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Excerpt

This day had taken a turn. Carmelo was all set for storming out of the hotel and back to his police cruiser, but he passed the hotel bar as he made his way through the lobby. What the hell, he wasn’t on duty, he needed to sit down and take a fucking minute to process this. HIm, forced into a marriage with some overindulged mafia princess? He wanted a drink, a swift, sharp, cold dash of reality.

He sat himself on a bar stool and ordered a whiskey on the rocks from the barman. The barman obviously sensed his turmoil and an ice cold glass of cool, amber liquid was placed swiftly in front of him.

He took a breath in and out, picked up the glass, had it half way to his lips when he heard something.

A piping voice from across the bar.

A piping voice that made him freeze and crane around to see.

“Pornstar martini, please.” It was arrogant and presumptive and far too familiar.

He looked up. It was her. Milena Zakarian. She slammed her tennis racket down on the bar and huffed herself into a bar stool, which was a fair bit too high for her, so it took a bit of thigh flashing to get herself there. Carmelo watched her bare legs as she settled onto the stool.

Well, Carmelo thought, he’d be damned.

She must have felt his gaze on her, because she looked up and over at him. When she caught sight of him she rolled her eyes.

“What are you doing here?" she huffed.

For a moment, he considered blanking her. Like she had done with him pretty much in their meeting earlier. Or he thought about coming up with some snarky comment and returning to his drink. However, he didn’t do any of those things. For better or for worse, he thought, he picked up his whiskey glass and sauntered over.

“Same thing it looks like you're doing, Princess." He nodded to the martini glass and shot glass that was placed in front of her.

She tossed her ponytail over her shoulder. “Well, the helicopter’s refueling so I have to wait for like an hour,” she said as she turned to him. “This situation my parents have dreamed up, I will have absolutely nothing to do with it, I have no intention of marrying you, the bozo golden boy cop, I don't even know you-”

“-and there's no fucking way I'm marrying you, either, the bratty daughter of a gang criminal,” Carmelo cut her off with anger in his voice, too.

She touched the stem of her glass with perfectly manicured, glossy nails and rolled her eyes again.

“I'm very happy being young, free and single, thank you very much,” Carmelo added and took a giant swing of his whiskey before his throat locked up with the lie he just told.

They both downed their drinks and then stared in angry silence into the bottom of their almost empty glasses.

She sighed, suddenly pensive, resigned, quieter somehow. He watched her out of the corner of his eye.

She took another breath, but this was slower, less impulsive. “I admit when I thought that I was going to be paired off with a bad-boy MC member,” her voice was lower than normal. Carmelo watched as she bit her lip before continuing to speak. “I…”

She didn’t finish what she was going to say but her body spoke volumes for her.

Carmelo blinked in disbelief, and watched as her pulse quickened, her hips angled ever so slightly, her back arched, her thighs rubbed together.

She looked at him directly now, a scathing look, and angled her neat arching eyebrows. “But you're a cop. The clean cut ‘golden boy’ really isn’t me.  I was looking forward to… a bad boy.”

Carmelo swirled the whiskey in his glass. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. She had liked the idea of being forced together with a bad boy. She wanted a bit of rough from the other side of the tracks. A part of her had wanted something more than just the everyday, something more than what was expected of her, more than how people treated her. Just like he did. For a split second, a brief, sweet moment of reprieve, Carmelo felt a burden slipping off his shoulders.

Carmelo took another swig of whiskey. “Don't worry Princess, I would have given you the ride of your life.”

She cast a scathing look over him, like he was a piece of dirt on her shoe. "No offense, but you are totally not what I look for in a guy," she said.

"No?" he asked, an amused smile on his lips.

She took a breath. "Gold medal, golden boy, golden balls, I bet you're clean shaven every day, shirt is pressed… Missionary position sex on Sundays followed by Mom's meatloaf recipe-"

Carmelo guffawed. "Oh yeah… you got me all figured out, Princess," he said dryly, shaking his head. "So what is your type?" Carmelo probed.

"Oh," she took a dramatic sigh, "there's no point telling you.”

"How about let me guess?" Carmelo smirked down at her. "You're used to being treated like a princess, men who date you treat you like a pretty china doll, or a little toy Pomeranian. It's Disney film style kisses and holding hands and them being Perfect Prince Charming to impress your daddy." He licked his lips, he had her attention now.  "But you want more. You lie in bed at night dreaming of something more. You don't even know what it is, you can't comprehend it but you can feel it. You don't want to be dressed up and shown off.”

