The Monster: A Mafia Romance (Boston Belles Book 3)
The Monster: A Mafia Romance: Chapter 1

Present Day.

Age 27.

I’m in.

The thought momentarily derailed me from everything else teeming in my head. The noise, the pain, the second guesses.

I descended the stairs to Badlands, the most popular nightclub in Boston.

I’d been categorically banned from Badlands. I’d even been turned away at the door once, as the bouncer drawled, “Boss showed your picture around, jailbait. Said he’ll fire anyone who’s dumb enough to let you in.”

I was twenty-six then, but that little fact didn’t deter him. From the moment Sam Brennan purchased this club two years ago, using it as a hub for all his bad seedy dealing, he refused to let me set foot in it, even though my brothers had been visiting here on a weekly basis.

“I can’t believe they didn’t ID you, bitch. Sam’s gonna shit so many bricks, he’ll be able to build a replica of the Empire State Building!” Emmabelle—Belle for short—hi-fived me, whisper-shouting as we shouldered past hipsters, brushing along psychedelic art deco wallpaper and neon faux taxidermy.

Belle was my only partner in crime when it came to going out on the town, seeing as both our other friends—Sailor, and Emmabelle’s baby sister, Persephone—were new mothers, and therefore more interested in catching power naps and exchanging breastfeeding tips than downing drinks at a bar.

Belle was also the owner of Madame Mayhem, a notoriously sordid club downtown, and always enjoyed sniffing around the competition, so convincing her to come here today was no issue.

Badlands was darker and smaller than I’d imagined it. Dripping decadence. We reached the end of the stairway. I noticed that the club was no more than a few velvet couches, a small dance floor and a long bar made out of black wood. Above the bar, small, vintage televisions were lined up, all of them playing the same black-and-white movie: Dr. Strangelove.

“Fool’s Gold” by The Stone Roses played in the background, shaking the floor beneath my knee-high leather heels.

Partygoers in costumes sniffed cocaine off the bar, and there was a couple at the far corner of the club having full-blown sex on the couch. The girl, dressed as the Queen of Hearts, bounced up and down on the guy while sitting on his lap, her dress covering their dirty deed.

This club was Sam personified. Dark and wretched yet oddly beautiful.

I smoothed a hand over my outfit. It was Halloween. A great excuse to cover my true identity. I went for Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman and put on a short, blonde wig, complete with sunglasses, scarlet-red lipstick, and blue miniskirt, and cropped white top.

Belle had covered her blonde hair with a raven wig, a-la Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction. She blew on an e-cigarette theatrically, looking around for her next victim. “Anyway, Sam’s an asshole for blacklisting you in the first place.”

“Sam’s an asshole for many reasons, none of them have anything to do with blacklisting me, but banning me from his club for no apparent reason just shows how much of a tyrant he is,” I murmured.

I didn’t speak ill of Sam often—or anyone else, for that matter—but when I did, it was to Belle, because I knew she wouldn’t judge me.

“Do you think he did it because you are Hunter and Kill’s sister?” Belle asked.

“No, I think he did it because I remind him of all the things he wants to forget,” I said honestly but didn’t elaborate.

The carnival.

That kiss.

Our conversation.

Sam never thought he’d see me again. I wasn’t in his plans, and whatever wasn’t in his plans had to go. That was why he treated me as he had—with indifference dipped in cruelty. Looking past me whenever we were in the same room. Never acknowledging anything I said or did.

Both Belle and I perched on high stools at the bar. I motioned for the bartender to get us two gin and tonics, doing my absolute best not to slump and/or cry into someone else’s drink.

At twenty-seven, I’d only been to bars a handful of times. I’d been too busy with med school until a second ago to really dive into the club scene, and now I had a residency. Or so people thought. But tonight, I wanted to do something reckless, dangerous, and stupid. To remind myself I was alive.

Tonight, I wanted to seek Sam Brennan out, even though I knew I shouldn’t.

Because tonight, like that other night, I watched someone die.

And whenever death was close, so was my need to curl into the soul of a monster and hide from the world.

To make matters complicated, I saw Sam all the time.

At dinners, charity events, and parties.

He had been working for my family for almost a decade now.

Somehow, I’d let the worst happen. I continued loving him from afar, like the sun loved the moon. Coexisting, but distantly. Eternally star-crossed, but never close enough for comfort.

We’d spoken very little to each other since that evening, even though our families had grown close to one another through Hunter and Sailor. Seeing him was always a bittersweet cocktail of elation and pain.

