Marrying the Mob Prince

KNOX

If I passed away, I would have one regret:

Never having fucked Indie Starling.

Weak rays of an icy November sunrise hit the frosted windows overlooking Boston’s financial district. I lay on the bed, my frustration burning into my sheets. The French had a strange expression for orgasms-la petit mort-the little death. It was apt as hell. Because I died every time I came inside a woman who wasn’t Indie.

That girl drove me insane.

Literally. I didn’t recognize myself anymore.

I spent every waking moment distracting myself from the desire to fuck her mouth. I wanted-no, I needed-to be inside her. Her face haunted me. Despite having no contact in two months, I simply couldn’t get her out of my goddamn head. The only times I’d interacted with her replayed in an endless loop. I pictured her ass in that pencil skirt. I heard her sultry voice telling me off on the yacht.

At first, I found her reticence charming. Chasing a woman was new for me. Fun. I liked the challenge, and Indie was a worthy prize. She was the manic pixie trophy wife who nerds like me dreamed of owning. Beautiful, with her olive skin and exaggerated hourglass curves, and the strip of bright pink weaving through her brown hair, framing her sweet face.

But she wanted nothing to do with me.

“Oh my God, Knox,” a gritty feminine voice panted. “You were so good. I can’t believe-”

“Shut up.”

I glared at the Indie lookalike-I’d already forgotten her name-as she writhed in a glow of postcoital bliss. Her lithe body shuddered and she sucked in a plump lip, moaning. Damp hair fluttered on her nose, but with her hands bound, she couldn’t brush it aside. And I wouldn’t do it for her.

“Knox?”

I gritted my teeth. “I told you what to call me.”

“Right. Sorry. Sir.”

The disobedience should’ve gotten her shoved to the floor and her ass brutalized by my hand, but her quick compliance stole all desire. Besides, I no longer felt an urge to dom these cum dumpsters.

“Did you like that, sir?”

“I don’t do pillow talk.”

“Of course,” she murmured, kissing my shoulder. “Anything you want.”

I averted my gaze to the ceiling, wishing she’d disappear. I had no reason to kick her out. She was perfect, like every model, heiress, and actress I brought to my bed. They did whatever I wanted and treated me like a god.

And they bored me to death.

I felt nothing for them. Not even the satisfaction from emptying my balls. Having sex barely took the edge off my arousal, and it always left me lacking. During it, I was fine. It was afterward-when the air reeked with desolation-that the full weight of my apathy crushed me.

I was miserable.

I marveled at that as I lay there, resenting my chilled skin, the collapse of my posture, my utter lifelessness. I was broken and hollow, my thoughts burning with wild, feminine laughter and soft, dark brown waves-

“Sir? You all right?”

I leaned over, yanking off the buckle fastened around her skinny wrists. Then I untied her ankles, flinging the restraints off her.

She palmed my chest. I grimaced at her painted nails on my skin. The unwelcome heat blazed into an intolerable furnace. I peeled her off and dropped her wrist on the mattress.

“Go.”

“In a minute. I don’t want to forget this.”

“I said, leave.”

The brunette rolled onto her stomach in a blatant display of disobedience, flaunting curves marked with red patches. She fixed me with a penetrating glare. “You’re not the only rich, hot guy in Boston, you know. Someday, you’ll run out of girls willing to be defiled in your alternative…lifestyle.”

“I doubt it.”

I could assemble a harem of women to fuck anytime I wanted. What stopped me was an extreme lack of interest. Indie should be here, not the vessels I used so I didn’t masturbate all day.

I slid to the edge of my bed. Then I seized the bundle of fabric and tossed it to the girl, but my aim was off, and the dress hit her neck.

She yanked it over her head, a hostile tone edging in her voice. “Can I ask you something?”

I grunted, pulling on my boxers.

“Do you treat every woman you’re with like this?”

“I’ve been called a heartless jerk too many times to count.”

She let out a catty snort.Property belongs to Nôvel(D)r/ama.Org.

I picked up her shoes and dropped them by her feet. “There’s a car waiting downstairs to take you home. It leaves in ten minutes.”

She glared as she slipped on her heels. Her bristling indignation begged for punishment. I didn’t tolerate defiance from my subs, but this Indie lookalike was a pale imitation of the real thing.

The model combed her hair with her fingers. “Are you close to anyone?”

“No. I don’t allow myself to do that.”

“Why not?”

I loved and trusted no one. I didn’t have relationships. People were trinkets that I used at my leisure. I surrounded myself with powerful friends that hardly knew me. Keeping them at a distance made them easier to deal with.

I grabbed her purse and handed it to her. Then I gripped her by the elbow and escorted her to the door. I opened it, but she hesitated.

“Does anyone ever make you lose control?”

Indie.

I was quite taken with the reporter girl, and it drove me crazy. For my own sanity, I’d backed off on pursuing her. The distance was supposed to make me forget her.

Supposed to. I checked my phone every morning, thinking-today is the day. She’ll call. I expected her to come to her senses. She hadn’t. I’d built up a fantasy in my head, and it was as big as a castle. I concocted new ways to make her mine. I envisioned fucking her compliant mouth as she knelt before me. I lusted after her with a caveman-like fervor.

She’d weakened me with this obsession.

And no matter how many women I fucked, I couldn’t get rid of her or shake the strange melancholy gripping my soul.

“That’s a yes,” said the model with relish. “What’s her name?”

“If I tell you, will you leave?”

She huffed. “Yes.”

“Indie. Indie Starling.”

The girl made a disparaging sound, and blood pounded in my ears.

She bit her lip as though to bury her smile. “Sorry, it’s just…I know her.”

“I have zero sense of humor where she’s concerned.”

“I’m not lying. I’ve worked with her.”

“Indie isn’t a model.”

“No kidding.” Her lips tugged in a playful slant. “I work with all kinds of people: fashion moguls, photographers, and reporters. And she’s far from hot. Honestly, Knox. You can do better. You have.”

My fingertips dug into the doorframe. “I hope you’re not referring to yourself.”

“You’re settling for someone way below your league. I’ve posed for Vogue. She writes health columns for a tacky magazine. I’m just saying. What do you see in a girl with no ass?”

“For one, she’s not a gold-digging whore.”

“Watch who you’re calling a whore!” she shouted as I shoved her outside.

I slammed the door.

My hand shook. I balled it into a fist, and the tremors stopped. I stared at my whitened knuckles, bewildered. I needed to get Indie out of my system.

I knew exactly where to go.

Sanctum.