Page 76 of Cruel Heir

Andre presses me back against the window, one hand bracing himself as he thrusts hard, and I feel the hot rush of his cum inside of me, filling me up. I arch against him, reveling in the sensation, inwantinghim, and I never want it to stop.

He stays like that for a long moment, still buried inside of me, as I flutter around him. “I could stay like this forever,principessa,” he whispers, his mouth brushing against mine once more.

“Let’s do that, then.” I tilt my chin up, looking into his dark blue eyes, relishing the feeling of him still pressing against me. “Let’s never leave.”

“I’ll keep you safe.” His hand brushes my cheek, a sincerity in his gaze that takes my breath away. “I’ll never hurt you. I swear, Lucia. I’ll spend the rest of my life proving to you that I’m worth your love.”

“You already are.” I take his face in my hands, and I kiss him, again and again, slow and soft and full of all the love that I never knew I’d be able to feel. “You are mine, Andre Leone. And I will always be yours.”’

I feel him start to move inside of me again, my body still wrapped around his, and I sink into him, wanting everything he has to give me. I never want to stop.

The world around us is harsh and cruel. It tried to make Andre the same. It tried to break me. But I was stronger than that—and in the end, so was he.

And now, our world will be whatever we want it to be.

Together.

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Carnal Desire

Chapter One

Emma

There are many, many things that I love about living in Los Angeles. The traffic is not one of them.

And, gauging from how many horns I hear honking and the colorful array of cursing that I can hear out of my car window, I’m not alone in this.

I close my eyes, breathing in the heated summer air and reaching for the dial of the radio. The speakers crackle a little–the sound system in my 1970 Chevelle is one of the things that I desperately need to get repaired–but the faintly retro sound of Cannons filters through the car, making my shoulders relax an inch or so downwards. I try to ignore the fact that sweat is beading on the back of my neck, making the loose hairs of my ponytail stick to my skin. Nighttime in California cools off even in the summer, but sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic is enough to make things feel stuffy no matter what.

The clock on my dash tells me that I’m already five minutes late for my appointment, and I’m only halfway across town.

Another deep breath. The air smells of the city–which isn’t a good thing–but I try to pick out the better parts of it. The hints of salt from the distant beach and the sandy warmth of the desert air from the south, the leafy scent of palms. I’m good at imagining things as better than they are–it’s how I get through life, generally speaking. Even when everything seems to be at its worst, I’ve managed to muddle through.

The last six months have been harder than usual, though. And tonight feels like the rotten cherry on top.

Normally, I wouldn’t be hauling my ass from east LA over to the west side.NormallyI’d be driving the couple of miles to Night Orchid Tattoo, where I’ve worked for years since I was an apprentice. Normally I’d be settling in by now, my station set up for the first of the few clients on my schedule for the night, with a little room left for walkins.

Instead, I’m stuck navigating Friday night traffic so I can tattoo some rich asshole who can’t be bothered to reschedule just because his artist–my boss–is out sick.

I’ve only ever tattooed out of the shop–friends wanting me to etch a smiley face on their ankle while we’re drunk at home don’t count–but there’s plenty of wealthy celebrities and athletes who are willing to pay to have someone come to them. Those sorts would never be seen walking around the neighborhood I work in–they’re too good for that, but not too good to have Rico Axton tattoo them. As long as I’ve worked at the Night Orchid, he’s been the one who takes all of those upper crust clients. It means he makes a hell of a lot more money than I or the other artist at the shop do, but I’ve never minded. I’d rather be in my familiar booth, with my art on the walls and the sound of the music Brendan and I picked for the night filtering through the shop, the smell of the Thai place behind us making its way in every time someone opens the door until one of us finally caves and orders it to split for dinner.

Besides, Rico is the boss, and I know I was lucky to get a spot as his apprentice.

Something he never, ever lets me forget. Especially when it comes time to call in a favor, like tonight.

My phone vibrates, sliding across the cracked leather of the passenger’s seat, and I snatch it up and put it on speaker. I’m sure I know who it is before I even hear Rico’s gravelly voice, and he doesn’t bother to wait for me to say hello.

“You’re ten minutes late, Emma,” he growls. I can hear the thick phlegminess in his throat from the shitty flu he came down with. “I just got a call asking where you were. What the hell? This is an important client.”

So were the ones I had to reschedule tonight, as far as I’m concerned.I bite back what I want to say, gritting my teeth. I’m beyond pissed that I had to shuffle around my schedule and put my clients off–all of whom have paid a deposit and are just as important as this dickhead I’m driving towards–and even more aggravated that Rico hasn’t so much as said ‘thank you.’ I won’t get paid for this appointmenttonight, nothing other than maybe the tip, if one is offered. All of the fee will go to Rico. I can’t really afford to do this, but I can’t afford to lose my job, either.

“The traffic is hell, Rico,” I bite out, inching forward as the light turns green again. “Surely your client understands that.”

“Getting there on time is your responsibility.” He doesn’t sound as if he’s going to give me even an inch. “Don’t you know how to use Google Maps?”

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