I’d learned to get high on both feelings.

“Forget about Sam tonight.” Belle sucked on her straw, inhaling the gin and tonic like getting trashed was an Olympic competition. Under her costume, she was the closest thing to Margot Robbie I’d seen up-close. Feline blue eyes, sunshine blonde hair, delicately arched brows, and a sinfully full bottom lip.

“You haven’t gone out once since you started your residency at Brigham and Women’s Hospital. That was over six months ago. Find yourself a hookup. Have fun. You earned it, Doc.”

“I don’t do hookups,” I pointed out, crushing the lime with my straw in my drink like it wronged me somehow.

“Time to change that. It makes no sense that an OB-GYN in training—a woman who literally takes care of everyone else’s vagina—does not care for her own. You can’t pine for an unrequited penis. There are plenty of fish in the sea.”

“Well, I sincerely hope you don’t get mercury poisoning, Belle, because you seem to enjoy sampling said fish a bit too much.” I took a generous sip of my drink, knowing I sounded prudish and regretting my remark immediately.

Belle threw her head back and laughed, far from offended.

“Oh, Ash, you are a hoot. That’s the thing most people don’t know about you. Underneath the polished exterior, the American Princess longs for the monster to steal her, not for the prince to save her. You’re kind of a dangerous creature, when you want to be.”

The drinks kept on coming, and the indie music was good and loud. Before long, Belle pulled me to the dance floor, where we ground against each other to the sound of The Shins, Two Door Cinema Club, and Interpol.

Tendrils of my blonde wig stuck to my face and lip gloss as I sweated away the memories of today’s shift at the clinic, and I belted out the words to “Runnin’ with the Devil” by Van Halen with a drunk, elated crowd, once again using noise and lights to drown my sorrows.

Ms. B.

Needles.

Death.

Mother.

Despair.

At some point, Belle zeroed in on a man as she always did.

Emmabelle Penrose was a self-proclaimed non-monogamous woman. While she wasn’t predatory, she was definitely not looking for a serious relationship and loved nothing more than indulging in one-night stands. Monogamous relationships were a foreign concept to her, like a bidet or brown sauce. She was aware it was something other people enjoyed, but was never tempted to try it out herself. But in the rare times she’d picked a lover, be it a woman or a man, she was fiercely devoted to them and made them feel like the center of the world.

Which was probably why she broke more hearts than she could count.

Her victim tonight was a tall, dark, and handsome type dressed as Zorro.

They met halfway, striking up a conversation while I self-consciously danced by myself before retreating back to the bar.

She reappeared by my side ten minutes later.

“We’re going to the Four Seasons. He’s got a friend in management who can hook us up with a presidential suite. Doesn’t he give Antonio Banderas a run for his money?” Belle sank her teeth into her lower lip, watching him from across the room as he retrieved both their coats from the cloakroom, sending her nervous glances to make sure she didn’t run away or change her mind.

I leaned my forearms against the bar, smiling. “Definitely, but the costume’s a bit cheesy, no?”

“Cheesier than Domino’s pizza. Luckily, I’m spending one night with him, not a lifetime.” Belle winked, smacking a kiss on my forehead.

“Happy Halloween, Doc. Make sure you don’t leave here alone and text me if you need anything, yeah?”

She left without waiting for an answer.

I entertained the idea of calling an Uber and going home, but then what was the point? My parents were still out, attending one of their charity dinners, which was the reason I was here in the first place; normally, when my mother was home, she insisted we spend time together. My brothers were with their respective wives and children.

I’d be going back to a pointless and excessively large manor to dwell in my own thoughts, dark memories, and regrets.

I signaled the bartender to get me another gin and tonic, downed it, and got back on the dance floor, dancing by myself.

Ten minutes later, a guy in a Ghostbuster uniform began dancing in my vicinity, drawing closer to me as he did. He looked young. Younger than my own twenty-seven years. College-aged and blond, his face pink from the bite of the Boston cold. We danced around each other for a while before he yelled in my ear, “I’m Chris.”

I leaned forward to answer him, even though I knew there was no way Chris and I were going home together. For better or worse, I wasn’t the type to go home with a random. I wasn’t a nun by any stretch of the imagination, and I wasn’t dumb enough to save myself for Sam, but I could also count on two fingers the men I’d slept with in my lifetime and knew their addresses, full names, phone number, and—embarrassingly—college grades.

“Ash,” I answered, keeping it vague.

Ash could mean Ashley or Ashlynn.

Aisling wasn’t a very common name, and everyone knew the Fitzpatricks in Boston.

