Never Have an Outlaw's Baby (Deadly Pistols MC #3)(88)

His cruel blue eyes froze me with fire as he pulled back. Then his hips slammed down, throttled against me, tearing me open for him. I arched my back and –

“Fuck!” I bolted up, hurling the heavy blanket off me.

Crazy, crazy dream. It was like he was really there, truer than any nightmare. I was burning up a second ago, but now I was freezing cold. Folding my arms, I felt the clammy heat on my skin, wondering why I was so damned cold.

I wondered, but I already knew. Anton Ivankov had officially gotten into my head like a parasite, an evil, sexy intruder I was sick and insane to want.

My body jerked again when the phone rang on my nightstand. I picked it up, grinding my teeth, reminding myself to pick a different ring-tone later on. Hearing the boom-boom-boom of some stupid pop song screaming at me this early was officially too much.

“Hello?”

“Brina, it's Richard. Listen, I wanted to apologize for being such a dismissive * yesterday. I'm sorry I ever doubted you.” He sounded excited.

I frowned. “What? What are you talking about?”

“We just got a lovely thank you here at the office from Lake Federal Correctional. Dunno what the hell you said, but it must've left a mark on Mister Ivankov. He thanked you, thanked the blog, and he says he'd like to do a followup soon! Can you get your draft over to me today? Can't wait to see what the hell you've got.”

“Sure.”

“Fantastic!” The word burst out of his mouth so loud I had to hold the phone away. “This is f*cking gold, Brina. Keep it up and you're gonna be getting exclusives with way more than the Chicago bomber.”

The call went dead. I flung the phone down on my mattress and collapsed headfirst. All the blood seething through my loins was racing up my spine now, pooling in my head, trying to cool the evil burn building in my brain.

I had to see him again. There was no going back. And – worse than anything – he wanted to see me.

Why, why, why ran through my head, touching all the horrible possibilities. I shook my head, trying to understand, and failing.

I thought I was going for a real hard hitting exclusive with a hardened criminal. Instead, I was becoming a prisoner myself with a bigger, fancier cell, a whole universe compared to his tiny six by eight world.

Unlike him, though, I had a way out when all this was over.

I had strong family ties and a clean record on my side. If I mined him for gold, I could do anything I wanted.

“You can do this,” I whispered, clenching my fists as hard as I could.

Yeah, I could, and I had to. If I could get it over soon, then I'd come out of it with a story as awesome as Richard imagined, or fall right on my face. Whatever way it went, it would end there, wouldn't it?

Anton had gotten his hooks in me for sure. But I was determined to dig them out, throw them away, and never, ever fret over the big handsome bastard in the orange jumpsuit again.





2





Strings (Anton)





I lay in my cell, wondering who the f*ck I'd pleased up in heaven to drop this miracle in my lap. The Ligiotti girl was beautiful, hungry for my every word, and also dumb as a stump.

Well, at least as far as what came next was concerned.

Blowing up those twisted f*cks at Club Duce must've scored me some points with the angels of justice and death. Yeah, the media loved to beat their chests about the twenty upstanding citizens I'd slaughtered. Nobody except my two brothers and I knew upstanding citizens don't visit a place like that after hours, owned by an Italian mob boss with a love for making easy money off slave *.

No point in talking about that. It wouldn't buy me parole. It sure as shit wouldn't win me any points with the sassy little beauty queen I'd just invited back for a followup.

I had to make shit happen myself if I ever wanted to see the light of day again. My brothers were on the outside waiting, scheming, looking for a sign. I took the fall for Lev and Daniel like a good elder brother should, and there was no f*cking way they'd leave me high and dry.

We had a plan for these situations. You do a lot of goddamned planning when making good money puts your ass on the line in all the worst ways.

Escape was barely harder than whispering it. They were just waiting for me to give the word, the signal. And I couldn't wait to see the crazy ass look on their faces when I busted out and dumped a Ligiotti girl right in their laps.

Vengeance wasn't supposed to be this easy. Neither was a second crack at f*ckface Gioulio.

I grinned, slapping my stress ball from one hand to the next. It was my fifth ball in the last six months I'd gotten trading petty shit with different fractions, something to keep the bones in my hands strong and my mind happy. Came in handy when the urge to grab some f*ck by the throat and squeeze him 'til his head popped off got too strong.

And when I wanted to f*ck? It was a godsend. Tonight, the little ball was my faceless angel, crushed in one hand and then the next, back and forth, long after my knuckles went numb.

Sabrina looked far hotter than the daughter of my sworn enemy had any business being. Or maybe my brain automatically saw a perfect ten because she was a Ligiotti. The hourglass hips, big ripe tits, and hazel eyes beneath her raven hair just completed the ensemble.

Perfect ten. Perfect tease. Perfect for me to f*ck one day when I got outta here.

Christ, it was gonna be a f*ck to remember too. I'd start an earthquake right in the middle of goddamned Midwest when my hips went to work on her. I hoped to hell she'd cling onto me and take it like a slut, ride the seething volcano of testosterone pent up for way too f*cking long.