Captive Thirst: Mafia Romance (Rough Redemption Book 4) Page 2

  Teasing him.

  His enormous heart beat its excitement hard enough so I could feel it pounding on the surface of his sweat slicked neck, and I collected his reins. “Not long now, boy. Hold back just a minute.”

  I bent over him, taking in the smell of horse sweat that hovered above his mane.

  Racing wasn’t a fair fight. It could be cruel. There were so many factors that could go wrong. Exactly the reason I had to hide my passion from my mom and dad. They’d lose it if they knew their precious princess was involved in a sport more dangerous than motorcycling, skiing, football, and rugby.

  The sun beat down hard enough so that sweat trickled down my back and I hoped to God the binding held but didn’t have time to worry about that now.

  “Easy…” I muttered under my breath, comforting myself more than Prancer.

  On the back stretch I realized that I was holding my breath and exhaled my tension in a deep sigh no one but me and my horse could hear. We were all that existed in this moment, drawing breath in a world without place or time, encased in a tunnel which I knew would force shoot us out at the finish line before every other racer on the track.

  It’s a certain feeling, a knowing.

  Ahead of us there remained only one horse, Early Morning Victory, flung dirt at us from her galloping hooves which stuck to my goggles like bird turds, partially blocking my view.

  And that’s when I let up on the reins.

  The Briarville Derby was held on a Bull Ring, a small track where the oval is less than one mile and, thus, had turns tighter than a hair in a biscuit.

  Prancer didn’t mind.

  He’d cut his racing teeth on this track and once I loosened up my grip and let him run without restraint, he hugged the rail and shot forward ahead of the filly who was today’s favorite to win.

  I scrubbed his neck, urging him faster, and leaned forward giving it all I had so that we sprinted past the finish line. It was a close call with the filly but we blasted past her and Prancer won it by at least a length.

  Standing tall in the saddle, my thighs ached in a good way from straining and holding myself up during the charge towards the finish line, and I shot my fist in the air. The grandstand responded with a burst of cheering and my hands tingled, warmth radiating through my insides like sunshine.

  I slowed my mount to a slow canter, and we rounded the track to the finish line again, trotting up to the winner’s circle.

  What would it feel like to claim this win as my own? To have my entire hometown know that Gabriela Serrano was a winner.

  Prancer and I were bound for glory.

  Nevermind my dad and his plans to get my uterus planted with heirs ASAP.

  A screaming crowd of hundreds he could handle, no problem. But the unexpected thwup of a champagne cork made him snort his apprehension and toss his massive head. As if this bottle of bubbly was the predator that was going to kill him.

  Horses were logical in their own right. But it was dangerous to count on reliability from an animal whose best defense mechanism was to run.

  Doing so could be deadly.

  No matter how experienced the rider, he or she was only one bad fall from being, injured, paralyzed, or killed.

  “You’re okay, boy.” I whispered, petting his velvet nose while the local press snapped pics of the black colt, his shiny, arched neck shrouded with an arc of roses.

  For some reason, he’d decided I was his person. He trusted me.

  “Give us a thumbs up, Diaz!” One reporter shouted as our groom shook the champagne beneath his palm, releasing the opening to spew a rainbow of golden liquid over my head.

  I started at the heavy paw that landed on my right shoulder. “That’s enough pictures for now,” growled the voice behind me, “My horse and my jockey need to clean up.”

  Looking down, my turquoise, satin shirt and white jodhpurs were splotched with dirt, but I wasn’t ready to retire from the winner’s circle just yet. I longed to bask a bit longer in the euphoria of my first real win.

  Before I could protest, the same baritone voice lowered, and its breath stroked my earlobe speaking in a gravely whisper which tickled cold fingers up my spine, “Funny. You don’t smell like a Jorge.”

  As the huge paw at my back guided me along the route back to the stables, I looked around for a place to run and hide. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to recognize the fact that I’d managed to piss off a prominent member of a local group of violent criminals.

