Dirty Chase: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Brooklyn Brotherhood Book 2) (6 page)

C
hase Masters should be classified
as a drug. He'd never get government approval. He'd always be sold on the street, lusted after illicitly, and impossible to classify: an upper? A rush like a burning roller coaster through your veins? A dreamy mellow that makes you melt?

Ecstasy?

Ecstasy.

That must be what it is: he's a drug and I'm high. Because I don’t act like this. I never take men home, let them inside. And yet, tonight, that's all I want.

I can't even remember how we make it back to my place. Leaving the restaurant is a jumbled haze of him making out with me as we stumble down Il Duca's stairs, his arm around my waist, his large, warm hand on my ass as we run from the valet to his car. When did it start raining? I'm misted with rain; Chase's arm is wet but hot as he lays his hand across my thigh, laying claim to my body even as he drives. Everything's wet, slick and full of promise as Chase speeds across the Brooklyn Bridge, the lights of the city sparkling in the distance, the water one large black swathe far below, like a starless universe.

He finds my apartment building even though I can barely give him directions. I'm high on him, high up above with the shooting stars. I live in a one-room shoebox in the wealthy neighborhood of Brooklyn Heights. The only reason I can afford the location is because my apartment is probably a deathtrap and my landlord basically ignores the tenets and leaves us to the rats, old electrical problems, and waterbugs in the basement. There are multi-million-dollar apartments on either side of my run-down building, but Chase doesn't mention how squalid my home is as he parks on the street. We hold hands and race under the threatening skies to my front stoop.

My hand shakes as I unlock the building's front door, but Chase slips the keys from my hand and carries me up two flights of stairs like I weigh nothing, my legs wrapped around his waist, my lips on his neck, my heart beating so fast, fast, fast.

I've never acted this way before. But I want to—I want to let go. Completely. For one night I want to be the carefree girl everything thinks I am. I want to just enjoy the ride, and if I know anything in this world, it's that Chase Masters will give me the ride of my life.

Of course, he's made it abundantly clear that this isn't a relationship. It's sex. Just sex. Nothing more than sex.

But I don't think I ever knew what good sex was before.

And we haven't even made it past my front door.

Chase slams my back against the door, or maybe it's just my heart that's beating so loud, or my world cracking open, that makes everything sound and feel bigger than it possibly can be.

Except, of course, his dick. Holy crap. I think it's even larger than it looked. He grinds up against me; he's as eager, as feral, as lost to the magic between us as I am.

"Wrap your thighs around my waist," Chase growls, his lips touching mine as he pulls back from our kiss. I do as he says, but it's not enough for him. "Tighter."

I press my legs around him, twine my arms around his neck. He holds me up with one large hand while he unlocks my door with the other. How'd he get the keys? Oh yeah, he took them from my hand.

I can't get over how big he is,
everywhere.
His neck is thick and corded, his shoulders huge, his chest like a fucking brick wall. He acts like a Southern good ol' boy, laid-back as a fat bumblebee on a July afternoon. But now that he's close to getting what he wants, I'm really, really hoping I'll get a taste of the Dirty South.

I wrap everything around him.

We fall into my living room, which is also my bedroom. There are pretty hardwood floors, ten-foot tall ceilings, a coffee table Chase bumps into, and my bed—a daybed that feels big when it's just me, alone. But as Chase tosses me down onto it, then climbs on top of me, it suddenly feels tiny.

He's huge.

He leans above me, a hand on either side of my head. The lights are off, but my one window lets in the sparkling city lights, so I can see his shadowed eyes watching. Watching me.

He runs one hand down my cheek, my neck, across my breast. He doesn't ask, just treats my body like it's his special gift to open, play with. And I guess it is. He caresses me, but watches my face as he twists one nipple lightly, watches my lips as I can't help but lick them.

They feel so very dry. I feel so empty.

"Chase—" I start to say, not even sure what I'm asking.

Before I can say anything, Chase kisses me. Now his body—hot, hard, grinding into me—is a welcome weight. He's heavy and huge and perfect. We kiss so hard it's blurring the lines between where I end and where he begins. I moan into his mouth and suddenly he's gone—he's sitting back, on his heels, like a king surveying his kingdom.

