Black Collar Beginnings: New York (Black Collar Syndicate) (3 page)

“You didn’t only send me,” he says, softly. “They know—they know they weren’t our first choice, and that Seth is with the Cubans. Starting a war with the Cubans over some pussy—no one thinks that’s a good idea. Especially the Asians. Maybe you could make it easier to trust if you told us what the
fuck is going on.”

Rage flickers in his veins, and his fingers itch to pull his gun. That’s what you do, when faced with an enemy, or a predator. You show them how you defend yourself. Except that Mikie is neither. He’s Uncle Mikie. The fight drains out of him suddenly.

“Just—Jesus, Mikie, if we could just talk to him,” Caleb says, and his voice is pleading. He’s fucking pleading and that’s not supposed to happen. “Find out why the hell he’s still gone. It wasn’t supposed to be this long. Is he still alive?”

Mikie inhales sharply. It’s a fear Caleb hasn’t voiced, one he hasn’t let himself entertain. Because he couldn’t face it, if it were true. If Seth were dead, abandoned to that southern fucking syndicate—

He would never forgive Seth, for dying there. Or himself, for letting him go.

Caleb straightens. Forces away thoughts of his brother and what might be, but can’t be known. Forces himself to stare at the bastard who sent him away, the man who took so much and explained so little

“We need more than a few pretty promises. We need proof that the New York syndicates will support this, no matter what news comes from Cuba. Until they have that, the Asians won’t move forward.”

Morgan Comerce Building. New York City. October 5, 2012.

Caleb stares outside for a long time, after his uncle leaves. He sends a few messages, and two of his best men trail Emma at dinner, but he ignores all calls from Bamboo. He’s not ready for that.

The office is getting quiet, going into the still softness of after-hours, when the secretary—Monica—comes back in.

Caleb watches her reflection with clinical interest as she closes the door, and locks it.

Ah. So that’s what it’s to be.

“You seem worried, Mr. Morgan.”

He doesn’t respond, and she sways forward, to the wet bar set off to one side for him. She pours two drinks, and moves toward him.

“Worry doesn’t suit you,” she says, letting the drink rest on his shoulder. For a moment, he considers refusing it. But this is a game, just like everything, a move on a chessboard. So he takes it, sniffs experimentally.

Vodka cranberry. Emma loves this shit, but it’s not Caleb’s choice. He only stocks it for her. Monica doesn’t know that—can’t possibly, because she doesn’t know shit about him.

“I can help,” she breathes, coming to lean against the window in front of him. She’s unbuttoned the top two buttons on her shirt, and he can see the expensive lace bra peeking out of her shirt. She is all come-hither smiles and false comfort.

Stupid little bitch. Caleb smiles, a sharp teasing edge to it. “How?”

Monica pauses, for a moment, sips her drink. Then she leans into him, and kisses him.

She tastes sweet, shockingly cold, her natural flavor covered by the tart cranberry and bitter vodka. He lets her control this—for now—sitting back with his hand still wrapped around his drink as she straddles him in the chair and slips her tongue in his mouth.

She kisses like a starving woman, and moves on his lap with all the skill of a stripper. It’s good—very good, he thinks, as her tongue strokes along his, and her nails dig into his shoulders. He shifts slightly and she gasps as his erection hits her.

And he’s done. Done letting this girl think she can control anything when it comes to him. His hand fists in her hair, and he bites down on her lower lip, just hard enough that it snaps her eyes open. She stares at him, licking her lips. There is frank interest in her eyes, not the calculated seduction.

“You want to fuck a Morgan, little girl? See what the fuss is all about?” he asks, his voice harsh. He kisses her again, nibbling at her lip, sucking softly until she parts with a sigh and he licks into her mouth, his tongue flicking across her teeth and her tongue, quick darting strokes that leave her twisting in his lap.

He shoves her off him, and stands, unbuckling his pants.

She gives him a wide-eyed stare and Caleb smirks. “You got a lot of talk, sugar. Let’s see you put that mouth to good use.”

Her smirk grows lazy and confidant, and she sinks to her knees.    

He was right—she has a fuckable mouth. And she gives fucking amazing head. The little bitch could give Rama’s girls a run for their money, he thinks, before her lips close over his dick, and she takes him deep. It’s still not deep enough, and she starts to pull away, so he catches a handful of hair.
Tsks
softly. She makes a whine of protest, but he’s past caring, holding her in place as he sets the pace, fucking into her hot little mouth, a brutal speed as she steadies herself with a hand on his hip. Stars are spinning in his vision, and she cups his balls.

