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“Do I have your attention now?” I stare into the phone, pulling Marlene’s hair hard enough to elicit a yelp as she arches her back beneath me to decrease the sting of my grip. Wrapping my hand around her now exposed throat, I taunt, “Such a pretty little wife you have. And how easily we were able to get to her.”
“Please,” he begs. “Don’t hurt her.”
“Do the right thing, Marty.” I trail my fingers down her neck and over her shoulder, bringing the strap of her bra with them. “Push through the paperwork on the club.”
“I…I can’t.” He vehemently shakes his head. “It violates too many codes to ever?—”
“I’m not asking. You have a week, or we’re coming to visit Marlene again.” I shove her face back into the cold marble as she continues to cry uncontrollably. “If we have to come back?—”
“D…Don’t,” Marty cries through the phone when I grind my hips against her ass.
“One week. Or we’ll come visit Marlene again, and we’ll all show her what happens when you don’t do as you’re told.”
Finn hangs up the phone and drops it into the coffee cup on the counter.
“You did so good, Marlene.” I release my hold on her hair and slide the strap of her bra back over her shoulder. “Make sure he does the right thing, and you’ll never see us again.”
Her soft sobs follow behind us as we strip off our masks and head back onto the street to our awaiting SUV. My gaze lingers on the broken front door of the brownstone as we pull away, hoping that won’t have to come back here.
We all have our limits.
CHAPTER SEVEN
LAYLA
“I’m telling you; you’re going to be sorely disappointed.” Jorge shakes his head.
He stopped by a few hours ago to help me find something to wear for tomorrow night. After settling on a little black cocktail dress and heels, we’ve been drinking rosé on the fire escape I use as my balcony. Polishing off the bottle, we go back to talking about Tristan and dissecting the text conversation from this morning for about an hour.
Jorge takes a hefty sip from his wine glass before continuing, “You know damn well that ninety percent of men boasting about what they’re swinging between their legs are totally full of shit.”
“And the other ten?”
“Thoughts and prayers for your pussy.” Jorge maintains a serious expression as he draws an imaginary cross by touching his hand to his forehead, chest, and both shoulders.
“Got it,” I chuckle. “A Tic Tac or a Pringles can. No in-between.”
“If it’s the latter, find out if he has a brother that swings in my direction.” Jorge winks with a smile. He pulls his phone from his pocket. “Shit. I’m going to be late for my date.”
Abruptly standing from the oversized pillow beneath him, he hands me his empty wine glass and squeezes his large frame back through the window. When he’s safely on the other side, he extends his hands to take both glasses from me.
He's already placing them into the kitchen sink by the time I climb into the apartment behind him.
“Call me when you get home safe.” I drop a soft kiss on his cheek as we hug each other to say goodbye.
Finally alone for the night, I open a second bottle of rosé and forgo grabbing a new glass. I take a sip from the bottle as I make my way down the hall to the bathroom. It’s been too long since I enjoyed a nice bath, a bottle of wine, and a smutty romance book.
I strip from my clothes and pull my hair into a loose, messy bun while the bath draws. Slipping into the tub, my phone buzzes on the bamboo tray, which spans the width of the tub.
TRISTAN
Still waiting on that address, darling.
I’ll meet you wherever we’re going.
I don’t give my address to strange men.
I don’t let the women I date use public transportation to come see me.
