Risqué by Elena M. Reyes
4
Aliana Camila Rubens...
Her name is the first thing I see after waking up.
It’s on the screen of my mobile forty-eight hours after my eyes landed on her, causing my cock to swell and my stomach to clench. There’s something about the little beauty that piques my interest, makes my body thrum with a heated excitement I’ve never encountered before…
Hunter versus prey.
Swiping a finger across the screen, I open the folder with a grin. I feel no shame while reading each line slowly, memorizing every detail about a slip of a woman I’ve yet to meet face to face. And yet, that doesn’t diminish my interest in the little goddess.
Instead, it makes the yearning to see her again burn just a little brighter. Hotter.
Then again, it’s her face that’s accompanied me the last two days without pause. No matter where I’ve been and how much blood is on my hands, it’s her I think about and what I’ll do once she’s in my grasp.
I want to hear her moans.
Watch her fall apart.
Feel her walls clench and milk my cock.
“What is it about you, Miss Rubens?” I ask myself before turning the page, but then pause and close my eyes while gripping my hard dick lazily with my unoccupied hand. I don’t wank, just close my fist tight as I replay the way she danced while the people with her egged her on. Coquettish with the right hint of mischief that I find utterly sexy.
The mobile vibrates in my hand and my eyes snap open, Casper’s name flashing across the top. We’re meeting in a few hours, and I think I know what he’ll ask of me. I know the chess-like moves he’s starting to make within the organization. I can almost understand him, too, but is it enough?
Refocusing on the picture at the top, I’m starting to think his reasoning is indeed enough. It’s one of Aliana with two other women at a beach, dressed in nothing but a pair of extremely distressed cutoffs and a bikini top, smiling at the camera. Her skin is sun-kissed, no makeup on her sweet face, and hair wavy from the salt water.
“Motherfuck,” I hiss out from clenched teeth, stroking down once and then twisting my wrist—tightening my hold further on the upward motion, and pausing. One. Two. Three. Then again, each piece of her I take in is a pump of my hand—my balls tighten, and I throb. Hurt.
Then stop.
I let myself twitch, a bead of pre-come rolling from the tip and onto my fingers as I bite my bottom lip.
There’s an innocence to her that I find attractive, but it’s the heat hidden underneath that draws me in. Even here, in a picture showing a relaxing outing with her mates, I see that more.
It’s there. It calls to my own darkness.
My eyes take in the supple hips, how the button at her waistband is undone and exposing a hint of light green that matches the color of her swim top. The two minuscule triangles hold in enough to be decent, but not enough to calm the sudden lick of jealousy that snaps through me.
Each swell spills out at the sides and center; she’s a lot more than a handful. Another harsh jerk forces my hips to pump. I fuck my hand as I make out the two beaded tips through the thin fabric, vowing to find out who was with her that day and kill any man who was present.
Kray was astute enough to send his female cousin out on this outing; they sent me separate emails pertaining to what they found. She took these photos—sent one where she’s faking a selfie and Aliana can be seen in the background—while he pulled the background information.
Because for her I find myself being a possessive arsehole. It’s sexist, and I have no shame.
No excuse. Not embarrassed over the fact either.
I want to be the only one that sees her like this. To enjoy her beauty.
My eyes roam lower, and I groan as a tiny jewel catches the sun’s rays right at her belly button. It’s small, highlighting her flat, toned stomach and the skin I want to mark. My teeth ache with an overwhelming desire to bite her.
She’s bloody perfect. My cock swells in my hold and I jerk my wrist, taking myself to the edge before slowing down. There’s something at her hip, showing just above the waist of those blasted shorts that causes every muscle in my body to tense. There’s more to it, but the angle she stands at blocks my view and this both angers and excites.
“Christ.” I know she’s marked—the dark contrast highlighting the edge of a tattoo—and the lightest touch to my engorged head, feather-light across the slit, is enough to pull the come from my balls. Two long ropes shoot from the tip, coating my abdomen while the rest dribbles down my fingers and palm.
If this is how I react to a picture, I’m fucked.
Truly. Utterly. Fucked.
“This is how obsession starts,” I mutter to myself, releasing myself and then tracing a come-soaked finger across the picture where her lips are. “We’ll be meeting soon, Miss Rubens. Really soon.”
Another twitch, and I close my eyes with a grin.
What she brings out of me makes no sense. My reactions aren’t me, and yet I need more. To be closer. To feel those curious eyes on mine.
Maybe then the desire will wane, and I’ll fuck her out of my system. One and done.
Lies.
Letting out a slow breath, I wipe my hand on the blanket near me and focus on the electronic file next, turning to the page with her personal information. Line by line, I memorize each stat for later use as any good stalker would.
Age: 21
Height: 5ft 3in
Weight: 125 lbs.
Blood Type: O Negative
Lives: Lincoln Park
Mobile Number: XXX-7174
Nationality: Spaniard and American
There areother details that I also take note of.
Aliana works with Aurora at the women’s shelter—teaches too—and even with a heavy work week, she still attends the uni there, keeping a 90% overall. Beauty and brains. That’s a heady cocktail that most men can’t handle, but I’m above the rest. A woman should be both and never forced into one box to satisfy the needs of anyone around her. My aunt taught us this, God rest her soul, and it’s also a lesson my mother failed at.
My mother’s purpose in life is to travel and shop while pretending the money she spends isn’t dripping in blood.
A note toward the bottom of the page makes me pause, and it’s a unified concern by her professors over unaccounted absences without a note to excuse each—something the uni she attends is sweeping under the rug.
“Where are you going, Aliana?” Or why? The dates seem to all surround the latter part of the last two years, between July and October with one short trip over the New Year holiday. They are abrupt with no pattern, and it doesn’t sit well in my gut. “What are you hiding?”
