Page 22 of Bound Wings
Smack. Smack. Smack.
The sound of my skin slapping against hers, the headboard slamming the wall.
I press my own hand firmly over her mouth, because I would lose my mind if he heard her.
"We have an emergency. New drug shipments for the Italians went missing—they think it’s us. You need to come."
Oh, I’m definitely about to come.
The combination of being entirely pissed off and violently horny completely shorts out my brain. It makes me fuck her even harder.
Smack. Smack. Smack.
"Pakhan, it’s an emergency."
"Okay," I spit, hanging up the phone and tossing it aside.
The second I take my hand off her mouth, she starts moaning, and I join her, letting out the deep grunts I’ve been suppressing this whole time.
Fuck those Italians.
I slide my hand down between us, rubbing her clit, and we both orgasm at the exact same time. And suddenly, everything falls right back into place.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SLAVA
Everything on the desk goes flying as I sweep it clean with one arm.
"What the fuck do you mean they're accusing us again?" I hiss.
Out of every syndicate and crew operating in this city, the Cosa Nostra wants to pin some pathetic missing shipment on the Bratva? We supply half this city's product. Every other outfit in New York buys through us instead of dealing with the headache of sourcing it themselves.
Why the fuck would we steal shipments when we have so much supply?
Ilya throws back a shot of vodka and pours a second.
"They're demanding we 'return the supply.'"
Hell. No.
We could hand them a crate and be done with it—it's nothing to us. But this is about principle. If we do this, what's stopping every two-bit outfit from crying theft every time their own stockpile runs low? Then just point a finger at the Bratva and collect.
"Tell them to shove that request up their ass," I spit.
"Already did." Ilya sets his glass down.
Same instincts, same mind.
"They're asking for a sit-down. To, and I quote, 'clear the air.'" He rubs a hand over the stubble on his jaw.
Clear the air. What is this, a schoolyard?
Whatever's sitting on my face right now must be bad, because Ilya actually bends at the waist, laughing.
I don't find a single part of this funny. I should be in bed right now. I should have my hands in Nora's hair while she reads me another one of her trashy paperbacks, and then we reenact the smut word for word.
"What do you say we just sit down with them, get it over with, and put the fear of God into whoever actually started this rumor?" Ilya offers me a glass of whiskey.
