Owned by the Mob Boss: A Dark Mafia Romance (Ivanovich Bratva) by Nicole Fox (best romantic novels in english .txt) 📗

outline of the driver. Male and large, by the looks of it. Possibly wearing sunglasses. Ethnicity, impossible to say from here.

I pull between an eighteen-wheeler and a minivan full of screaming children with inches to spare. I hear horns from both parties, but I ignore them. The chase car disappears from sight behind the bulk of the container on the back of the truck.

Then, there it is again, zooming around from the other side.

“Is your seat belt on?” I grit out.

“Didn’t you already tell me to put it on? I’m not an idiot. Now are you gonna tell me why—”

The bite of the car passing one hundred and thirty rips the words out of her mouth. That, and the thunderous cacophony of the rumble strip as I veer onto the left shoulder. The concrete partition separating eastbound and westbound traffic is close enough to plant a kiss on my left mirror. I keep the course straight as I pass another three, four, five cars, each of them staring at me slack-jawed.

Let them stare. I would rather make the five o’clock news than be caught by my enemies.

Finally, at long last, I merge back onto the regular lanes and find myself with an expanse of empty highway. I push the accelerator into the floor, and the numbers creep just a little higher. The frame of the car spasms with the speed.

We are alone.

Until, once more, the black car bursts through the horde of civilian traffic.

“Erik!” Camille screams. “Slow down!”

The car is at its maximum capacity. Even now, I can hear the audible squeal of rivets protesting, of the engine saying it can do no more.

So be it. We will not outrun our pursuers. The next best option is to pull over and dare them to fight me on the side of the highway, with hundreds of witnesses.

I wrench the wheel all to the right and slam on the brakes.

We come to a slow, bumping stop on the far right shoulder.

I look to my right. The black car passes by. The front windows are down. I catch a glimpse of a young white kid, eighteen or nineteen at the most, smoking a blunt and bobbing his head to blaring rap music. Just a glimpse, then he is gone.

So not a pursuer. Not an enemy.

Just an idiot teen.

“Erik, what in the fuck was that about?” Camille demands. “I mean, what the hell? You almost killed us!”

I let out a sigh.

“Nothing,” I growl. “Nothing at all. Let’s go home.”

Camille stays pressed against the window on the way home, watching the city drift by. I just ignore the way she pouts and the heavy sighs she heaves again and again.

But when she storms into the house and pounds up the stairs to her room, I find myself following.

“You should remember what this is,” I tell her.

She wheels on me. “How could I forget?” she snaps. “I’m a prisoner. You’re a monster. You’ve made yourself exceedingly clear on both counts there.”

I catch her hand as she starts to spin away. She yanks back. I don’t let go. Instead, I pull her close and lean in to crush her with a kiss, but she turns her head.

I don’t let it faze me.

Pushing forward, I pin her between my hips and the wall. She refuses to look at me, but when I bite down—not too gently—on the soft base of her neck, she yelps, then moans and palms my shoulders greedily.

She is desperate to hate me and yet she cannot. Maybe I am the same; she is far too skilled at scratching the surface to reveal the man beneath, something no woman has ever done.

I spin her around and shove her face-first into the wall, my teeth still nipping at her collarbone, as my free hand finds her panties underneath her dress and yanks them down around her knees.

“You’re an asshole,” she whimpers as I rake a fingertip between her lips. She bites hard, then sucks.

Again, the war of emotions within her mirrors the one raging within me.

My hand between her legs slips up hard and catches at her sex. She is soaking wet, as wet as I’ve seen her yet. There is one thought running through my mind again and again like a broken record:

Fuck the rules. I want to hear her come.

I swipe a thumb over her clit and the moans rippling from between her lips are exactly what I wanted. Music to my ears, and more fuel to the fire burning in my own cock. I’m hard and urgent, pressing against the zipper of my pants.

But not yet. Hold out longer. First, I will break her.

I plunge another finger inside and continue working her button frantically. Sweat beads on her forehead as she cries empty syllables into the wallpaper. I’m pressing against her, head to toe, swallowing her with my own bulk.

And when I feel her tumble over the edge, I seize hold of her and force her to buck her orgasm against me. Her hips twitch and writhe, but I just lean harder against her. She has nowhere to go but to accept it, to ride out the waves coming from my hand against her sex.

Camille’s moans rise, peak, and then fall to soft tremors. But I am not done with her yet.

I whirl her around and crush her with another half kiss, half bite. Our hands flying over each other are angry and purposeless. I’m not sure if I want to hurt her or hold her, and I know she is feeling the exact same conflict.

I pull back for a moment to drink her in. Her hair is mussed and wild, bangs hanging over eyes that are staring at me with an intoxicating blend of hatred and lust. She looks like a wild animal, freshly caged, or maybe freshly released from captivity and not sure how or when to begin its revenge.

She doesn’t blink as she pushes me away, then steps out of her panties one leg at a time.

She doesn’t