  Prancer’s owner had a nasty reputation for being a cruel man.

  I could hear my father now, “What did you expect? Chasing after a career funded by gambling, laden with organized crime? What were you thinking, mija?” He only spoke inside my head, still my throat bobbed, and my hands clutched at my stomach in a futile attempt to stop the rolling pin inside that was doing its best to flatten out the dough in my stomach.

  Maybe Drago would give it up and let me go. Perhaps he’d understand that I had to deceive him in order to ride.

  After all, I won for him, didn’t I?

  Dragging my feet, I tried to slow down his forced march to the stable, but his hand steadily bulldozed me forward.

  He was so strong.

  Shut up, you hussy.

  I chastised myself for letting my ovaries override my survival instinct.

  My reproductive organs ignored me completely. Drago shoved me into his office, backing me up against the wall, one huge hand on either side of my head. Continuing to walk all over my sensible self, my inner floozy rebelled by noting every one of his sizable attributes.

  Sweet mother Mary, he’s breathtaking.

  His features were carved in stone, bar one slight exception. The rippling spot above his jaw proved that in spite of his outwardly level-headed demeaner, this menacing man was breathing fire.

  I raised my chin to meet his eyes and found they were mirror images of mine, hazel with gold flecks. Averting my gaze, I caught the rippling forearm to my right, and a silken tendril of warmth unfurled itself low in my belly, sending a web of desire outward to swallow up my whole body.

  Unable to help myself, I started when he cleared his throat above me. “Let’s start with your real name, shall we? Or are you going to be tedious and lie to me so that I have to pull those panties off and prove you’re a female?”

  4

  Carlos

  Yes, she smelled good enough to eat, but in the end, it was her sweet little ass that finally opened my eyes to what was hiding in plain sight. And once I had a look, I couldn’t stop staring at her oh-so-spankable backside.

  How did I ever buy the ruse that she was a guy?

  Now that I saw them, her tightly pinched nipples that strained against whatever she was wearing to hide her breasts, the violin-like dip of her waist over modest hips swelling out in a way no man’s body could replicate, and finally, the plum stained lips of hers which she kept biting to stop from trembling.

  At first, the sight of her doing so made me feel guilty. I knew what people thought of me. A man you didn’t cross and expect to come out alive. Of course I frightened her. But that tiny pinch of shame went away when my cock threatened to hammer its way through my zipper.

  And worse still, a chant started up in my head… mine.

  I’ll own her.

  I needed to keep her at my side. Prevent any other man from stealing her image with lustful eyes…

  I planted my feet wide, straddling her riding boots on the floor like I wanted to do with my thighs, trap her supine on a bed where I’d keep her for days.

  Tie her up.

  Feed her my cock.

  I shook my head free of the filth which was overriding my mental engine controls.

  Jesus.

  Now that her secret was out, she’d put some kind of spell on me.

  “You didn’t answer my question.” I spoke through clenched teeth. My voice a low snarl in the back of my throat, in a tone I’d never use when wooing a female to my bed. Years of experience taught
me that to have any fucking luck at all, pun intended, with the fairer sex, she needed a bit of romance first.

  A tender touch.

  And sure as my name was Carlos Drago, I’d have this hard-on inducing gift from the Gods in my bed.

  She was bringing out the neanderthal in me and swear to Christ, I wanted to drop to my knees, bury my nose between her legs and take in the scent of her pussy.

  “Let’s start with your name.” I growled, lowering my head to fix her with my gaze.

  “Jorge Diaz,” she squeaked.

  “Your real name, Ace.”

  Her stare bounced from place to place, and she started to rock on the outside edges of her leather boots.

  “I know you’re definitely not a Jorge.” I narrowed my eyes at her, lowering them purposefully to focus on her nipples, and felt my breathing grow louder.

  Slower.

  She actually bared her teeth at me, cracking her knuckles before saying, “Fine. I’m not Jorge Diaz.” She actually had the nerve to point her delicate finger straight at me. “You guessed it.”