My informant attached a class schedule, and her days off coincide with my arrival in the states. Perfect.
There are a few other things about her family, but when we reach her father, his clean file makes me laugh. I know him. I’ve dealt with him once in the past while exchanging a beneficial favor, and the politicians in that family are sexist arses with no loyalty shared.
“How can she come from that rubbish?” This leaves me with more questions than answers, but I have to push it back until we land in America. It’s the only way I’ll concentrate, but it doesn’t stop me from sending a message to the bloke that gathered the information.
Eyes on her at all times. ~Callum J.
A quick line, he responds to without pause no matter the time difference.
While the information on her was good, there’s a gnawing feeling—demanding I dig deeper, see past what others want me to see. Knowing who her father is, it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
A man willing to prostitute women in exchange for donations isn’t someone I trust.
A family led by misogynistic men, wankers with no real backbone, is one I’m repulsed by.
She doesn’t belong there, and no matter how much this makes no sense and I don’t understand this sudden obsession, I’m not fighting it. The only thing I do understand right now—what’s been brewing since Casper spoke her name—is that I don’t want him to taint her.
“You okay?”Casper asks, coming to stand beside me while our men and Malcolm’s load a truck full of cocaine and stolen merchandise a few days later. Two days earlier than the original meet up, but it was opportune when the moment arose, and we were already in the US. My cousin has already tasted the product and accepted the generous donation. We’re even now, could leave, but have been asked to remain and bear witness to the owner of Asher Holdings disciplining those involved. “You’ve been too quiet.”
Casper’s eyes and mine are on the men and one woman kneeling a few feet away. Some are crying, writhing, while some remain as still as statues, trying to keep themselves out of anyone’s line of sight. Motherfucking pussies.
Malcolm is a mean son of a bitch when necessary, and I respect him for that. His beliefs align with mine: loyalty above everything.
You don’t see.
You don’t hear.
And you sure as fuck don’t speak.
A lesson learned by his cousin who is now missing a tongue.
“Yes.” We both know I’m taking some time off; I just haven’t told him where I’m going. Not yet. To him, I’m either heading back home or slipping away while no one notices and it’s best he leaves it at that. “Just enjoying the show.”
There’s a different kind of energy flowing through me, licking at my spine as the time draws near. I’m here as a witness and then gone, my evening to be occupied by a pretty little brunette that has no idea the devil exists. That I’ve laid a claim on her.
Because I’m back in Chicago.
Because I want a taste of every sensual inch of Aliana Rubens’s small frame.
And I’m also not blind to Casper’s own distractions. He hasn’t asked me to take over yet—is still holding back, but the time will come. The wanker also knows I’ll accept without hesitation. With honor.
“Still taking a small holiday?”
Momentarily, my eyes shift to him, and I arch a brow in question. “I am.”
“Enjoy the time off.”
“You do the same.”
“I will.” Casper squeezes my shoulder, a smirk on his face. “See you in a few days.” He leaves after that, walking over to where Malcolm stands with a neutral expression on his face. No pity. No emotions. It’s why the Jamesons and the bloke have become more than a business transaction over the years: he understands and lives by the same cold code.
They exchange words, not that I pay attention as I meet the eyes of the woman whimpering. She’s afraid. Pale. What did she touch to end up here?
Two bullets dislodge from a gun, and I look toward the man holding this meeting. He’s enraged but keeps the devil within on a tight leash, and yet I see the bloodlust. The desire to slowly kill each one of those he considers traitors.
The men—his guards who had been wearing hoods a minute ago—slumped over, a bullet to the neck and chest respectively. They tip toward the hysterical woman, and she subtly attempts to move closer to me until I remove the light sweatshirt I’m wearing so she can see the two Ruger’s I have underneath in a leather holster around each shoulder.
I smile as the little glimmer of hope in her eyes dies. She wouldn’t be here unless she’s directly involved with our sabotaged wire transfer.
Blood pours from the dead guards’ wounds, the cold concrete soaking up their life’s essence while my cousin and Malcolm face the others on the floor.
The latter tosses something on the ground, and the younger of the two men kneeling gets paler. Shakes harder while Malcolm’s cold eyes stare him down, unwavering, as he crouches to his level.
“If you ever lay a finger on her again…” Casper holds up his hand and motions for us to move. Jeffrey doesn’t hesitate to follow orders while I watch just long enough for the butt of Malcolm’s gun to break the bloke’s hand before winking at the crying woman and exiting myself.
Just beside the loading area, I find the trucks with our men already behind the wheel. Jeffrey takes the one in the middle while I take the front, exiting the warehouse in relative silence while heading toward the port to secure storage before we move the electronics to a cargo ship heading to South America.
It takes a few hours, but we get it done. The hot equipment has already been sold and paid for, and I’m negotiating another shipment through emails with the buyer.
The mobile in my pocket vibrates again, the third message from the man watching Aliana. It’s her location, a picture I requested, and status—I’ll only check once I’m inside my rental while these men head home to London.
“That’s all of it,” Jeffrey says, bringing a small towel to his face to wipe his forehead. “Christ, all this moving around has me feeling like a roast.”
“It’s a pretty warm evening.” Another of the men hands me a bottle of water. I grab it with a nod of thanks and take a sip. “Sweep for anything left undone and head to the airstrip. The plane will be ready when you are.”
“What about you?” Jeffrey’s expression holds confusion. And he’s not being nosy; I’ve known him long enough to see the wheels turning—calculating how he could be of assistance. “Do you need me to stay? You know I’m here for whatever has to be done.”
A smirk spreads across my face, my hand gripping his shoulder and giving it a squeeze. “Not necessary. This is a solo mission, but there is one thing I’ll need.”
“Personal?”
“Extremely.”
“Done, and please enjoy your time off, Mr. Jameson.”