She sat forward on her bar stool now, almost hanging off his every word. “What is it I want then, Sergeant?” she half-whispered.

“You want to be dressed down and shown up. You want someone who's going to bite you and pull your hair. You want wet, crumpled bed sheets under your pretty little fingernails, clawing at them as you sob and shake your way through climax after climax.” Her lips parted now, he heard her breath catch slightly as she took in a quick breath of air. He carried on. "You want a dirty bad boy to meet you, best you, treat you oh so bad but oh so good. You don't want people to look at you like the cute little daughter of the mafia man they fear. You want to be desired, held, grabbed, spanked, you want to sputter as a hand closes around your throat rather than that hand fastening another pretty little meaningless piece of jewelry around your neck." Carmelo realized he had no breath in his lungs.

She tossed her long dark ponytail over her shoulder with a confident flick and batted her thick as a forest eyelashes at him. “I can’t imagine most of what I want, I don’t even know half of what I want, you are right, but I can imagine a bad boy would know how to get me there.”

Carmelo very deliberately put his whiskey glass down. Slowly and carefully, he licked his bottom lip, aware that his cock was standing to attention and digging awkwardly and probably very visibly into his pants. He took a breath, waiting for her to laugh, to back out, to take it back and back down and pop off the bar stool and walk out of his life. But she didn’t. She stayed, looking at him with a deep, dark look. A look that spoke of lust and desperation. Of loneliness. The same loneliness Carmelo felt gnawing at his soul.

He saw that hunger. He knew it. He could match it and raise her one. Oh fuck did he know that feeling. He waited a fraction of a second longer. She didn’t back down.

He took a breath and spoke. “Princess, I’m not the good boy who would bow down at your feet, and be gentle with you, I’m the bad boy who’d push you to your limits and beyond, rudely, roughly, and without remorse.”

He could see her chest rising and falling erratically, the pulse in the base of her neck speeding up fluttering wildly, pupils dilated, her lips parted. Oh yeah, she wanted this.

“You wanna do this, right here, right now?” he heard himself saying.

She merely breathed.

“You want some pushback?”

“Yes, yes,” she stammered, her voice now husky, “some fight. I want dirty talk, I want to be treated a little bit roughly. Everyone says yes and agrees to everything I say, wraps me in cotton wool and is nothing but respectful-”

Then he’d start here and now. Carmelo held the whiskey in his mouth for a moment, then brought the glass back to his lips. He maintained eye contact with her as he half dribbled, half spat it back into the glass. As if he was spitting on her pussy. She starred with wide, shocked eyes.

“You want to be called a naughty girl.”

“More,” she said, eyes on his lips.

“A dirty girl.”

“More.”

Carmelo threw caution to the wind. “A wet little fuck hole. My greedy little cum slut.”

Her face went a whiter shade of pale. Carmelo worried he’d gone too far.

But then color returned. A pretty pink blush blossomed in her cheeks and her pupils melted and her lips parted and her eyelids hooded. “Yes.”

Carmelo reached his hand into his pocket and pulled out the handcuffs. “Put them on, Princess. I’ll give you what you want right fucking now, and more.”

Fuck. Carmelo had to roll his hips to feel a bit of friction from his too tight trousers now. He wanted to touch himself badly. He wanted to fist himself hard and pump. He wanted her to pump him dry and watch her shocked, pouty face as he came all over himself.

“Princess, say now, I put these handcuffs on you and I’m the bad boy you've always dreamed of having.”

She looked up at him. “I'm absolutely not marrying you, we do this, we do only this and then we both walk away.”

“Agreed.” He nodded once.

She put both hands on the bar. “Cuff me, show me just how much of a bad boy you are. Be rough with me, give me the ride of my life, Sergeant,” she purred.

Carmelo needed no further encouragement.

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About the Author

Ruby Bloom writes gritty erotic romance about alpha males who love fiercely and roughly, and strong female characters who know what they want and aren't afraid to ask for it. She is an avid fan of romance books and always seeks that Happily Ever After.

She lives in the UK and works in the mental health field by day, and writes erotic romance by night!

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