Page 85 of Dirty Roxie
“I can’t wait to tell her!”
I try not to be disappointed since I was looking forward to working off all the pizza that Quinn ate. She takes my hand and pulls me toward the bedroom.
“Your phone in the bedroom, babe?” I ask.
“No, my exercise equipment is,” she says.
Exercise equipment?
“I can call Daria tomorrow. I believe we’ve got some pizza to burn off.”
That’s my girl.
She squeals as I toss her on the bed, diving in after her. Pulling her into my arms, realizing I’m happier than I have a right to be.
Quinn is the reason.
And I’m the lucky SOB who gets to spend the rest of my life showing her just how grateful I am.
RONAN
I expected some might mock me for having a woman as my second-in-command. But damn if she isn’t good at it.
I watch her, pride swelling my chest, as she circles the man in the chair at the center of the room. He’s not even restrained, but he’s not stupid enough to try to get away. She’ll kill him if he does. He tried to steal from me. From us. And my second in command does not tolerate thievery.
I’m here on the sidelines, as are three of my men, but she can handle herself. Of that I have zero doubt. Her command of the situation is impressive, regardless of her gender.
She stops in front of the man in the chair and leans over, her breasts threatening to spill out her corseted top. Her favorite evening attire of late is more dominatrix than lady henchman. I know better than to tell her how to dress.
“Podskazhite kto takoy pokazatel’!” I wince as she butchers the Russian in her demands for the identity of the traitor. But she’s still learning, I’m not going to fault her for that. She cracks the whip in her hand, making the man jump.
I reach down and try to rearrange my hardening dick, watching her walk around in leather while cracking a whip turns me on.
“I saw that,” she barks at me.
I try to look contrite, but I doubt it comes across that way. Her eyes narrow at me. I have a feeling I’m in trouble. Rather than do anything to me, she turns and takes her anger out on the man in the chair. She slaps him across the face. Hard enough to snap his head to the left.
The man cries out at the blow. She whips him in return—two quick lashes for crying out at the slap. Then two more when he cries out at the lashes. She takes the knife from the side table and grabs his chin in her hands.
I brace myself. Because even though I have zero doubt in her abilities, the man is still not restrained, and I don’t take any chances when it comes to my second-in-command. But I worry for nothing. Because as she presses the point of the knife into the man’s cheekbone, scratching anXalong the surface of the skin, he wets his pants.
My men laugh and point. I don’t stop them.
I also don’t blame the man in the chair. I know how this woman is with a knife. Her reputation precedes her. If I were in his shoes, I might piss my pants as well.
She crosses the room toward me, her four-inch heels echoing in the cavernous space with each step. The knife in one hand, the whip in the other. She flips the knife shut and tucks it into her back pocket. An impressive feat on its own given how tight the pants are. The whip she tosses at one of the men.
I straighten from where I’m lounging against the wall and meet her halfway, buttoning my jacket and straightening my tie as I go.
“I can’t anymore with him,” she says once she reaches me, flicking her hand in the air.
“I understand,” I tell her, resting my hand on her lower back to direct her outside and to the waiting car.
“You know how I feel about it when they pee their pants.” An involuntary shudder runs through her. “I can’t touch them after that. It gives me the heebie-jeebies.”
“The heebie-jeebies?” I ask.
“Yeah, you know, the willies, the jimjams, screaming-meemies?”
