Dirty Chase: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Brooklyn Brotherhood Book 2) (20 page)

"
E
lle
." Her name is ripped from my throat. I shouldn't have had that last whiskey.

Those last five whiskeys.

But it's not the alcohol that's lighting every one of my nerve endings on fire. It's her. My Princess. The match, the spark, the light in my life. My world's been so fucking dark since she left.

My nightmares are back, stronger than ever. Creeping into my daytime.

Some days it's hard to tell where one ends and the other begins. I just got back from a job in Mexico City, and as I take a step forward, for one second, I see the long, dark alleyway where I followed my target after his visit to a whorehouse. Another step and I'm in a different alley, an even darker one from long ago, filled with Russian curses…I shake my head to clear the memories, and the alcohol, from my brain. I blink, and there's blood on my hands.

I blink again, and it's just me, and her. She makes the blood and the shadows go away.

"Chase," Elle whispers, taking a step back, her eyes wide and sweeping over me. She looks scared. And sad. And too thin. Fuck. Fuck. I never want her to be scared of me.

"I've missed you so fucking much, Princess." Hell, I shouldn't have said that. But it's true. It's true.

I walk toward her, and she takes another step back. And I'm a bastard, because I'm going to keep moving until she hits a wall. Unless she tells me to stop, I'm gonna fucking touch her. It's been too long.

"Chase."

She closes her eyes, and I'm glad, because it gives me a chance to look at her, up close. I watched her all night from across the crowded room. She's lost weight. She's pale.

"You're still so fucking beautiful." I'm right next to her now, so close I can smell her jasmine perfume, her strawberry shampoo.
Her
.
Just her.

She opens her eyes, and the grief in them rips my heart anew. I can't stop myself, and it's not because of the whiskey. I'm drunk on her. It's been six months since I fucked up, half a year since she left me.

I'll admit, I didn't think she'd be this fucking hardheaded. Stubborn.

Strong—stronger than me.

I'd begged her not to go. I'd never begged a woman in my life, for anything, not once. And I'd gotten down on my knees and asked her to stay with me. I'd apologized. I'd told her my loyalty would be to her from now on. Not Gray. Not any syndicate.

Just her.

And she'd still left me.

Of course, I hadn't just let her go. I'd watched her myself for the first two months. Had my men move her stuff. Shadow her to school and back. But I'd been the one who guarded her new apartment, the room she rented with two other people—two nurses named Lori and Jacob.

I did background checks on them. I set up security monitors. I let Elle see me at first. In the mornings, on her way to the subway. At night, as she unlocked her front door.

I'd apologized again and again.

Half of me hated that she was so mad over
one little lie
. But it's not just one lie—not when it led to her best friend almost being killed. You make one mistake in my world, it can cost you your life.

I can't fault her for being furious. And I admire her strength.

She's right to want to cut me out of her life. I told myself that, again and again. Her life would be better without me in it. She could live like a normal person. She could move on, fall in love, get married…

It was the idea of her getting married, getting away from me and my darkness forever, that led me to take my first freelance job in a long time. Even Gray and Declan, hardened as they were, gave me shit when I got back.

I just took it and left. An insane mission. In Uzbekistan, of all fucking places. Land of wintry steppes, burning vodka, and one large bitcoin payment for a quick assassination.

The job went bad. Somebody told them I was coming. My cover was blown, and I was caught in a fucking shootout on the seventh floor of the town's only goddamn hotel.

I still hit my target and made it out alive. Barely.

Then I took another job. And another.

"You have a death wish?" Declan had finally asked.

Maybe.

"Something's wrong," Gray had agreed. "Totally fucking wrong,"

"In his head," Declan had growled.

"Well, that's been the fucking case for years," Gray shot back. "But this is different."

And it was true. Out of the five jobs I'd accepted since Elle left me, three had gone haywire. I'd been shot at, and had my apartment broken into in the dead of night, and yeah—okay—one time my rental car exploded.

