Never Have an Outlaw's Baby: Deadly Pistols MC Romance (Outlaw Love) (37 page)

“Get. Dressed.” This time, his growl was barely human.

It almost made me move. Almost. But I held my ground, planted my hands on his chest, and pushed against him.

Resistance. It taunted him, and he responded.

In a flash, he flipped me over and ripped at my gown. I yelped when I heard the thin fabric tearing in his hands. Then he was pulling at me as one shredded strap fell across my shoulder, lifting me up into his arms.

I thrashed and yelled, trying to fight him, but he held on. He pulled me over to the huge closet and pushed me inside. I caught myself against one of the large mirrors just as he kicked the door shut.

He turned his back to me, rifling through the outfits overhead. I watched him stop on a sleek red cocktail dress. He spun, threw it at me, and I somehow caught it in my flailing arms.

“Put that fucking thing on and come out when you're done.” The second my mouth popped open, he closed the two steps between us and pushed his hand over my lips. “Think real, real carefully, babe. If the next answer outta your sweet mouth isn't 'okay' or 'yes, sir,' then I'm gonna dress you up myself. Don't fucking make me, Sabrina. I'm gonna get a good, long view of you naked real soon, but I don't want it like this. I don't wanna ruin my surprise.”

His hand tightened over my mouth, and then it was gone. I fell backwards, holding the dress out in front of me, shielding the bare shoulder he'd revealed by tearing at my gown. Any inch of me exposed to this bastard was too much, too vulnerable.

“Go,” I said softly. “I'll do it.”

He nodded, satisfied, and stepped out, closing the door behind him more gently than I expected.

What else was there to do but listen? If he was really taking me outside this room, maybe there'd be another chance to calculate my flimsy odds of escape. Assuming he wasn't dragging me out into the thick woods I'd seen through the window to shoot me, of course.

I didn't think so. He wouldn't be dressing me for that. By some sick miracle, he still needed me. Probably the only reason he put up with my crap.

Not that I cared. I wasn't going to stop flinging it his way. If I couldn't get away from him, then I'd make his life as miserable as I could.

The dress was weirdly calming against my skin. It was quality fabric, something familiar, the sort of thing I was used to wearing out on my girls' nights back in college.

The lights were on in the bedroom when I stepped out. Anton was waiting.

“Fucking shit,” he said, moving his eyes up my body, admiring me from head to toe. “Follow me.”

We took a different direction in the hall, heading for what seemed like the house's west wing. He took a fork to a staircase leading up, banishing my hopes of an easy escape path on the ground. I kept my legs moving, up the long stairway with three different landings.

A narrower floor waited up top. He opened the first door and pulled me in after him when I took the last step.

It was another bedroom – but not quite like anything I'd seen before.

All the luxurious trappings were there: a bed, fine stained dressers, a dark blue rug. The window and the walls were completely encased in glass like it was some kinda sun room or observatory.

He motioned to a small silver telescope in the corner. “I like to come here to think and gaze at the stars. Not that we'll be doing much of that tonight. I picked this room because being under the night sky has a way of settling my brain the fuck down.”

I looked up. He wasn't kidding.

My jaw dropped. I'd spent so much time in Chicago with its light pollution that I wasn't used to a country sky. Stars, galaxies, and a fat harvest moon hung above us like bright ornaments, so breathtaking I forgot I was here as a prisoner, not a guest. The heady illusion lasted about five seconds.

“Take a good long look,” he said. “It's fucking beautiful up here at night.”

When my captivity came back, it was twice as bitter. I pursed my lips and looked at him. “You can't control how I think or feel. I'm smarter than you give me credit for.”

“You really think I believe you're a fucking bimbo, babe?” Anton snorted. “I know a thing or two about the blood that's in your veins. Even if I believed you were a spoiled little bitch, totally ignorant about everything your family's done, no fucking way would I call you stupid or gullible. Your clan's always been cunning. Smart. Sophisticated in a way us Russian bastards aren't.”

I rolled my eyes. Was this really supposed to be flattering?

