Wild Card

Chapter 1-3

Caitlin

“What the f**k are you doing?” my hitman demands. He has that decidedly urban, definitely dangerous way of saying f**k. When a college boy says f**k, it means nothing. The way this guy says it hits me square in the chest. It’s an assault all in itself.

He’s way more beautiful than I expected. Wickedly, darkly handsome, which seems unfair, since he’s also a multi-millionaire.

And a killer, I remind myself as I seek my clit through my yoga pants. It is a manipulation. I’m trying to throw him off guard with my crazy. But it’s also for me. s*x pulls me back to my body and I have to think now. I can’t dissociate when my life is on the line here.

So I move my fingers slowly between my legs, rolling my c******l hood piercing while I force myself to breathe and stare into the dark brown eyes of Chicago’s Most Dangerous.

I always knew it would come to this. Me digging my own grave while a guy in an Italian suit holds a g*n to my head. Only he doesn’t even bother with a g*n. It’s like he knows, even sitting down without a visible weapon, I’m at his mercy.

I rub my clit harder, pushing the piercing against it for added friction, as my mouth goes slack and my n*****s get hard, all the while watching the man in my apartment, looking for the opportunity to get away or kill him first. He raises his brows, and I realize he’s waiting for an answer to his question.

I shrug like it’s perfectly normal to finger yourself when you find a mafia hitman in your apartment. “If I’m gonna die, I’m at least going to make it feel good. You know, make it my fantasy, not yours,” I tell him. I try to make it sound like I’m not scared at all.

And that’s partly true. Life will f**k you hard in the a*s, so you might as well find a way to enjoy it. That’s been my mantra since the day my dad disappeared. Since the night social services showed up and took my brother and me away to separate foster homes.

“Yeah?” The Tacone—I don’t know which of the five brothers he is because he hasn’t told me—slowly unfolds his long legs from my easy chair and rises. He’s tall and stocky—over six feet, with broad shoulders. Despite the size and hulk, he saunters toward me with an effortless, casual grace. And he’s not pissed off by my m**********n. Judging by the bulge in his pants, he’s enjoying my show. Which means s*x is a place I can find leverage with him.

I’m definitely not above using the only things I have—my sexuality and lack of sanity—to fight back in an unwinnable situation.

He pulls two zip ties from his jacket pocket, a grin playing at the corners of his mouth. “So what is your fantasy, little hacker?” He catches my wrists and pins them together in front, then wraps a zip tie around them.

And with that simple act—his taking control of my body—some more of my sanity slips, because now he’s got kinky Caitlin under his thumb.

The zip tie hurts, so I twist my wrists against the hard plastic, letting it dig into my skin, keep me in my body.

I return my bound hands to my pulsing clit and continue a slow rub. Mr. Tacone watches.

Then he feeds right into my fantasy and pinches one of my n*****s through my shirt and sports b*a. He holds it tight and twists. “I asked you a question, Caitlin. I expect an answer.” His voice is low and smoky. It curls between my legs, creating shivers of pleasure tremoring through my body.

Don’t get lost in l**t, I warn myself. It’s a delicate line. I use s*x to stay in my body, but I can just as easily lose myself there, as well. And I didn’t expect my hitman to be quite so… appealing. I’m losing the sliver of leverage I imagined I had.

My eyelids flutter. If I were wearing panties, I would’ve soaked them. As it is, I’m bare under my yoga pants so there’s probably a wet spot.

Tacone tosses me easily over his shoulder and carries me the few steps it takes to get to my bed, where he throws me down and fastens another zip tie around my ankles. When I roll to my side, he slaps my a*s.

“What’s the fantasy, little thief?”

I wriggle my a*s around on the bed. “Some more of that,” I purr. It’s meant to goad him.

Not because I’m dripping for this. Not because I’m f**k-nut crazy.

Not because the worse things get for me, the more I look to pain and s*x as a frame I can deal with.

Shockingly, my hitman takes the bait. He holds my hips still with one hand and claps the other one down on my a*s a couple times. Hard. He’s not screwing around. “That right?”

I roll to my belly, reaching my bound wrists above my head to get there. Twerk my a*s for more.

Major qualms peak, though, when he unbuckles his belt and pulls it from the loops.

This guy is for real. This isn’t one of the doms I’ve scened with to get my fix. He came here to hurt me—probably kill me. So I should be terrified. And I am. But... it also makes this one hundred times hotter than some consensual, pre-negotiated scene. Because the danger is real. The risk is considerably higher.

A therapist could have a field day with this.

He winds the buckle end of the belt around his hand in a quick, efficient manner. And then it’s on. The first strike lands right across the middle of my a*s. Pain lights up my pleasure centers.

Yes!

I lift my butt for more. He leathers the hell out of my a*s, striking the lower half of my buttocks over and over again until I’m breathless and hot and heady with endorphin release.

“Like that?” he says after more than two dozen stripes.

I roll onto my back and bring my hands between my legs again.

“Did I say you could f*****g touch yourself?” He grabs my bound wrists and pries them away.

Holy s**t. Either this guy is just a total natural at playing dominant asshole or he’s part of the kink scene, same as me.

“Please,” I whimper, because why not try? One more o****m is my dying request.

The kink gods smile on me, because he holds my wrists prisoner with one hand and brings the thumb of his other hand to my clit and rubs, firm and quick.

Surprise flares in his eyes when he discovers my piercing but he quickly learns to work it like a pro.

My eyes roll back in my head. I gasp and hold my breath. I go off almost immediately, bending and straightening my bound legs like a frog, my internal muscles squeezing and clenching around nothing.

Tacone mutters something in Italian—it sounds like a curse, and then he unzips his slacks and pulls out his c**k. I experience a moment of cold fear at being r***d before the crazy takes back over, and I own the scene again.

When he fists his erection and strokes from base to tip, I scooch around on the bed to bring my face toward his crotch. He stops me before my mouth reaches his c**k, catching the bun on the top of my head and pulling my hair taut. “Not sure I trust you to put your mouth on my c**k, doll,” he tells me.

I open my lips, offering a clear invitation.

He shakes his head but brings his c**k to my mouth. “I feel even one tooth and this will be the last f*****g c**k you ever see. Capiche?”

Crazy Caitlin jots a tally mark in my column. There’s always power in giving head, even bound and at his mercy.

“Yes, sir,” I say automatically, b**m protocol drilled into me.

Still gripping my hair, he plunges his c**k into my mouth and down my throat. “Yes, Mr. Tacone,” he corrects.

“Yes, Mr. Tacone,” I agree when he pulls my mouth back off his c**k.

He shoves back in. “Make it good, little hacker. One hundred and fifty thousand dollars good.”

A spike of fear shoots through me at the reminder of how much I stole from them, but crazy Caitlin steps forward again. Might as well enjoy the last c**k I’m going to see. It’s no hardship, either, because my body’s still glorying in the rush of endorphins. My a*s still smarts and throbs from a delicious whipping and I just orgasmed hard.

“Good girl,” he praises and I lose myself, eyes closed, head bobbing, tongue swirling with enthusiasm.

I make it as good as I know how. I’ve been told I give good head. This could be the b*****b that saves my life.