“You look hot as fuck, Ash.” He licked his lips, undressing me with his eyes.

“Thanks.” I smiled grimly, mentally putting my clothes back on.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

I was aware I was treading into tipsy territory, but I was still far from drunk. I nodded. “Anything bottled works. I’ll open it myself.”

“You don’t have a bottle opener.”

“I have teeth,” I replied.

Literally. Figuratively.

He arched a brow, grinning.

“Right on.”

Chris brought me a beer. We danced some more. When “Heads Will Roll” by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs started, Chris shifted behind me and began grinding against my ass. He was hard, and I was over it. Over everything, really. Especially today.

I wasn’t going to see Sam tonight. He wasn’t here. My whole plan was a bust, and it was time to cut my losses and lick my wounds back home, where I could at least drown my sorrows in more alcohol without risking getting raped.

“It’s been fun, Chris. Thanks. Have a good night.” I grabbed my small clutch and turned toward the stairway, but Chris had other ideas. He snatched me by the arm, pulling me back to the busy dance floor, his rancid vodka breath wafting toward my face.

“Not so quick, Pretty Woman. Where’s my thank you for the beer?”

Ah-ha.

He was one of those men that thought buying a girl one drink got them a direct ticket into their panties. I reached into my clutch, plucked a crisp ten-dollar bill and threw it in his direction, smirking as it floated between us, sailing down like a feather all the way to the sticky floor.

“Here. Buy yourself something nice. Maybe the common sense not to sexually harass women.”

I swiveled on my heel again. He snatched my arm again. This time, he yanked me closer, my body slamming against his. My heart began to strum erratically as his fingers dug into my flesh, leaving rings of bruises.

“Nuh uh. I have something else in mind for payment.”

“Then I suggest you rethink it, because I’m not that type of girl.”

“Is that why you’re dressed like a whore?” He raised a challenging brow. “Spare me the speech, Ashley. We both want each other, and it’s going to happen.”

I looked up, trying to shake him off. He tightened his grip on my arm. I opened my mouth to warn him I was going to scream, when out of nowhere, Chris was jerked backward and picked up by the collar of his Ghostbuster costume like a cub.

I took a step back, knocking over another person on the dance floor, letting out a surprised yelp.

Sam Brennan.

The Monster himself was here, a dark horse holding Chris in the air, with a bouncer on either side of him. The college guy flailed, helplessly clutching to the collar of his costume to prevent himself from choking.

He showed up.

“Get rid of him, but not before breaking a few bones,” Sam ordered dryly, dumping Chris on the floor in a pile of limbs and moans, like he was a bag of trash.

“Oh, man,” Chris whined as the two burly guys grabbed each of his arms, yanking him toward the stairway. “Sorry. I didn’t know she was a VIP. C’mon, Brennan. Please!”

“Shut up,” Sam quipped.

“Am I banned from the club?” Chris whined.

Sam frowned at him coldly. “By the time my men finish with you, you’ll be lucky not to piss blood for the rest of your life. Take him out.” He pointed at the door up the stairs, and the bouncers immediately followed his order.

Sam took a step toward me. I took another step back, my knees knocking together in a mixture of fear and desire.

I’d been caught red-handed at his club, dressed like a legendary hooker from the nineties. Lovely. He was definitely going to be serving me my own ass. Maybe even tell my brothers and father about this.

I squeezed my eyes shut, getting ready for a verbal beating.

“Follow me,” he rasped softly.

“I’m sorry! I …”

Wait, what?

Why wasn’t he tossing me out to the street right along with Chris?

I looked around, internally cursing Belle for bailing on me. She was crazy enough to get into a fistfight with Sam. And somehow win.

Sam pressed his hand on the small of my back, ushering me toward the bar then past two bodyguards blocking a narrow, dimly lit hallway. Every cell in my body prickled with alarm. We passed by four doors—two on each side of the corridor—all of them open. The card rooms. Underground betting venues Sam operated, masquerading as Badlands nightclub. Everyone knew Badlands was notorious, but only a select few were privy to the true reason it was famous.

Apparently, only the richest and most respected men in New England could secure a membership to Sam’s little gentleman club—and only if they were vouched for by one of his few trusted contacts.

I caught a glimpse of the rooms. Brown, oaky, and smoky, the men inside clutched cigars between their teeth, drinking expensive scotch, laughing and placing bets.

Silently, we went up the stairs toward a door that obviously led to his office. He opened the black wooden door and closed it behind us, leaning against his desk.

