The Marriage Merger
Page 14

“I get you.”
His gaze locked with hers. Julietta was unable to keep her body from trembling or to mask the raw lust for more of him. To have him naked and demanding in her bed, pushing her to places she’d only dreamed about. Mio Dio, what was she going to do?
“only for one night.” Her quick words reeked of defeat.
He remained silent and studied her. Julietta shifted her weight onto her other high heel and tried to think. “What if I lose?”
His lip lifted. “Then we both win, don’t we?”
The intercom buzzed and interrupted the electricity zinging in the air. “Mr. Wells, your one o’clock is here.”
He never moved or answered. She envied his control over the situation, even as she realized he was still fully aroused. Time to retreat and get herself together. The man oozed pheromones that fried her brain. “I’ll think about it.”
Sawyer nodded, as if they discussed a business arrange-ment rather than a night of sex. “Very well. I’ll wait until you give me an answer.”
Julietta veered around him and gave up a small victory.
No matter. She’d have time to regroup, but right now his nearness needed to be avoided. His low chuckle confirmed he noticed, and she cursed under her breath as she scurried out the door in full cowardly retreat.
Damn him.
What the hell was she going to do?
…
The demons were back.
Sawyer rubbed the nape of his neck and pushed away from his computer. Hours of work usually focused him, keeping him primed and targeted toward his main goal. But after his encounter with Julietta, and trying to balance too many requests with the looming opening of his Purity, his nerves were shot.
He couldn’t get her out of his head. How long had it been since a woman had crawled under his skin and stayed there? Sure, he’d gone after particular females who interested him before, but he’d never experienced the intensity that encompassed not just his body, but his mind and emotions. The gorgeous flushed look on her face haunted him. Sawyer lifted his hand and pressed his fingers against his mouth. God, he still smelled her. Musky—with hints of vanilla and coconut swirled together. He remembered her soft lips relaxed, hips arching for more, completely in the moment with him and surrendering to her body.
He’d realized immediately after their first kiss she needed a man to control her in the bedroom. No wonder she had trouble responding. A woman so fiercely independent and in charge of a huge empire would loathe the idea of surrendering her body, and he bet her past lovers didn’t own steel balls.
Hell, that was what it’d take to challenge her, and most men had fragile egos. Coaxing a lukewarm response from a lover usually added to frustration for both parties. He bet she tried to lose her inhibitions and only received humiliation for trying. A woman like Julietta would cut her losses and move on, accepting full responsibility for her failure in the bedroom.
Assholes. They took everything passionate within her and forced her to believe she was frigid. Instead, she was a fucking dormant volcano ready to explode, all hot, creamy lava and lusty noises. The way she bit her lip hard to control her cries and tightened her muscles told him enough. She’d give him everything she got and more if she let herself go.
A smile tugged at his lips at the memory of her inner battle. He loved how she challenged him on every level and made him work for it. Sawyer had learned early that many of the aspects of BDSM called to him, and he’d dived into the experience once he had enough money to indulge his eclectic tastes. With his midthirties approaching, he now admitted he liked aspects of the push-pull of dom/sub, but it wasn’t a lifestyle he wanted to commit to. His normal play in private and some exclusive clubs tamed the beast for a while, but work began to feed his insatiable appetite in a more soothing manner. So far, women had been a tempo-rary enjoyment.
Until Julietta came on the scene.
He liked control. Needed it at all times in order to ne-gotiate his life now. But for just a moment, he almost lost it, unbuckled his pants, and slid into her wet heat without a thought. And that, as he learned, was dangerous. How many years had it taken him to finally curb the violence and anger? The frustration of being dependent on people whose only goal was to let him down? only two people in his world ever gave him a glimpse of something more.
Jerry White.
And Mama Conte.
The familiar twinge in his gut drove him to his feet and toward the back of his office. Toward the hidden door behind the mass of bookcases where a slice of peace and sanity were close enough to yank him from the abyss.
Fuck, he hated such weakness.
Sawyer stepped into the room. He took in the surround-ings made for physical torture—soundproof so no grunts of pain were ever heard. The mats were thick beneath his feet, and the various instruments were there for one single purpose.
Sweat.
He toed off his shoes, stripped off his clothes, and changed into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. He tied his hair back with a rubber band, shoved his feet into the sneakers, and donned the gloves. He started with the bag first, warm-ing up with some jabs and letting his brain empty out into his body, ready to ease out the poison.
one. Two. Three.
The memory flickered.
“You’re a fucking pussy, you know that.” It was Christmas Eve, but there was no tree, no lights, and no warmth in the hellhole. His foster father drank from a rapidly declining bottle of Clan MacGregor and the smell drifted sickly sweet and sharp to his nostrils, making him gag. He kept quiet, knowing the trick of the game was to say as little as possible.
He was chained to a chair in the dirty kitchen. The cheap yellow linoleum held an array of scratches and stains. He let his mind go and focused on the tiny circle by the broken chair leg. Round and round his gaze followed the pattern and his mind began to drift. The other kids were asleep in the basement. He’d locked the door behind him so Asshole couldn’t get in, knowing the holidays were one of his favorite times to play. It was easier to piss him off and get him to go after him than sacrificing the rest of the crew for a group party.