"Let's get rid of the cats," Chase says, reaching up to my waistband.

I realize he's about to strip me, and suddenly remember the carry-out bag with our dessert in it. We left it at the restaurant.

"We forgot the tiramisu," I say. I'm babbling because I'm nervous. Because I can't believe what I'm about to do. Despite my stereotypical blonde looks, I was always a straight-A student. I didn't date, especially when I was younger, when I was still—recovering.

In college, I studied more often than partied on any given Friday night. But I'd never read a textbook with a title like
What to Do If You Bring Home a Sex God
.

"What?" Chase drawls, looking up at my face as he slips my cat tights down over my ass and pulls them off my legs with a snap.

"The dessert," I say, wondering why I care. "We didn't get the dessert."

Chase cocks his head to the side.

"You hungry, Princess?"

I swallow. "Well, you promised me the world's best tiramisu."

Chase nods, trailing a hand down my side and to my hips. He runs his rough hands across my skin, grabbing my ass with a confident hand.

"Well, I think I'm about to have the world's most delicious dessert right now, sweetheart." He grins. Wicked man. "You let me know if you still want food after I'm done."

Then he stops smiling. "Spread for me, Elle."

I obey. Or my legs do. My body has a mind of his own.

My thighs fall open, and I gasp as he leans down and
inhales,
his nose pressed right into the heat of my panties. He looks up, his eyes holding mine as he slowly pulls my pale pink underwear down. It snags for a minute on my big ass, but Chase just grins and pulls harder. He rears back, pulls the panties off the same way he did my tights. Then, as I watch as he slowly pulls his dark T-shirt up and over his head.

Holy.

Fucking.

Hell.

Chase is
ripped
. His chest is broad, every muscle defined. His abs could be featured on a Times Square billboard. His arms are
huge
, with dark tattoos swirling over both biceps. There's a happy trail of dark hair, leading directly down toward —
Jesus, Mary and Joseph
—the tip of his engorged cock that's jutting up and out of his jeans' waistband.

"Chase," I sigh. "I hate to say this, but I think you need to work out more often."

Chase throws back his head and laughs, and I watch, mesmerized, as his Adam's apple works underneath that lush, dark beard. I want it buried between my legs. Luckily, we're thinking the same thing, because that's exactly what he does next.

"Oh God!" I cry out. He's not gentle with me, but I don't want gentle. He settles himself between my legs, and I can feel heat radiating off his immense body. He's so tall his legs are falling off my bed, but he doesn't seem to mind. He slowly opens me up, spreading my folds and just
staring
at me for a moment. Then he throws me a wicked grin, licks his lip, and leans in, slowly licking up my slit until he finds my clit.

"You taste incredible, Princess," Chase growls.

I drop my head back, overcome. He takes his time, his tongue going over and under and around my sensitive bud, a low growl at the back of his throat like he likes it, like he can't get enough of me.

I watch the city lights play across my ceiling while fireworks go off between my legs. Chase has a talented tongue, but he's in no hurry. I'm used to guys going down on me, but quickly wanting to move on to the main event—them getting theirs.

"Chase, I'm good," I say. "Come up here."

Chase slaps the side of my ass.
Hard
. I gasp, but can't help the rush of pleasure and heat that follows his hand's swift movement.

"I'm happy where I am, Princess. You happy?"

Then he slides a finger inside me, crooks it and makes a come-hither motion that's hard and rough and perfect. He watches me while he does it, too, the arrogant bastard.

Then again, I guess it's not arrogance if you know what the hell you're doing.

"I'm—fine," I manage to get out. Holy shit. He goes back to slowly, delicately licking my clit, but his hand inside me is like a piston. Most guys are too gentle for my liking when they try to find my g-spot. Chase is perfect,
perfect
, setting up a rough, steady rhythm that has my hips shaking and my body quivering in no time.

I'm getting wet, wetter, and in a moment of embarrassment I try to close my legs. Chase growls—like an animal!—at me, and I lose his talented finger because now he's holding me open, spread wide.

His tongue is harder, rougher, demanding now. I can barely keep still, and I know the neighbors are gonna hate me, because the sounds I'm making aren't quiet.