I looked around, blinking away the harshness coming from the fluorescent light, drinking in more details about his life. Nothing about the room screamed money or power. It looked like just any other office of a nightclub owner. Sam wasn’t a flashy man. Meaning, he looked the part when it came to being rich, but he wasn’t desperate to show off his wealth.

We were now together—alone—with no one to stop him when he’d grind my body up and turn me into meatballs for defying his words and showing up here.

My heart beat so fast I thought I was going to puke.

“Look, I—” I tried to explain my presence at the club, but he raised his hand to cut me off.

“What happened to you tonight is not a representation of my club or the people inside it. I know things can get rowdy in here, but sexual harassment is where we draw the line. I’d like to offer you a hundred-dollar voucher for your troubles, Miss … Roberts.” His eyes scanned me, though there was no desire or want in his expression.

I bit down on my lip to prevent my mouth from gaping in shock when I figured it out.

Sam didn’t recognize me.

He had no idea who I was.

How would he? With my bleach blonde wig, costume, full face of makeup, and sunglasses.

My heart lurched, urging me to take advantage of the situation. The opportunity was overwhelming. To have Sam without really having Sam.

I knew Boston’s favorite monster was notorious for sleeping with every willing woman. Why not me?

Because it is immoral, corrupt, and unfair, a voice inside me chided, in a slight French accent, her accent. Not to mention, you deserve a man who would beg for you, not vice versa.

Yeah, she still haunted me. A decade after her death.

But Sam didn’t have any morals. Why not play by his rules?

“Who said I didn’t want the attention?” I tilted my chin up, adopting a smokier, raspier tone than my own.

Sam arched a thick, dark eyebrow, lazily perched on his desk, strong arms folded across his massive chest.

“Your body language did, for one thing. Some read books, I read people. You tried tugging your arm free, the international signal for get-the-fuck-away. I noticed you on the monitor.” He flicked his chin toward the screen on his desk, in which black and white footage of the club from every angle danced across multiple frames.

I let loose a blood-red smile.

“You’re right. He wasn’t my type. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t come here to get some action.”

“Is that so?” he asked, disinterested.

“Yes.” My voice barely shook when those words I found at the carnival on the restroom wall came to mind.

Lust lingers, love stays.

Lust is impatient, love waits.

Lust burns, love warms.

Lust destroys, but love? Love kills.

S.A.B.

Samuel Austin Brennan.

Was I an idiot to think it was him? That these words were once upon a time directed at me?

“Better get out there and try your luck, then.” His voice was like a freezing cold shower dousing my advances.

“Or maybe we could help each other.” I played with a tendril of bleached hair, careful not to tug too hard on the wig and blow my own cover.

Sam’s smile was wry and skeptic. “Who said I’m on the prowl?”

“Your blood type.”

“You know my blood type?”

“Hot-blooded,” I explained.

“Hot or cold, you can’t handle me, sweetheart.”

“Try me.”

His gaze glided down my body slowly, as if trying to decide if I was worth unzipping his pants. I trembled, aware he could replace out who I was any second.

The more we spoke, the more my voice became unsteady. Shrill. Aisling-like. He seemed to be considering this, stroking his chin.

“Turn around,” he instructed.

I did, painfully aware he was checking out my ass. It was a good ass. Four yoga classes a week with Mother, despite my busy schedule as a first-year resident. But that was the thing with unrequited love: you always deemed yourself unworthy of the subject of your admiration.

“Lift your skirt for me.” His steel voice cut through the air behind me. I did as he asked, even though I knew he would replace something unexpected.

My white cotton underwear, sensible and a size too big. Practical for a woman who wore scrubs all day and completely out of character.

I heard him chuckle. My heart sank.

“Get out of here.”

I spun my head around, my skirt still bunched up my waist, my ass in his direction.

“I know men like you,” I hissed seductively.

“There are no men like me.”

“I can make it good for you,” I insisted.

“Doubt that.” He tilted his head sideways, laughing quietly. “Out.”

Brazenly, I pushed my panties aside, to show him most of my behind, while playing with myself. The sound of my arousal meeting my fingers filled the air, making it known that I was very much ready to be taken.

“Please …” I let my head fall sideways, biting down on my lower lip as I provided him a good angle to watch me masturbate.

He said nothing.

Small mercies. He is giving you another chance. Don’t blow it.

I turned around before he changed his mind, swaggering toward him on my thigh-high, high-heeled leather boots, knowing it was now or never. Sam Brennan would never give Aisling Fitzpatrick a chance, but to this stranger he still might. When I was close enough to touch him, I sank down to my knees, looking up at him through my big, dark sunglasses.