Unfortunately, it worked better than he planned.
Sawyer tamped down the trickle of panic. His feet were still free, and the more Scotch that disappeared, the worse Asshole’s reflexes. No problem.
The burning sting of the cigarette pressed into his fore-arm made him jerk, but he kept his gaze down, on the circle, round and round.
The laugh was pure mean. “You like to play the hero, don’t you, boy? Always thought you were better than us. Time to teach you some life lessons and take you down a peg.”
He ignored the taunts. The first punch cracked him hard and he knew it would be a long night. . . .
Sawyer moved, ducked an imaginary opponent, and slammed his fists over and over into the bag. Lightning swift, he fought the memories gouged in his head until the sweat poured off his skin and a sliver of light shone from the grunge of his past.
oh, Asshole had made him pay that Christmas eve.
The broken rib was taped up later, and the burns left scars he didn’t give a crap about. What he gained that night was more important.
Hope.
He was growing bigger and more dangerous. of course, if he didn’t take it, the younger ones suffered, and he’d rather have physical bruises than an ache in his gut that’d eat him alive. No, it was easier to take the punches, but time was running out. He’d be free in nine months, five days, and four hours. eighteen years old meant freedom. escape.
Maybe he’d be able to go to social services then about the others. Maybe . . .
The raw fury choked him, so he punched harder, kicked higher, and fell to the brutality of the streets, where winning was so much more than a competition: It was a matter of survival. So stupid to think he’d be able to outrun his past.
The last shred of innocence ripped from his soul when the knowledge he’d failed almost killed him. Almost. Instead, he accepted that he’d killed his foster brother Danny out of his own greedy need to escape. Forced the acceptance into the dark closet and locked the door. Then decided to live.
“Sawyer?”
He spun around and crouched, still only half in the present. Breathing hard, he recognized Wolfe standing by the doorway. The kid was rarely surprised by anything, but it seemed discovering Sawyer knocking the shit out of the bag in his private chamber threw him off. Sawyer straightened and walked to the bar. “How’d you get in here?”
The kid thrust out his chin. “Door wasn’t completely closed. Found a weird notch in the bookcase, so I checked it out. I wasn’t spying.”
“I know.” He guzzled a half bottle of cold water, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “This is private space—no one else knows about it.”
A strange expression crossed the kid’s face. Hurt?
“Like I give a crap. I won’t gossip at the next tea party. Just wanted to tell you I’m heading over to La Dolce Famiglia for a few hours before dinner.” He turned halfway. “What is this anyway? your secret Batcave?”
Sawyer swallowed a laugh and grabbed a towel. “Kind of. you work out?”
Wolfe studied the walls of free weights, punching bags, and bars around the room. A bad-ass sound system was wired to an array of hard metal that Sawyer loved. A flash lit those blue eyes, almost like longing. “Nah, not into it.”
Sawyer wiped off his forehead and studied the boy.
He’d been with him almost eight months now and still knew relatively little about his past. of course, he knew enough.
The abuse was evident, like a beaten dog that cowers at loud noises and growls to warn off strangers. Wolfe’s tattoos, shaved head, and piercings showed he searched for his own sliver of peace and probably hadn’t found it yet.
Sawyer only meant to give him an opportunity in the business world and get him off the streets. Instead, he became his mentor, dragged him to Italy, and put him in charge of his biggest operation. He even lived with him, for God’s sake.
The memory flashed before his vision and played out in slow motion.
He’d been staying at the Waldorf hotel in Manhattan— an elegant queen set amidst the class of Park Avenue in midtown. The exquisite richness of service and class New Yorkers demanded from a top-class hotel was achieved with marble floors, antique furniture, rich tapestries, and golden, dripping crystal chandeliers. He’d been consult-ing on a project and was walking down the hallway to his next meeting. An employee passed by with his head down, and though he was distracted, Sawyer immediately realized when his wallet was lifted from his suit pocket.
Quick as a snake, he reached out and grabbed the man’s hand. Someone else probably wouldn’t have noticed—the guy was good—but living on the streets had given Sawyer an edge most didn’t own. The quick indrawn breath and frantic tug made Sawyer squeeze harder, until a pair of blazing blue eyes lifted and locked on his.
A kid. Maybe eighteen—dressed in the hotel uniform.
Before he had a moment to process the information, the kid shoved him hard and he fell back. The kid raced toward the end of the hall with his prize. And slammed right into one of the hotel managers.
The next few hours blurred as they discovered he’d been living in the janitorial quarters, stealing uniforms, and basi-cally living off the guests. Taking food from the room service trays. Washing in various bathrooms around the hotel. As the story came full blown, the memories of his own childhood choked him mercilessly. Trying to find a safe place to sleep and knowing the shelters were the most dangerous places to hole up. Finally getting smart enough to target one of the big hotels and learning the ins and outs of the system. My God, if Jerry had never taken him under his protection, he’d be in jail, too. And now, years later, he looked upon another teen in the same position. He’d be endless trouble and a huge complication Sawyer didn’t need. Better to walk away from the whole mess and not look back. He’d get the hotel to drop the charges and make the whole thing go away. Then wish him luck.