Carnal Urges (Queens & Monsters, #2)

by J.T. Geissinger

I’m intrigued by this handsome stranger for about two seconds, until I remember that he kidnapped me.

I bedazzled the jacket with rhinestone butterflies because butterflies are beautiful, kickass symbols of hope, change, and self-transformation, and that’s exactly the kind of positive fucking energy I’m all about.

“One: I don’t tolerate disobedience. If I give you an order, you follow it.” Magic 8 Ball says: Outlook not so good. “Two: you don’t speak unless you’re spoken to.” In what universe is that happening? Not this one. “Three: I’m not Kieran. If you hit me, I hit back.” His blue eyes glitter. His voice drops. “And it will hurt.”

From the other end of the plane, Declan thunders, “Take your bloody piss!” Shaking my head, I say, “I feel sorry for his mother. She should’ve swallowed instead.”

The sooner this is over, the better. I’ve known her for all of two hours—half of that while she was unconscious—and I’m ready to shoot myself in the face.

He’s sickeningly pleased with himself, the ass. Meanwhile, I’m so mad, I’m almost vibrating. And he still hasn’t gotten off me. His forearms are propped on either side of my head. Pelvis to chest, his body rests against mine. He’s warm and heavy, smells faintly of peppermint and something spicy, and I hope that’s a gun in his pants’ pocket, because holy … Our eyes lock. His smile dies. A flicker of something other than disdain appears in his cold blue eyes. In one swift motion, he rolls off me and stands.

My mouth is dry again, despite the water I drank. “So I’m not going to meet the head of your family?” Something about the question amuses him, but in a dark way. His chuckle is totally devoid of humor. “You’re meeting with him right now.” It takes a moment for it to dawn on me. Declan is the new boss of the Irish mafia. Whoever the old boss was, he’s dead. And somehow, I’m the cause of it.

“There’s another reason they’re after me.” When he only sits there gazing at me in inscrutable silence, I prompt, “Anytime you feel like enlightening me, I’m all ears.” “You.” Surprised, I blink. “Me?” “Aye. You.” “I don’t know any Salvadorans. Of the mobster variety, that is.” “Did you think your abduction would go over well with your friend Mr. Portnov?” He means Kage, my bestie’s man, who also happens to be top dog of the Russian mafia.

“I’m not giving you my cell phone.” “I have to let my girlfriend know I’m alive.” His pause seems loaded. “Ah.” “What do you mean, ah?” “You and your girlfriend.” “What about us?” “You’re very … close.” “Of course we’re close. She’s been my best friend since…” I trail off, frowning at his expression. Then I sigh. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” “I’m not judging.” “Will you shut up already? We’re not lesbians.” He looks unconvinced. “You did say you couldn’t keep a boyfriend.”

“You’re really something else, lass.” “I keep telling you, gangster. I’m charming. By the time this is all over, you’ll be head over heels in love with me.”

And why the hell are you lying on top of me?” He looks vaguely insulted. “To protect you, of course.” “You said this car was armored.” That stumps him for a moment. “Right. Sorry. Instincts.”

“You keep blaming me for starting a war. Why?” “Because you did.” “I think I would’ve remembered that.” “You don’t remember jumping from the car or punching Kieran.” “I see. So I started this mafia war while under the influence of the drugs you gave me?”

“Hey. Gangster.” He closes his eyes, makes a growling noise, and tightens his hand on my neck. “Oh, relax. I just wanted to ask if you think Reverse Stockholm syndrome is already a thing, or if you’re about to invent it?” “How many times did your parents beg you to run away from home?”

He leads me across the street with his hand wrapped around my upper arm, towing me along like luggage. When I start to limp, he stops short and looks at me. “My feet hurt. It’s no big—” He picks me up again, hoisting me into his arms and continuing along as if he does this every day. Which maybe he does. I have no idea how often this man kidnaps people and carries them across rainy streets forested with dead bodies.

