Owned:A Mafia Menage Romance

By: Meg Watson



I elbow Roman in the ribs. He shakes his head because of course he doesn't think anybody followed him. Of course he thinks he got out like a fucking superhero. He always does.

Those guys aren’t leaving yet. Marie looks over her shoulder, following my gaze. I guess I was being a little obvious there. I ask her if her room is nice, just testing the waters to see if she's interested in maybe getting the hell out of this bar before somebody comes in with a .38 caliber and an attitude problem.

She said she's not staying here. Fine. We are.

“What did you say?” I ask her, trying to get her to lean toward me. I want to see what she does.

“It’s so loud in here,” she says, just softly enough that I have to read her lips. But she's doing it. She's leaning back over the table toward me, toward Roman. She's not scared. Even though she keeps looking at him, tracing every scar with her eyes, it's not enough to actually scare her off.

That's excellent, and when I glance at Roman I notice that he's confused by this too. He's just sitting there, letting her look him over like she's trying to memorize him, and he is not doing anything to stop her. I think he likes it.

“Will you come with us?”

She flinches back. I know it's a little bit rushed, but those Italian grease balls are walking across the lobby now. I want to get us out of here, and fast.

Even as she first starts to nod, I get up and stand behind her. She's just so tiny, and I immediately get a picture in my head of her writhing on my cock, impaled like a marionette. Tits bouncing, her bones coming unhinged, that beautiful hair flying all over the place. I'm not sure she can handle it, but I really want to try. What’s life without adventure?

And just like that, she's off. Roman and I hurry along behind her as she makes a beeline for the elevators at the back of the bar. For somebody who claims she's not actually staying in this hotel, she sure seems to know her way in and out of the back hallway.

I catch Roman's eyes and raise my eyebrows. He shakes his head. I know what he's thinking, that this little doll is too fragile for him. He's going to break her. She's going to run away screaming, making a big enough racket that he’ll have to shut her up one way or another.

But something tells me that's not going to happen. Something about the way she bites her upper lip, the way that she's hovering close to him as we wait for the elevator tells me she can see him. Really see him, like I do. See past the scars and the monosyllabic conversation. Or in any case, at least she's not screaming. She's not running away. In my book, I'm calling that a win.

The elevator door slides open and she darts inside with us right after. I punch the number ten and the door slides closed with no Italian guys anywhere near us. We’re safe, maybe.

But when I turn around, I don't even know what's happening. She's got her hands around his neck and for a second I think she's trying to strangle him, so why isn't he defending himself?

But no. She’s trying to climb him. She laces her fingers together behind his neck and pulls, and he kisses her. Just kisses her right there, his big hands connecting across the small of her back and lifting her up slightly to draw her closer.

Fuck, this is amazing. I slide in behind her and wedge my hips underneath that juicy, round ass. She just hovers in between us like an angel, like a thought, like a fairy.

Still, I can feel her bones under her skin. She's not totally ready for this. It's going to take a lot to train this little doll to handle my brother. And even more to teach her to handle me.

But as she wriggles up close to him and he just lets her, as my hands slide up her warm thighs to feel the way that she's so hot, so ready, so willing… I know right then that this is the one. This is the girl that brings us back together. This is the one who’s going to love us both.

Or die trying.





CHAPTER 2


MARIE

Gianna gives me that look when she came back to the front of our club, the one where she rolls her eyes and purses her lips so hard that they almost disappear. Her spiky heels clack on the terrazzo floor as she makes her way to me, carefully not looking behind her in case one of the guys decided to follow her out. I keep an eye on the closed door of the private smoking room until she gets closer.

“That bad?” I ask her in a low voice, already knowing the answer.

She nods stiffly. “You would think those guys had hollow legs with how much vodka they can put away. Did they just give it to them in their baby bottles over there in Mother Russia, or what?”

Shrugging casually, I joke, “I don't think any of them are actually even from Russia. It’s probably all an act. Probably learned their accents off of Arnold Schwarzenegger movies.”

Gianna sighs to herself as she puts the humidor back in the case and then slides the door on the climate-controlled room closed. Rows upon rows of rare cigars in gleaming wooden boxes sit on the shelves in that room. It’s almost like a church.

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