I release the squirming puppy and tuck my hair behind my ears. “Where did you say they are?”
India’s voice slips over my shoulder. “Club Vice in Miami Beach. It’s one of their regular haunts.”
Then it hits me. My husband is a multifaceted creature. A man like him needs a partner in crime, a worthy accomplice. His mastery requires a mistress. His dominance deserves sexual surrender. He craves danger and soaring highs. Demands ownership and obedience. All the while seeking those qualities in a wife he can nurture.
And what do I want?
My mother’s safety.
To understand the side of me that likes the pain—the thrill—the submission.
Mostly, I want all of him.
I turn to face her, adrenaline pumping through my veins. “Will you help me get out of here? I have a plan.”
India rubs her hands together briskly, a cute smile curling the corners of her pink lips. “Tell me what you need.”
“I need a few supplies and a way to distract the guards.”
* * *
Deep bass reverberations run through my skeleton. My heart pounds. Bodies move to the heavy rhythm, all tightly packed around me as I navigate the dance floor in Club Vice.
Sweat trickles down my spine, the heat turning sticky, but not like the blaze of his stare moments ago. How it tore right through me, eviscerating skin and bone, leaving me raw and exposed.
A solid mass of muscle and power tackles me from behind. I freeze and turn, hitting my captor’s groin and his distinct tented arousal. In a heartbeat, he manhandles me on the spot, controlling my movements until our chests collide. The seductive smell of leather and vetiver rushes up my nose when his hand lightly swathes my throat, nudging my gaze upward, his sole focus pinned to the bright-blue eyes staring back at him.
Without words, I sense his disbelief and feel his attraction spike like a rabid animal. Even I was shocked at how different I’d looked before I slipped out of India’s apartment with a couple of her girlfriends.
Our awareness of each other bumps from him to me, highlighted by a neon strobe light. His creased forehead peeks out from under disheveled dark hair and those thick brows of his are drawn together. He’s not scowling at the metamorphosis I’ve undergone; it looks like he’s searching for a way to understand it.
I try to push him away, playing a game of power, except his hold on my neck bites the skin. Beneath his rough touch, sparks charged electricity, the same way it always does when I know he’s taking full control.
However, I won’t make it easy for him. That’s not what this is about. I lift to my tiptoes and brush my lips across his, then draw his pouty lower lip between my teeth, biting gently. Once it's free, I watch his inky pupils dilate, becoming one with his infinitely dark irises.
His chest rises, filling his lungs with sweltering heat, and then his fingers release my throat.
The deep bass thrums inside my chest. A featherlight finger traces the curve of my marred jaw, where India applied a thin layer of false tan followed by disguising concealer. Curious fingers comb the blond lengths of a wig that has transformed his sable-haired wife into an alternative persona.
They slowly travel to my temples, where he places his large palms and angles my head to scrutinize the uncomfortable contact lenses stuck to my corneas.
We stare at each other for too many heartbeats. Both of us lost in this unfathomable intoxicating lust. And then I take the opportunity to rear back and slip out of reach, hurriedly weaving off the dance floor to find an escape.
A further bolt of power seizes my bicep, its insurgence almost knocking me off my feet. I’m dragged toward a door, hauled into the corridor beyond, and shoved into the male restroom where men linger by the sinks.
André pulls his gun out from under his leather jacket and jabs the air with it. He marches the length of the room and checks the stalls are free with me forcefully stuck to his hip like glue. “Everyone out. Now.”
One man holds up his hands as he sweeps around us, another ducks low and runs for the door, and the last guy practically bows on his way past.
A prickle of fear injects my veins with the deadliest rush. This barely contained beast is mine—and I don’t want to face the day when he casts me aside for another woman.
Once we’re alone, he uses his brawn and height to back me into the wall and then stuffs his gun into the waistband of his jeans.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I gnash my teeth at him. “Don’t you know who I am?” His chuckle borders on demonic. “I’m a Souza, and you’ll show me some respect.”
He teases the coarse hairs on his unshaven chin as he considers me. “You might be a Souza, but first and foremost, you are my wife.” His eyes blaze. “So, how about you explain what the fuck you’re doing here—without armed guards to watch out for you or a weapon to protect yourself with?”
I trail my fingertips along planes of muscle, regretfully hidden beneath a fitted t-shirt.