After a long time, he says quietly, “You were right about something.” It takes every ounce of willpower at my disposal not to respond. When I don’t, he exhales a heavy breath. “I’m not going to hurt you. You have my word.” I resist the urge to sit bolt upright in my seat and shout Ha! and pretend to snore a little instead. His low chuckle is somehow the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard. I must fall asleep, because the next thing I know, Declan is lowering me from his strong arms onto a bed.

As I lower her onto the bed in the master bedroom, she blinks sleepily up at me. Her eyelids are heavy. Her cheeks are flushed. Her hair spills over the pillow, a mess of silky dark tresses I’d like to comb my fingers through—no. Christ. What am I thinking? She’d bite them off. Gazing up at me, she mumbles, “I want to tell you something, but I’m not talking to you. G’night, gangster.” Then she rolls over onto her side and promptly falls back asleep.

I’ve never met anyone so resilient. So fearless. So damn … Annoying.

I kick off my shoes and head into the kitchen to pour myself a whiskey. I drink that one and pour another. Then I go to the wall of windows in the living room and stand looking at the incredible glittering view of Boston at night and swallow a scream. I never wanted this. This responsibility. This life. I was always the man in the background. The one behind the curtain, cleaning up messes and bringing up the rear.

“That’s what I always tell myself when I’m not feeling one hundred percent. Remember who you are.” I can tell he doesn’t want to ask, but curiosity gets the better of him. “And who are you?” “The only one of me who ever has been or ever will be. Same as you. In a word: irreplaceable.”

I finally have to turn off the ringer because everyone keeps looking at me strangely. I’m standing in a room full of thirty Irish mobsters who came to pay their respects, and my phone is blowing up like some teenager’s in the midst of an emotional meltdown. I text back, YOU’RE NOT TALKING TO ME, REMEMBER? She sends back a middle finger emoji. I can’t fucking believe this is my life.

“Seriously, how can you be so bloody blasé about everything? The only time I got a rise out of you was when I gagged you with my tie. But the minute I took it off, you thanked me and went right back to being … you.” He’s starting to sound aggravated. What a shocker. “‘I make the best use of what’s in my power, and take the rest as it happens.’”

He mutters, “What I wouldn’t give for a massive heart attack right now.” “You’re just mad because I’m smarter than you.”

We make eye contact. I feel it in my guts. After a moment, he says roughly, “You’re the most irritating person I’ve ever met.” I smile. Because his hand is clamped over my mouth, he feels it.

But she got to me in another way. It’s far worse. And far more dangerous than a pool of sharks. She’s kind. She worries about other people. She notices their pain. She empathizes—even with her fucking kidnapper. She’s also funny. Funny, quick-witted, and smart. She knows Epictetus, for fuck’s sake, and nobody knows him. Worst of all, she’s completely unflappable. It’s like her superpower. She wakes up in bed with me beside her, and her reaction is a yawn.

I have to get her out of this house before my dick makes me do something stupid. In a life full of unforgivable sins, sleeping with the enemy would be the absolute worst.

My smile could blind a man. “You’re welcome. Oh, by the way, I was thinking.” “Did it hurt?” “Look at you go with the snappy comebacks! I’m a good influence on you.” “If this is you being a good influence on me, I should kill myself immediately.”

“I will never, ever, not in a million years betray Natalie. Do what you will to me. Beat me, starve me, keep me locked up in this room forever, I don’t care. She’s all the best parts of me, and a better person than I could ever dream of being, and I love her like a sister. I take that back—I love her more than my sister. And not in a gay way, before you start in on that again. I just love her. Which means I’ve got her back. Which means I’m not telling you jack shit about her or her man, no matter how much you don’t like it.”

When I stay silent, her eyes widen in alarm. “No.” “Aye. Stroked your fingers down my cheek like it was made of mink.” To see how she’ll handle it, I slip in, “You also told me how handsome I am.” Her smile returns. “Now I know you’re lying.” She doesn’t think I’m handsome? That stings. I don’t care about her opinion, of course, it’s just that women are always telling me how good-looking I am.