“May I?” I asked, placing a hand over his groin.

He looked down at me, his thunderstorm eyes twinkling playfully.

“Make it fucking good, Roberts. I don’t fuck rookies.”

I lowered the zipper of his slacks. In the decade since the carnival, Sam Brennan had successfully graduated from a guy to a man. He’d ditched the ripped dark jeans and soft tees in favor of Armani slacks and black dress shirts, and now smelled like the decillionaires I knew and brushed shoulders with, wearing a cologne I was pretty sure both my brothers favored, and cost a grand a pop. The only thing to remain of his younger self was the St. Anthony charm engraved with his initials S.A.B. hanging around his neck and those taunting eyes that could look into people’s souls.

I lowered his black designer briefs, my fingers brushing through the trimmed dark hair of his groin. His cock sprang out. Hard as a rock. Thick and long—frighteningly big—with a purple vein running along the shaft.

As far as cocks went, it was beautiful. My mouth watered and I licked my lips.

Instead of going straight to business, I tilted my head carefully, keeping my wig intact, and gathered his balls into my mouth, sucking on them gently.

He hissed, dropping his head back, not expecting the move. I ran one finger around his shaft, teasing him as I pumped and sucked on his testicles, inhaling the musky, earthy scent of his privates.

“Motherfucker,” he groaned. “That’s some move.”

Stifling a smile, I sucked, teased, and licked, almost entirely ignoring his cock that kept jerking and growing more swollen and big, demanding my attention. After a few minutes, Sam grabbed the back of my wig, jerking me to the main event—the star of the show. I gasped, slapping his hand away immediately in a bid to keep my wig on.

He frowned down at me, momentarily taken aback.

“Got anything against dicks?”

“Not at all.” My voice was breathless, pathetic. “Sorry. It’s just that my hair is a mess under the wig, and I don’t want you to see it.”

A raven, blue-black mess you will recognize immediately.

“Are you under the impression we’re about to have our fucking wedding photos taken?” Pleasure twirled in his grey-hued eyes. “Who the fuck cares?”

“No, you’re right, of course not.”

Silly girl, Ms. B’s song tutted in my head. So submissive and easy.

“While we’re at it, why don’t you take off the sunglasses?” He cocked an eyebrow. “Makes me feel like I’m getting head from Stevie Wonder.”

Because you’ll see my eyes and recognize them, too.

My eyes were the kind of blue you didn’t see every day. Father said they were only matched by the ocean in their blueness.

I grabbed his shaft and deep-throated him, making him nearly roar with pleasure.

“Nice diversion, Roberts. Faster.”

I began pumping in and out, still amazed that Sam Brennan’s cock was in my mouth.

My fascination—no, obsession—with him knew no bounds, something even I couldn’t deny. But it was harmless, too. We were both single, of age, and constantly in the same vicinity. He changed my life in ways and shaped it into something different and deeper. Giving him good head was the least I could do to pay him back for putting me on the path I was today.

“All right, let’s see what your cunt or ass is made of. On your feet, Pretty Woman.”

I rose to my full height, euphoria swirling through me like a storm. He grabbed the back of my head and kissed me. A lazy, horny kiss. Full of tongue and teeth and intent. Nothing like the kiss we’d shared on that haunted ride all those years ago. It didn’t unfold slowly like a well-crafted book.

Sam pulled away from me suddenly, frowning at me.

“What?” I asked, panting hard, my underwear already soaked. I clutched the collar of his dress shirt, rubbing my covered tits against his chest shamelessly, already on the brink of orgasm. “What, what?”

“Ginger,” he hissed coolly. “And honey.”

“Ginger?” I blinked frantically behind my shades. “What do you mean?”

“There’s only one woman I know who smells of ginger and honey.”

Me.

It was me.

Me and my stupid French-imported shampoo Ms. B got me addicted to.

Without warning, Sam tore the sunglasses from my face, yanking the wig off at the same time. My long, tar-black hair fell down my shoulders in thick waves, all the way to my butt. My blue eyes widened at him.

So screwed—and not in the way I was hoping for.

I coughed, probably choking on a desperate apology that my body refused to spit out. I knew he wasn’t going to hurt me—not physically, anyway—but I had no doubt he was going to punish me.

Revenge was Sam Brennan’s favorite language, and he spoke it fluently.

“Fitzpatrick,” he growled like a beast.