  She sighed heavily and my hands went clammy when she said with an upward jerk of her chin, “I’m Gabriela Serrano.”

  Shit.

  This was bad.

  But even worse was what I saw when she cutely cracked her knuckles at me. “You’re bleeding.”

  I didn’t mean it to sound like an accusation, it just came out that way.

  She held her filthy hands up, opening her fist to reveal the dried blood that filled the lines on her palms and knuckles, “That happens sometimes. When I have to hold him back. No big deal.”

  I was livid. I’d have that fucking horse put down or sent to the glue factory.

  To make it up to her, I swung her tiny frame into my arms, and carried her to my private bathroom, my chest drew taught knowing that as owner of that colt, I was partially responsible for her wounds.

  The warm water foamed over my fingers and I gently but firmly tugged Gabriela’s hand in front of me.

  Devil take my soul if I didn’t want to drag that tiny hand down to my dick where it pulsed its pre-cum opening act for the minx whose tiny fingers gripped mine.

  How on earth did she hold him back with those miniscule things?

  No matter how it pained me to do so, instead of using her hand as a jackoff device I slowly pulled her into the warm stream of water, my stomach plummeting when I heard her hiss in pain.

  “Hurt?” I asked.

  “Just a little.” She lied, gripping a fistful of satin at her chest level, and looking up at me with eyes that heated me from the inside.

  She bravely pressed a fist to her lush lips, while I tamped the other one dry with a clean towel, switched sides and applied Neosporin to all of her burst blisters.

  “Need to take good care of these babies,” I placed a single kiss on the inside of her left wrist. “They’re capable of great deeds.” She didn’t resist when I dragged her right wrist to my lips, watching the quickening rise and fall of her breast before I placed my mouth there and pulled at her soft skin with my mouth, taking the tiniest taste with my tongue.

  She fucking moaned and the begging sound made me even harder. Her mouth was halfway open, so that her pink tongue tempted me from within, and I scolded myself that it didn’t mean she was anxious to taste me and take me between her lips.

  An involuntary groan escaped, drug up from deep in my belly and exiting my throat before I could stop myself.

  Her eyes flung open. Was it fear that lit her eyes with flame, or desire? While pondering the question, my cock grew, straining toward her more eagerly than I could ever remember it doing, aching for release.

  “Che cosa?” I asked out loud, and the way she wrinkled her nose and blinked at me alleviated some of the growing strain from my urges gone unfulfilled.

  I lifted her chin so she was forced to look into my eyes and said, “Never seen anyone, male or female, control Native Prancer like that.”

  “He’s a good boy,” she said, spinning out from under me as if that ended that and our conversation was over.

  “Gabriela,” I husked her name, slightly rolling the ‘r,’ and liked the sound of it. She took an uneven step towards the door, and I caught her before her knees went out from under her.

  I swung her up into my arms, walked her to the brown leather couch, laid her down upon it and covered her with a throw.

  "What ever made you want to control a thousand-pound beast hell bent on breaking towards the finish line?” Suddenly, I needed to know exactly what made Gabriela Serrano tick.

  I allowed myself the small indulgence of removing her chin strap and helmet, her skin like satin against the back of my knuckles. But that was an inconsequential thing in contrast to the intoxicating spill of hair that fell from the tie she removed from the top of her head. Immediately, a scene played in my mind. She was on her knees before me, berry-kissed lower lip ajar, strands of silk wrapped around my dick, the vision punching me in the gut like a fist.

  I needed to know everything about her.

  Everything other than the fact that her father was one of the Drago’s deadliest rivals within the local Cartel.

  5

  Gabriela

  Forgive me father for I have sinned, and I have absolutely no plans to share my dirty thoughts in the confession booth.

  Thoughts that would make a priest blush.

  It wasn’t wise to remove my helmet, revealing my true sex when I’d gotten away with hiding it thus far. But in this case, it beat the alternative.