But that was Nicaragua, so what do you expect?

Still. Something wasn’t right. And since we'd never been able to discover who sent the Russian hitman my way, well, the boys had tried to ground me for the holiday season. Gray and Kat would be off on a private island—apparently his new "contracting" business paid very fucking well. And Declan was taking over the Russian syndicate.

Though since it was now led by a fucking Irishman and loaded up with Russians Americans, and one "crazy good ol' boy" (as Gray put it), Declan had taken to calling it "my fucked-up band of brothers."

A good old-fashioned Brooklyn brotherhood.

Declan insisted he needed me in the States, as his second-in-command.

But I didn't know how to exist here, so close to this woman, this beautiful woman standing before me.

I didn't want to love her. But there's something between us—a cord, a connection. I felt it the moment I first saw her. I knew I'd know her, touch her.

Love her.

I just didn't know I wouldn't be able to leave her. Now, she takes a step away, and it pulls the cord between us. I have to follow. We're tied together, and I know she feels it, too.

"I tried to stay away," I tell her. I can almost feel the energy between us vibrating.

"You did a good job." Her voice shakes, and her eyes spit fire. She takes another step back. Then another.

"Did I?"

Her back hits the wall, and I lean over her, putting my hands on either side of her perfect face, the brick wall rough on my palms.

She lifts her chin and meets my eyes, defiant.

"You wanted me to stay away," I remind her. I can't keep from leaning close, smelling her hair. Fucking sunshine, sugar and spice. My mouth waters, thinking of tasting her lips, her skin, the sweet places deep inside her.

"I still made sure you were safe, darlin.'" I'm drunk, and a twang, just like my fuckin' Daddy's, comes rolling off my tongue. "Did you see me, out in the dark, watching you?"

We're cheek to cheek. I look down at her throat, her pulse jumping
right there
. I press my thumb on it, and she bites her lip so she doesn't moan.

I know her. I know her tells.

"Did you feel me out there, late at night?"

I kiss the side of her cheek and she shivers.

"Did you touch yourself and think of me?"

She catches her breath and bites her lower lip, harder.

A lick of fire races through me, and I know,
I know
, she still wants me.

It's time I reclaim my woman.

"
E
lle
."

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, but that's a mistake. Because even if I don't look at him, he's all around me. His arms on either side of me, his scent, his body and his mouth and the smell of whiskey and pain and violence and longing.

There's nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.

"Elle." He says my name again, like I'm precious, like he reveres me. My heart aches, and it's hard to breathe, and the spot on my neck where he touched me…it still burns. Like a brand.

I can do this. I can say goodbye
.

"Elle, dammit, look at me."

I open my eyes, and his beautiful face is awash with pain, grief.

"Go away, Chase."

He leans over me, crowding me up against the wall, stealing my personal space, stealing my breath.

"I'll always chase you," he mutters. He's got one hand on either side of me, touching the wall—not me—but caging me in. He leans in so close that his forehead touches mine.

Dammit. I shouldn't let him touch me. I shouldn't love his scent all around me. I shouldn't be leaning into him.

I shouldn't be crying.

"Don't cry, Princess," Chase says. He finally touches me, for real. He takes my face in his hands, wipes the tears away with his thumbs. "You're breaking my heart."

"I can't do this," I choke out.

"Do what?" Chase whispers, his hard body leaning into mine, his arms wrapping around me.

Shit. His lips touching mine. Gently, so gently. He kisses away my tears.

"I can't let myself love you." There. I said it. But instead of feeling better, I feel like my heart is being shredded. And I'm the one with the knife. Am I just hurting myself by staying away from him?

Chase pulls back. I stare up into those blue eyes, those dark brows furrowed in worry. I realize his eyes are bloodshot. His hair's a mess. And he looks…tortured.

"You said you love me, Elle." He begins to unbuckle his belt.

"What are you doing?" I say.

"You can't just turn it off. I know you can't."