She looks up at me, squinting. “Did you say ‘doctor’?” “Don’t tell me your ears aren’t working, either.” “They’re working. I’m just surprised.” “By what?” “That you’d do that for me.” The way she’s looking at me is odd. She almost looks as if she’s grateful. As if … She likes me. Which is pure fantasy on my part. The woman despises me. Perhaps I’ve hit my head on asphalt, too.

She sounds curious. Or is that suspicious? I can’t tell. “I didn’t say I didn’t need you.” As soon as it’s out, I’m fucking horrified. I know exactly how bad it sounded. If I didn’t, the look on Sloane’s face would clue me in.

Green eyes as sharp as the edge of a blade, she says, “So you do need me? For what, exactly?” I growl, “Target practice.” Her gaze is steady. Unblinking. Unnerving. She says softly, “Gangster … do you have a crush on me?” “No.” “Because no one would blame you if you did.” “Jesus. You’re off in the head.” “And I did tell you this would happen.” I thunder, “It didn’t happen! Nothing has happened!”

When she stops, she’s standing so close, I can smell the shampoo she used to wash her hair. My shampoo. That’s my soap, too, scenting her skin. And my shirt she’s wearing. And my briefs, unless she took those off. Fuck, did she take them off? Is she naked under my shirt? Looking up into my face, she says, “I’ll be the judge of that.” Then she stands on her toes and kisses me.

Declan’s mouth is hard, cold, and unyielding. Somehow, his lips transmit that they’d rather be injected with the Ebola virus than suffer the absolute disgust of meeting mine. He curls his hands around my shoulders and pushes me away. Holding me at arm’s length, he glares at me like I’m a puppy who just shit on his favorite pair of shoes. Thunderclouds gathered over his head, he says darkly, “Don’t. Ever. Do that. Again.” “I won’t. Apologies.” My laugh is small and embarrassed. “Sometimes my self-confidence goes a little overboard.”

“You know what? Forget it. Go back to your fulfilling mobster lifestyle of kidnapping innocent people and murdering your enemies and generally making the world a much shittier place, and forget I said a damn thing.” I turn and walk as far away from him as I can go, to the wall of windows on the opposite side of the room. Then I stand with my back to him and my arms wrapped around myself, trying for the first time since I was a fat little kid getting bullied on the playground to hold back tears.

I look up at him over my shoulder. “You’re bipolar. Right? That’s the root cause of all your mystifying behavior. Bipolar disorder.” “No.” “Too bad. If you’d said yes, I would’ve been nicer to you.” “Why’s that?” “Because mental health problems aren’t a choice. You, on the other hand, are deliberately an asshole.” His smile is so bright, it’s almost blinding. “You bring out the best in me, lass.”

I wish I didn’t find him attractive. I hate him, but I can’t deny he’s hot. Between those blue eyes and that strong jaw and that damn Irish accent … “Why such a heavy sigh?” he murmurs. “You’re still alive and breathing.”

“You’re telling me I’m not interesting?” “You’re about as interesting as a koi fish. An old one. With digestive issues and a malfunctioning swim bladder.” Now he’s outraged. His face is turning red. God, that feels good. Just to twist the knife deeper, I add, “Plus, you don’t even know how to kiss.” His eyes flare. His jaw clenches. He growls, “Believe me, I know how to fucking kiss.” “Sure you do. If it’s opposite day.” When I smile at his obvious fury, he mutters, “Bloody little smartass.” Then he grabs my face in both hands and crushes his mouth to mine.