  I didn’t plan on revealing my bare chest to Carlos Drago any time soon. Never mind that just the sound of his voice made my nipples hard as diamond points.

  I was grasping at straws here, fighting for self-control. My willpower to avoid latching my stare on the formidable bulge between his legs was slowly melting away.

  “Muy ladylike,” my mama would tease.

  Even she couldn’t blame me for having lecherous thoughts about my father’s rival—hadn’t we been taught to love thine enemy at Saint Agnes Academy?

  Good Lord, Drago was gigantic. What he could do to me with those hands.

  And heaven knows I had a thing for fine horse flesh, like, the obscenely, panty-dropping kind of man meat that loomed over me.

  Still and all, my father would have my hide if he knew I was having lustful thoughts about any man, let alone a Drago.

  In fact, I’d be better off running away and seeking my fortune elsewhere now that I’d done something risky as race a horse in the Briarville Derby, and topped it off by betraying the family in riding for an arch nemesis of the Serranos.

  I may have been crowned the winner today, but the odds were stacking up against me all over the place. “Any boy can grow his hair long. This proves nothing. Unbutton your shirt.” His request was rough, more of a command than a polite request.

  My traitorous pussy clenched between my legs in response, before I caught myself, “My father will have your head if he hears you forced me to undress for you.” I wanted to sound powerful; intimidating enough so he’d back off, but my breath came out in a breathy little whimper.

  God. Buck up, Gabriela.

  Instead of taking my own advice and showing Mr. Sex on Wheels what for, I flinched when he spoke his next gruff order, “Do it. Now.” He was actually grimacing at me when he spit out, “Or you’ll never ride my horse again.”

  That did it. No more Little Ms. Nice Serrano. Nobody got in the way of my racing, no matter how big and scary they were. “You said yourself, no one can ride him like me.” I twisted a strand of hair free, pulling it away from my temple and all of the sudden, the same stiffness I felt after a long, endurance race hit me from the waist down. He towered over me, stepped one foot up onto the couch’s arm and leaned towards me, hand on one knee.

  His jaw was set, his eyes glued on mine, and my heart started slamming in my chest, biceps aching as I lifted my fingers to the buttons of my shirt, meeting his dare by unfastening them
one by one.

  The flesh-colored binding constricted my lungs, making it hard to breath. It was impossible to pant the way his possessive male stare directed at my breasts, made me want to do.

  More like, the very spot my breasts would be if they weren’t compressed by this awful fabric that squeezed me like a boa constrictor.

  Even if I felt comfortable with him, I’d be afraid of him now, his gaze mad with lust; the molten desire oozing from him, even though I was for all intents and purposes still shielded from his sight.

  I hovered with one foot on either side of the ledge between bolting away and throwing myself at him.

  “The thing that makes me want to bring a thousand pound beast to his knees, is the very same thing that …” I slid my hands to my left side, where the binder’s fastenings were and unclasped them, taking my time, revealing none of my bare skin to him. His nostrils flared wide just like Prancer when a mare in heat passed him by. “All my life I’ve been told to be a good girl. To stay safe and do the right thing for the Serrano family.”

  I dragged the constricting fabric down, revealing my modest handfuls and looked at him just long enough to see the raging beast of need appear in his eyes, while using the other arm to shield my nipples from his sight.

  “As a child I never took foolish risks, always did what I was told.” I pulled the cloth completely off, yet never bared my breasts to him. “But I’m no longer a little girl.”

  Ever so slowly, he reached out his hands, gripping my wrist, pulling it away from my body, and blew warm air over my nipples so they formed hard peaks.

  He watched the rise and fall of my bosom, my breath growing ragged beneath his scrutiny.

  God, please.

  Do something.

  Anything.

  Just make that pulsing ache between my legs go away.

  “I can see that. I can see very well that you’re no longer a little girl. You’re all woman, but you’ll learn to be a very good girl for me.” His voice caressed the throbbing spot between my legs and my hips began a micro-thrusting of their own accord.