“Sam, I—” I shook my head. Merde! “Please. Just one time.”

“Spare me the bullshit. I’ll deal with you later. First, I’ll give you what you’ve been begging for for over a decade and remind you why you…” he bit my lip hard

“…do…” he grabbed my panties through my skirt, tearing them in one practiced movement—I thought it was impressive, especially as they weren’t exactly snug “…not…” he shoved two fingers into me in one go “…fuck…” he fanned his fingers open inside of me, stretching me so I became unbearably full—I shuddered violently with need and pleasure, my knees weak—I pushed toward him, buckling my hips, shamelessly begging for more “…with me.”

He bared his teeth, kissing me hard again as he fingered me mercilessly. Hungrily. Violently. Passionately. It was a different kiss. A kiss of pent-up lust. The kind that had built up for years from stolen glances and almosts. I felt the kiss in every bone in my body, in the cells on my skin.

Our mouths moved together, and I pushed my groin forward, signaling him to thrust deeper with his fingers, my nails sinking into his muscled shoulders through his shirt.

He withdrew from inside me and roughly grabbed my ass, hoisting my legs over his waist. He carried me to a nearby pool table, where he perched me on the oak edge, his erect cock poking my belly. Sam reached for his back pocket, pulling a condom and ripping the wrapper open with his straight white teeth.

“Are you a virgin, Aisling?” he asked, his index finger brushing my naked pussy now that my destroyed underwear were discarded somewhere on his office floor.

Even though I knew the question wasn’t unwarranted—I’d never dated anyone seriously, never brought a man home for the holidays or to official dinners, and was the shyest, nerdiest person he was probably acquainted with—the question left a hot, stinging sensation on my pride. Like he’d slapped my soul.

“Would it matter?” I snatched the condom from him, rolling it over his cock with shaky fingers. I was going to give this man the fuck of his life if it was the last thing I did. Ruin any other pussy for him.

“Not in the fucking slightest.”

“Then I suggest you replace out for yourself.” My eyes leveled with his, and for a moment, his gray pupils rendered me speechless.

I’d met men. Many beautiful, successful, rich men. But they were all the same. Their posture, mild manners, and soft hands robbed them of the authentic masculinity Sam oozed without even trying.

He was carnal, raw, and dangerous, and there was no one else like him.

He knew it. I knew it.

Sam smiled his crooked, bad guy smile.

“So fucking smug. If you want to be taken, you’ll be taken the Sam Brennan way. No regrets. No repeats. And no fucking telling your parents, kiddo.”

With that, he turned me around so my back was to him, dipped his hand between my thighs, and borrowed my wetness, coating my rectum with my juices.

My eyes widened with surprise. I’d never had anal sex before. Sam pushed a finger into my tight hole while thrusting into my pussy at the same time.

With one, deep, fierce thrust, he was inside me.

I felt full, so full with Sam’s finger in my ass and his cock in my pussy. I let out a moan. My puckered nipples became so sensitive, the friction from my bra alone tipped me close to the edge. I threw my head back and grunted.

Don’t come on the fourth thrust. At least have the good grace to pretend you are not putty in his hands.

“Not a virgin, then.” He started moving inside me, holding my waist in place with one hand, playing with my rectum with the other. The friction between me and the pool table he screwed me against caused my clit to tingle. I squeezed around him each thrust, angling my body just right for deeper penetration, while I sneaked my hand between us, kneading his balls.

I’d only been with two men before Sam—both of them I’d met at university—and both were a calculated warm-up in my quest to get ready for the grand event, AKA Sam. Even my sex life was designed and planned to make him mine.

I’d dated the two Harvard prodigies I knew were experts in the sex field and coaxed them into teaching me all their dirty tricks. I took notes, morphing from a shy, fumbling newbie to a nymph in bed.

I’d bit and licked and teased and tickled where necessary.

Sucked and pushed and squeezed.

Not for them—for him.

But I hadn’t anticipated him making me feel this good. It was a total mind-fuck.

When Sam slid another finger into my snug hole, I began moaning more loudly, clutching the pool table desperately, losing control of my legs, almost caving in to the pleasure. He rode me hard, and when I felt the first spasm of an orgasm tingling from inside me, he pulled out, taking his cock in his hand from behind me and placing it between my ass cheeks, my anus coated with my juices.

“Well, well, little Aisling Fitzpatrick is all grown up, and she knows how to fuck like a porn star.” Sam laughed callously, trying to minimize this moment, to dismiss what was happening here.

Him.

Me.

