’t look at me, but I know he knows I’m watching.
I try to tell myself I’m in control. This is just another case, another predator to catch and cage.
But as the city lights blur past and the Lambo eats up the darkness, I know it’s a lie.
“Where are we going?”
He pulls back, studying me through his own mask. “To rescue someone.”
22
GISELLE
Roman driveslike he owns the asphalt, every turn a precision cut through the city’s veins. Is there anything this mandoesn’tclaim?
We cross into Queens and head east. I wonder what shell account pays for his EZ Pass, and if I trace it later. I glance at the dash, memorizing the time we cross the Throgs Neck Bridge. He takes a left, then a right, then an alley so tight I swear the car might lose its mirrors.
Cool night air skims my skin. But everywhere else, I burn. We don’t speak. Power play or comfortable silence, I’m not sure which. Somehow, the quiet is more meaningful than most conversations I have with men.
We’re certainly not going to talk about how the fucking Mets are doing this season.
Either way, this isn’t a date. I don’t know what it is, but it’s definitely not a date.
We finally reach a warehouse on Long Island. I crinkle my nose. It smells like ocean rot and bleach, cold industrial lights illuminating the front.
There’s no valet, so Roman parks the Lambo along the side of the building, nestled between a Porsche and a Hummer. Tacky. All the cars we can see are high-end, top tax bracket vehicles. Status toys for men who still need medals.
“I told you,” he says with a smirk, noticing my attention. “Playing a part.”
I believe him. He might need a straightjacket, but not a medal.
But does he need me?I shove the question down like the desperate whine it is.
It makes me angry, which is good. I need my anger to shield me from everything else.
I focus on it:he doesn’t know how fucked he is, his DNA is already seeping into the system, he’s going to be sorry he chose me to torture.
The thoughts are losing strength with each encounter, and that scares me.
Two overfed, bored, bouncers flank a welded steel door. Roman speaks to them in Russian, and I can only pick out a few words here and there. The men nod and one swings the door open, then tilts his head into the warehouse.
When Roman’s not looking, the man’s eyes crawl over me, appraising and approving. I open my mouth, but it seems that Roman has been looking after all. Another word slips out of his mouth, sharp and final. The man looks to the ground and mumbles something apologetic.
A much better fate than Ivan faced.
When Roman looks back at me, it’s with pure, possessive fire.