The urge to push her down to the floor and fuck her until she’s screaming my name is so strong, it shakes me to my core. I pull away, breathing hard. She’s breathing hard, too. We stand there for a silent moment, faces inches apart, hearts pounding, until she licks her lips and says in a husky whisper, “Five out of ten.” “Bollocks. That was the best kiss you’ve ever had, and you know it.” “I think you can do better.” She pulls my head down and fits her mouth against mine. This time, the kiss is slower. Softer, but somehow deeper. It goes on and on, getting hotter and hungrier, until she’s squirming against me and my dick is a throbbing steel bar.

She opens her eyes and gazes up at me. Cheeks flushed, lips wet, she looks incredible. Satan did a good job when he created her. “Six,” she breathes. “C’mon, gangster. Don’t tell me that’s all you’ve got.” “That was a fucking ten. And you’re not in charge here.”

“‘Live dangerously and you live right.’” I pull away and gaze at her, astonished. “Goethe? Now you’re quoting fucking Goethe?” She smiles. “Just because I’m cute doesn’t mean my brain is tiny.”

“No, no, I’m being treated very well. No, he doesn’t have a gun pointed at my head right now. Actually…” A new look comes into her eyes. It’s crafty and confident and worries me. “Well, if you must know, he’s halfway in love with me already.” My mouth drops open. She’s laughing into the phone. “Right? Poor guy. He was a goner from the first time we met.”

She gazes calmly up at me, staring straight into my eyes when she says, “Declan would never hurt me, that’s why. Even if he wanted to. Which he usually does. How do I know?” Her smile is soft. “Because he gave me his word.” I mouth I lied. She sticks out her tongue.

After a moment, she whispers brokenly, “Three out of ten.” It’s a dare. My breath leaves my chest in a ragged rush. I stare down at her naked arse—firm, round, cherry red—and am almost overcome by a savagely powerful need to take it. To release my aching cock from my trousers and shove it deep inside her. To hold her down and fuck her hard while I bite her neck. To listen to her cry out as I come inside her, pulling her hair. To punish her, dominate her, make her submit to me. To make her mine.

It’s like she plugged me into a socket. Electricity jolts through my body. Adrenaline floods my veins. I break out in a sweat, and my heartbeat goes arrhythmic. My dick aches, my balls are tight, and holy fuck, I want this woman so much, my mouth waters.

When he only stands staring at me with those blistering eyes, I feel defensive. “What now?” “You’re strange. And powerful. And aggravating beyond belief. I can’t decide if I should muzzle you for the remainder of your stay or unleash you on my enemies. I think you’d have them all eating out of your hand within an afternoon.” After a moment, I say, “Funny, but that almost sounded like a compliment.” “It wasn’t. I don’t like you.” “I don’t like you, either.”

“She’s lucky to have you as a friend. You’re very loyal.” Sloane looks like I just informed her I sold her to a circus. “I’m sorry, it must be my janky brain, but I thought I heard you say something nice to me.” Now I can’t help my smile. “It was definitely your janky brain.” “That’s what I thought.”

When she sees the expression on my face, her laughter dies. Wide-eyed, she looks back at the nurse. Her face turns pale. Her voice comes out strangled. “Wait. What … what baby?” At least the nurse has the good manners to look apologetic when she answers. “The doctor didn’t tell you? You’re pregnant.”

Nancy spins around and runs out. When she’s gone, Sloane turns to me, insistent. “I’m not. I’m not, Declan.” “Aye. Except it sounds like you are.” Agitated, I start to pace. “Well then, I’ll just have to deal with it.” When I whirl on her, bristling, she lifts her brows. “What’s that look for?” I growl, “You are not getting an abortion.”

When her hair settles back around her face, she folds her hands in her lap. “I see you have strong feelings on the subject. I’d like to point out, however, that regardless of how I got to be here, it’s curious that you’d care one way or the other. After all, you’re not the father. Not that there is a father, because I’m not pregnant, but if I were, you wouldn’t be him.” “Jesus Christ, do you think I’m an imbecile? I know I’m not the bloody father!”

Pregnant. The woman I kidnapped is pregnant with a Bratva baby? Holy fuck. And I thought things were bad before.