Forbidden and wrong and still, against all odds, happening.

He eased into me slowly, mindfully, and even though it hurt more than I was willing to admit, I soldiered through the pain, sliding the rest of him into me by pushing my butt toward him, until he filled me to the brim.

There was intense silence, which I used to familiarize myself with the feeling of being full of him from behind. I felt him shuddering against my back with pleasure.

“Your pussy might be used, but this asshole has never been fucked. I can tell.”

I didn’t say anything because it was true, and the truth hurt more than him inside of me because it was a painful reminder of how pathetically in love I was with him. He leaned forward, still inside me, and brushed my hair away from my shoulder, his lips replaceing my ear.

“You had to leave me a first to take, didn’t you, Aisling Fitzpatrick? You poor, romantic soul.”

With that, he pulled out then thrust into me again in one go. I cried in pain, holding the pool table tighter, but after the first few rolls of his hips, the pain morphed into pleasure. Especially when he repositioned me slightly higher on the table so my clit was again teased by the fuzzy pool table. My fingers were still playing with him, rubbing against the sensitive spot between his balls and ass cheeks.

My whole body was on fire, and I clenched my ass cheeks, all my muscles quivering as my release began to wash over me again in forceful waves.

“I’m coming,” I cried out.

Sam groaned, giving a few jerky thrusts. We came together.

My vision was spotty, and everything shifted out of focus. I could feel myself milking the orgasm out of him, how hard he was inside me.

I let my upper body go limp against the pool table, closing my eyes, aware that my skirt was still pushed up around my waist as he carefully slid out of me from behind. Every inch of him coming out was excruciating, and I suspected there were a lot of inches of him.

With my cheek still plastered to the green fur of the pool table, I heard Sam shifting around the room, moving around. Slowly, I shimmied my skirt down my thighs so that at least my bare, bruised butt wasn’t on full display.

“Get the fuck up, ice princess. My grand vintage billiard table is not meant for sleep.”

I turned around, deliberately climbing on the table and lounging there, my forearms digging to its surface, making myself comfortable. If I was good enough to be screwed against said billiard table, I was also good enough to sit on it.

“Ask nicely,” I said, in my cold, upper-crust tone—the one I knew he hated so much. “And I might.”

“I never do anything nicely. You should know by now. Where’d you learn all your little bed tricks?” Sam sat behind his desk, buckling his belt, his reptilian air concealing any sign we’d just screwed each other’s brains out.

He lit a cigarette, puffing a swirl of smoke in my direction.

“You mean, fuck?” I hopped off the pool table, smiling as I picked up my wig and sunglasses. “Don’t forget I spent seven years among people whose sole purpose in life was studying the human body. I had some pretty good time exploring all the ways to make a person scream in pleasure … and pain. You haven’t seen the half of it.” I rearranged my skirt and wig, forcing myself to head to the door. Not because I wanted to but because I had to pretend I at least had a shred of dignity still left inside me.

It was a well-known fact that Aisling Fitzpatrick had been head over heels in love with Samuel Brennan since the day we’d met. There was no need to shower Sam with undivided attention and desperate love declarations. We had a great hookup. Now the ball was in his court.

I wanted anything he was willing to give me.

A fling, a relationship, and everything in between, just as long as he’d have me.

Pathetic? Maybe. But I wasn’t hurting anyone. No one but myself.

And Sam? As scary as he was, I knew he would never lay a hand on me in ways I didn’t want him to. He was dangerous, yes, but not to my life. Only my sanity.

“That’s more than I wanted to know about you, kid,” Sam said around his lit cigarette, frowning at the monitor on his desk as he watched what was going on at the club.

“What are you doing these days, anyway? Pediatrician, right?” He huffed.

“OB-GYN. Brigham and Women’s Hospital,” I answered, smoothing my skirt over my thighs, taking another step toward the door.

Stop me. Tell me to stay. Ask for my number.

“You really thought you could seduce me by dressing up?” he asked out of nowhere.

“I did, didn’t I?” I said haughtily then rolled my eyes. “Honestly? I dressed like this to get in, not to seduce you.”

“Why did you want to get in?” His eyes were still on the screen.

“Because Badlands is the hottest place in Boston.”

“You don’t care about the hottest places in Boston,” he pointed out.

“Of course I do,” I said stonily, internally wondering if he’d considered me, my likes and dislikes. “Sometimes even good girls want to be bad.”

“Which is why you were banned from this establishment in the first place,” he deadpanned.

“That’s unfair.”