Now he's unbuttoned his jeans.

"What the hell are you
doing
, Chase?"

"Loving you back," he whispers, wrapping his arms around me.

His kiss is fierce now, merciless. He demands everything from me. He'll take
everything
, I know. I shouldn't kiss him back. I resist for one second, but then my arms wrap around his neck. My lips open. He invades me, his tongue inside me, his teeth nipping my lips.

I invade him right back.

What the hell am I doing
?

"I don't love you anymore," I whisper.

He just grunts as his lifts me up, and I wrap my legs around his waist. I can read his mind. I know what he wants. I hate that I want it, too.

One last time
, I tell myself.
This is goodbye
.

I close my eyes, leaning my head back against the hard brick wall. Like we've done so many times before, Chase holding me up, suspending me between him and the rest of the world.

Chase presses me back against the wall and his cock—God, his rock-hard cock—presses between my legs, hot and insistent and—

"Let me down so I can take off my underwear," I manage to get out between our fierce—desperate—kisses.

A ripping sound makes me open my eyes, and I gasp. He's fucking shredded my panties.

I gasp and look down at my little blue panties, ripped right down the middle. And his hard manhood, nestled between my legs. And then he surges inside me, and I cry out for an entirely different reason.

For a moment we're both stunned. At least, I am. I just cling to him, impaled by him, the hard wall at my back and his impossibly hard, hot length inside me. Filling me, stretching me.

I sob, because it's been so long and—it feels so fucking good.

Better than I remembered. Better than ever before.

We're both holding our breath, frozen—then we breathe in, in unison. I'm shocked at how good he feels. This can't be possible. It can't be real. I can't be losing my fucking mind and heart because some man fucks me in a hallway.

And then he begins to move.

"Princess," Chase growls. He's leaning into the wall, cheek to cheek with me as he fucks me. One hand on my ass, supporting all my weight, one hand on the wall next to me. He holds me up, melting me inside. Every slow drag out and sudden surge forward makes me cry out, tremble.

"You're going to come for me," Chase says. His beard scratches my cheek, and like a cat I turn, rub against him. I want to remember that burn. I want to remember all the ways he burns me.

He tilts his hips, reaching some new spot inside of me. I cry out, clinging to him, but I can't look at him. If I look into those blue eyes, I'll be lost.

He moves faster and faster. The heat and pressure are building up inside of me. I can't move—I'm at his mercy—but he's giving me everything: the rush, the heat, the hardness of his cock and the hardness inside his soul. He slams into me over and over, and I can't control my own body, my own voice anymore. He's going so deep that each time he bottoms out it's a mix of pleasure and pain. I know I'll have bruises from the wall, bruises from his grip on my hips.

He squeezes my ass, lifts me up higher, fucks me harder.

"Elle," he pants. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He times his words to his frantic thrusts.

I lean my head into his. He can't be nice like this. If he keeps fucking me, if he keeps talking—hell, if he just keeps fucking
breathing
—I'll stay with him forever.

"You break my heart," I whisper.

"Let me fix it then," he whispers against my lips. "I can fix it. I'm the
only one
who can fix it."

And then it hits me—a wave of bliss, uncontrollable, illogical. I cry out—from pain, from pleasure. From ecstasy.

From knowing I'll never see him again.

I cling to him, riding the wave, his hips still moving. And then he comes with a low growl, plunging deeper inside of me. He pushes and pushes his way into me, like he can't get close enough, like he won't ever let me go.

We stay frozen like that, panting. Holding each other. Wrapped up in each other.

"Chase," I finally say. "Let me go."

He pulls back, out. Sets me gently on my feet. Holds me until my legs can work again. His cheeks are colored, his eyes fierce. His cock is still hard. I can still feel him inside me, even though we're no longer touching.

"I'll never let you go, Elle."

I stare up into his deep blue eyes. I know he means it. But he'll forget about me. He'll have to.

Because tomorrow morning, I'm leaving for good.