Big mistake. The instant the eye roll was over, Anton was on me, grabbing me by the wrist and pulling me into him. I squirmed for a few molten seconds in his arms, and then settled, surrendering to the huge, hot, heavily tattooed chest hiding beneath his button shirt.

“I showed you the shit on that tablet because I want to earn your trust the honest way. I can't force you to do shit if every part of you wants to sabotage me. I want
you
to want the same shit I do, babe. I want it pumping in your own heart because it's meant to, not because some other bastard's bullying you. I want you on my side. Right down to the second we shovel your asshole uncle into his grave.”

That did it. The dreamy heat swirling through me broke apart in his icy eyes. I tried to pull away, but he tightened his grip, holding me so I couldn't.

“I
don't
trust you, Anton. I don't trust anything here, anything you've said. I don't think I ever will.”

“Sit down with me.” Without giving me a choice, he pulled me towards a little table with two chairs next to the starry sky.

I sat and instantly gave him another glare. I hated what he was doing to me with every touch. I felt so empty without his fingers on my skin, and I didn't understand why, couldn't understand anything except that it was so wrong.

“Tell me about the night your old man died.”

I blinked in surprise.
Another manipulation. Has to be. He wants me to talk about something upsetting so he can come swooping in like the big, bad hero.

I promised myself I wouldn't crack. I wouldn't flinch about it either. I stiffened my heels on the floor and leaned forward.

“What? You haven't read up on it yourself?”

“Of course I have,” he snapped. “You see the kinda shit we Ivankovs dig into to confirm our own intel. It was all there on the fucking tablet. Documents and second hand stories never compare to the shit you see first hand. It can't capture what raw emotion can. It can't tell me what you saw with your own two eyes. Tell me what you remember.”

Five years melted before my eyes. I took a deep breath, remembering that night, when I walked in on my dead father at our condo. It was worse than when mama died because at least I'd never seen her broken, crumpled up body on the street.

No matter how many years passed, every time the memory came flooding back, it hurt.

“He was slumped on the sofa. I'd been out late with a couple friends when I came home,” I said quietly. “Papa was a mess since my mother died, but it was getting really bad that winter. Uncle Gioulio came by the week before it happened. They were arguing so loud I heard it from my room upstairs. I think he slapped my father around, trying to knock some sense into him – anything he could do short of forcing him into rehab...”

Anton's face tightened when I mentioned my uncle. “Go on.”

“He was already cold when I rushed over and touched him. I knew he was dead the second my fingertips brushed his cold brow. Didn't want to believe it, of course. I was only seventeen. I don't care if I was basically a grown woman by that point. It's never easy becoming an orphan at any age.”

Slow, thick heartbeats pulsed blood through my ears. Anton's eyes were darker, calmer, almost understanding. Both his parents were dead too.

Great. I caught myself. The last thing I wanted was any understanding, any common link with this man, but there it was.

He reached across the table and grasped my hand. Of course, my skin melted all over again, and I leaned back in the chair and sighed, letting him draw the sadness away with his touch.

“You've gotta give me more. Was there anything coming out of his mouth? Did he vomit?”

What the fuck?
I jerked my hand away, wrinkling my nose.

“Why do you care? He ODed just like I told you. I'm not an expert on what happens to junkies when they...yeah, I think there was some foam. Lots of blood dried around his nostrils, his lips...a few splashes hit his white shirt and stained it red. It was awful. I got the hell away from him as soon as I could and called Uncle Gioulio. He was there right away. He helped me through the whole thing.”

Ouch. No matter how hard I tried to keep a lid on the pain, it started overflowing. I broke the death gaze with Anton and looked out the window, staring over the high trees into the stars.

“Blood?” He paused, waiting for me. “You'd better look at me right now, babe, because you just confirmed it's as fucked up as I thought.”

I did, right as he reached for my hand. This time, there was no pulling away. His grip was so tight. Anton stood and circled his way over, scooping me up into his arms as I fought tears.

“What're you talking about? How could you know anything about papa's death?”

“I know junkie's don't die spewing blood like that. They don't bruise black around the eyes neither.”

“His eyes? They were open when I found him. There weren't any circles, nothing noticeably broken or bruised...”