“Fair and I don’t even share the same fucking planet. Which part of my character made you think I care about being fair?”

Between extortion, murder, and money laundering, Sam didn’t exactly have any spare time to join the League of Justice as Captain Nice Guy. Still, calling him unfair seemed … well, unfair. He did throw out a guy who had assaulted me, after all.

“I’m banned from your establishment because you know if I get too close, you’d actually have to pay attention to me, and every time we’re together, magic happens,” I countered, challenging him.

Leave, mon cheri. You are not doing yourself any favors, Ms. B’s voice urged in my head.

Sam sat back, finally ripping his gaze from the screen to look at me.

“The only magic we shared today was that I made your asshole about an inch wider for life. Regardless of that, you pulled a dirty move, Miss Fitzpatrick.”

“We monsters do what we have to do. You know that better than I do.” I shrugged.

“You’re no monster,” he hissed.

“You have no idea who or what I am.”

“What was your objective? One fuck?” he seethed.

“One? No. A few? Sure, depending on your attitude,” I replied noncommittedly, starting for the door.

He could deny me all he wanted, but when we were on that pool table, he’d looked at me like he did at the carnival. With a hunger that told me he was going to devour me and leave nothing for the man who came after him.

“Aisling,” he barked when my hand found the door handle, about to push it open and leave.

I stopped but didn’t turn around, my heart rioting in my chest.

“If we fuck—and that’s an if, not a when—that’s all we’ll be doing. Every single thing you were born and bred to achieve—a respectable husband, children, a family, a Labrador to complete your Christmas photo—I rejected before you were even born. It will be just that. Fucking. And no one could ever know about our arrangement, for obvious reasons.”

We both knew what the obvious reasons were, and neither of us dared to utter them aloud.

He was offering me something. A start. I knew the rest would be hard-earned. Sam Brennan was a broken man, but not beyond repair. I believed that with my entire heart even and maybe because of the things I’d witnessed him do over the years.

He had gotten my family out of trouble countless times, saved my older brother from losing the family company, and doted on me from afar.

He may not have known it about himself, but he did have a moral code, and rules, and hard limits.

I was going to make him see himself the way I saw him. Then maybe, just maybe, he could see me for who I was. A woman worthy of his attention.

For now, I was willing to take what he was willing to offer, even if it was just carnal, angry sex.

Oui. You officially lost your mind, mon cheri.

“What do you have in mind?” I propped a shoulder on his doorframe, exhibiting the nonchalance of aged goat cheese.

Sam rubbed at his jaw, thoroughly annoyed with the entire situation.

“Well, we can’t fuck around in your place since you still live with your parents—what the hell is that all about, anyway?—and I never let anyone into my apartment, so I guess you can meet me here tomorrow. Same time.”

“Why not there?” I shot out.

“Huh?” He looked up from his screen, already done with the conversation.

“Why don’t you let anyone into your apartment?”

“Because I hate everyone,” he said inhumanly slowly, looking at me like the answer was crystal clear and I was a perfect idiot. “Why the fuck else?”

“So no one’s ever been in your apartment?”

“My parents visited once or twice. Sailor knows the address but is not allowed to come there. Why do you still live with your parents?” He threw the explosive question at my feet. I hitched one shoulder up, feigning calmness.

“I don’t see the point of paying for a place when I basically live at the hospital.”

“Don’t act like living in your own apartment would require you to wash a mug. You’re too rich to do shit yourself, and you and I both know that. Why are you still hiding behind Mommy and Daddy?” he repeated sternly.

The truth was complex, surprising, and worst of all … unbelievable. He would never buy it. Even if I told him. Which I did not consider doing since the truth was embarrassing. I was a puppet. A pawn in my parents’ game. Nothing to be proud of.

I shook my head.

“Does that mean I’m no longer banned from Badlands?” I asked.

“Oh, you’re still banned, missy. I don’t want to see you partying with these losers. One of the bouncers will show you through the back door when you get here tomorrow, but you’re not allowed at the bar or any of the card rooms.”

“See you tomorrow, Monster.”

“Nix,” he nodded his goodbye.

I all but made it back home in a tornado and Googled his nickname for me, elated and terrified and pleased and joyous.

Nix: A water being, half-human, half-fish, that lives in a gorgeous underwater palace and mingles with humans by assuming a variety of attractive physical forms (usually as a fair maiden).

Nix was a female monster.

Sam still thought of us as the same.

Dark, unpredictable creatures, lurking in plain sight.

Now that he let me in, I was going to destroy every single one of his walls and finally make him mine.