"Chase, oh God, Chase," I chant, biting my lip and trying not to cry out.

Suddenly I lose his tongue and then—
yes, yes, holy fucking hell yes
—he just
rubs that delicious, strong, bearded jaw
all over my clit and pussy. It's rough and abrading and I raise my hips and shamelessly grind on his face, begging for more.

"I'm so close," I moan. "Please, Chase, fuck me."

I start to tremble, the heat building and building inside. I'm so out-of-my-mind that I'm hearing music—wait.

I
am
hearing music.

Rock music.

"What is that?" I moan.

"Fuck," Chase growls, leaning up above me.

We both pause, panting.

"Ignore it," Chase orders me.

"Is it your cell phone?" I say. "You can get it—"

"Elle, there is nothing I want more in this world than to watch you come apart in my arms right now."

And then suddenly Chase moves his body up to mine, and I can smell myself on his lips, in his beard. And then he's kissing me. I reach down and unzip his fly, trying to touch him. He reaches down and starts rubbing my clit, hard and fast and demanding.

Then stops. The phone is ringing again.

We stare at each other a moment, then crash into each other. I grab his hair, pull his lips to mine. I run my fingers down his cheeks, trying to tug on his beard like I've wanted to all night. It's just a hair's length too short to get a good grip, so I reach down for his cock.

Somehow he's shucked off his jeans and it's free, huge, hot and hard and smooth in my hand. And then he pulls back, leaning on one elbow while his other hand works me over between my legs.

"Eyes on me when you come, Princess."

I have just enough time to process his words, look up, reach for him, when he moves his hand, double-time, between my legs. The rush of pleasure takes my breath away, the heat building and building under his touch until I explode, calling his name.

I can't keep my eyes open, not as the first wave hits, but then I do—and he stares at me as I come, again, and again.

"Stop," I moan. He's still touching me.

"One more time, pretty girl." Chase switches from my clit to sliding his finger inside me. He finds my g-spot once more, leans down and takes my breast in his mouth. He sucks, hard, and finger-fucks the exact right spot.

I scream, holding him to me as a third orgasm rocks my body, my soul, my entire world.

"God-fucking-dammit."

For a minute I think Chase is mad at me. I sit up as he throws himself off of me, but then I realize he's grabbing his jeans off the floor, and it's the phone—the phone is ringing this time. A different ringtone.

An alarm.

"What," Chase growls. I've never seen him so pissed. If I hadn't just had three consecutive orgasms I might be able to stand up and ask him what's going on.

As it is, I lay back, catch my breath, watch his muscles in the moonlight.

"Can it fucking wait?" Chase looks down at me, pauses, then goes over to my apartment front door. He opens it and
steps outside, buck-naked
, shutting the door halfway.

Holy shit. So he needed some privacy.

While also not caring that anyone could see him—and that huge, jutting hard-on.

I try not to eavesdrop through the cracked door—no, fuck it, I totally eavesdrop.

"You found
what?
Fine. I'll be there. Soon. I said
soon.
" I see his naked ass through the crack in the door. He's pacing. "As soon as I fucking can."

He sighs, listening to someone on the other end. "Twenty minutes. Yeah."

He hangs up and opens my door, his head dropping for one second. I watch his sculpted body in the dim light; it's a thing of beauty. Then I see the scar—low and long, below his ribs—a white arc like a sliver of moon.

It looks like it should have been deadly.

For the first time, I shiver, but not from pleasure.

What the hell am I doing?

I don't know this man. And I just let him—

"Princess, I'm sorry. I have to go. Work…emergency."

I look up at him. For once, I'm speechless. It occurs to me that if he'd gotten his call ten minutes later, we would have fucked. And he'd be running out on me.

And someone tried to kill him once. Probably more than once.

And he might've killed—

"It's cool," I say, sitting up and wrapping my sheet around me. "I mean, I didn't get a taste of the world's best tiramisu. But I guess I had an alright evening."

Chase grins, effortlessly pulling on his pants and slipping his T-shirt over his head. Jesus, he looks good. But I need to stop thinking like that.

I need to stop
all
of this. Right now. Reality check: I'm a teacher. I don't date mobsters. I don't date violent men.