Anton walked me over to the little nightstand. I watched him pull open the drawer and fish out a manila folder. He held me, eased me onto the bed to sit, while I opened it.

“Autopsy report. Only fucking copy of that record without a buncha shit blacked out and redacted in the official record. Your Uncle did a helluva job pulling his strings and hiding the proof in the official shit. Guess he didn't know everything about your family runs through mine first.”

I opened it and rifled through the pages. They were old, crisp, like they'd sat in a musty vault for a long time.

If this was another elaborate fabrication, he'd done an incredible job.

Anton pushed his hands over mine, planted his fingers on the pages, and opened to the one he wanted. His finger stabbed down on a long line – some medical term. “Says right here they found poison in his system. There's another tucked back here that says the syringe at the crime scene was half full. Your old man didn't even shoot himself up with a full dose of that fucking trash he was hooked to. He didn't kill himself on bad coke – somebody else gave him this shit I can't pronounce.”

For a minute, I was frozen. He held me, taking my whole fucking world into his hands, all while everything I knew before splintered and fractured into pieces.

I was too stunned to cry. Too sick to choke. Too furious to know who the hell my anger should be pointed at. I tried to jerk away, but he wouldn't let me.

The folder dropped from my shaking hands and the pages went spilling across the floor. “Anton, I can't –“

“You don't fucking have to. You can look at that shit tomorrow. There's no rush.”

Asshole. I shook my head, more vigorously when one of his hands began sliding up my thigh. He knew how to press buttons I didn't understand.

No way was I coming unraveled like this. Not here. Not now.

“Whatever. I still don't trust you.” I hissed it through my teeth.

“I don't need you to, babe. I just need you to listen to what I'm saying and cooperate. You want to work with me, Sabrina. Stop acting like you don't.” His chest shook as he took a deep, long breath. “Fuck. You can keep spitting nothing but lies and doubts outta those lips. But your body doesn't lie. There's no bullshit here. Just want.
Need.
”

His fingers pinched my bare thigh, higher than I thought he'd climbed, dangerously close to my panties. Tremors shot through me. The starry void behind me opened up and came through the glass, circled my head, drowned my senses in its glowing lights.

When I sucked in oxygen and tried to steady myself, I smelled him. It was all Anton Ivankov, that evilly masculine scent singeing my nostrils, leaving me pleading for more.

His hand wasn't stopping. His fingers slipped up, brushed my stomach, and then dove down the waistband to my panties. There was no stopping him from feeling how ruined I was, how soaked he'd made me without even knowing it.

“Tonight's the night, babe. You fucking know it, and so do I.” He rubbed lower, spreading his fingers in my folds, holding his fingers apart so near my clit. I started shaking all over again. “I'm gonna lay you down and fuck you. That'll clear both our heads. That'll wreck walls. And if it doesn't, tough shit, because I don't think all the brick in the world could hold my dick back from your pussy right now.”

“Anton...”

Stop. But please don't stop.

I'm dying. Losing my mind. Drowning in my own slick pool of fire.

What the hell's happening to me? Really?

My mind wouldn't work. The questions and sensations were coming so fast. He must've sensed the unease crawling through my skin because the next thing I felt was his stubble. It brushed my cheek as he pulled away from my ear, dragging his hot breath across my face, centering himself just right.

His kiss came before I could say another word.

I wondered if I'd ever speak again. Our lips locked in a fury, captured a black energy burning through my skin, straight down to my bones. Muscles clenched so hard deep inside me my entire body rocked.

My ass jerked through the red dress, unintentionally grinding against him, hitting the sweet spot raging between his legs. His next kiss came a whole lot harder, barely breaking for air. He smothered me, caught my lower lip between his teeth, and ripped me open for his tongue.

He was in me. One part of him, at least, and it was only a fraction as intense as it would be to have him inside me somewhere else.

The same tongue that barked endless filth and orders at me for the first week wasn't any less commanding on my flesh. He swirled laps around my tongue, caught it, and led it in a hypnotic dance. He sucked the air right out of my lungs in one long, hungry, panty wetting kiss.