“Fuck!” he snarls, jerking away from her. Faster than she can process, he has her on her feet, pinned to the window as he shoves her skirt up and yanks her panties down. They’re wet—she might be spitting curses, but she likes the rough control.

He slides a knee between her legs, forcing them apart, and slips two fingers into her.

Her head falls back against the window with a thud, and she keens, a low note that could be a prayer or a plea. He doesn’t fucking care what it is, just that she’s wet, so fucking wet, and tight. He shoves his fingers into her, a thumb rubbing circles on her clit, and bites down on her neck. She’s writhing, whimpering, a mess of incoherent babble that turns him on even more—because this hot little piece of ass is something Mikie wanted.        

That drives his actions, more than anything. Knowing how much it’ll piss Mikie off.

He drops to his knees, and she screams as his tongue glides over her, her cunt contracting around the fingers still in her. A smirk flips the corners of his lips up, and he gentles his touch, letting her settle, keeping that sharp edge of arousal from tipping over until she’s almost sobbing, her hands messing his hair.

“Caleb,
please,”
she begs.

He stands suddenly, twists her around and shoves into her. Stars burst behind his eyes as she moans, a curse burning behind his teeth.

She’s hot and tight and feels so good. He catches a grip on the back of her neck, jerks her hips back to meet his and fucks her. Hard. Deep, heavy strokes that have his balls slapping against her, and she’s crying, a broken noise of a woman so lost in pleasure she can’t function.

The orgasm slams into him, unexpected tightening of his balls, his cock swelling, and he comes, a heavy burst of pleasure. He jerks out of her, and lets all of his come spill on her back, on the classy skirt and shirt.

She’s still panting, unmoving, as he fastens his pants and grabs his phone from the desk. Walks to the door and unlocks it with a soft snick.

“Get this place cleaned up—then clear out your fucking desk and tell my uncle to quit trying to manage me.”         

Monica’s eyes are very wide, her face white and furious—and that is almost more arousing then the sight of her lips around his cock had been. He chuckles softly, and whistles to himself as he leaves for the evening.

The Black Diamond Hotel. New York City. October 5, 2012.

Emma shifts in the booth next to Quinn. She can’t believe she let herself get talked into going out when Caleb clearly needs her.

No. Wants. Caleb doesn’t
need
anything. Which is part of the problem.

“Hey,” Quinn says, his gaze on her face, worried. She forces a smile. Quinn will become a problem, if she’s not careful. Too devoted, too perceptive. Even without much formal training—
any—
she knows better than to let someone on the outside see her world.

“Nothing. My cousin called earlier, and I should probably find out what he wants.”

Quinn’s eyes narrow and he opens his mouth to say something. A waitress delivers a large coffee, thick with cream and sugar, and a slice of pizza.

“Do you need anything else, ma’am?” she asks, politely focusing on Emma.

Quinn watches, a silent witness.
This
, she wants to scream at him,
isn’t real. This is not my world—it’s just the shiny surface. The hotels and businesses we use to hide.

A headache forms behind her eyes, and she give the waitress a quiet smile, slightly shy. The façade she’s been perfecting since she was a child and realized just how dangerous the family was.

“No,” she murmurs, “this is perfect.”

“Is it Seth?”

The question startles her, and she jerks in her seat, eyes darting around the room before she stares at Quinn, confusion and pain in her eyes. “No. Of course not.”

“Why is he never in the papers anymore?”

She shrugs, tamps down the pain. “He went abroad to study. The foreign press doesn’t care about a New York socialite.”

“What’s he studying?”

Emma hesitates in the middle of lifting her coffee, giving Quinn a searching look. He’s focused on the pizza, almost ignoring her.

“Real estate,” she says, shortly. “What else would he study?”

“For fuck’s sake, Em,” Quinn growls. She goes very still next to him. “When are you going to stop fucking lying to me?” he demands, furiously. “I’m your best friend. We’ve been dating for six months. Christ, we had sex.”

Once.
Just once, to get rid of that bothersome virginity and because she was so angry with Seth. Seth who promised to protect her, that he would teach her. Promises were made to be broken—that was a lesson from Caleb. The cousin who cared enough to stay.

He cared enough to stay, and to teach her, in his way. But there was a line, a protective bubble that he kept around her. Even as he took her away from the gilded cage her mother and Mikie kept her in, Caleb protected and sheltered her.

She was so tired of it—so tired of being in the heart of a black collar empire, and knowing nothing.

Fucking Quinn was a silent
screw you
to her cousins, more than anything. Because they would spill blood if they knew, and because it was completely ridiculous—Caleb fucked random women at every event the family hosted, and Seth fought with Nic over his affairs more than anything. The stories Caleb told were legendary. Being drunk and losing her virginity on prom night was a cliché that she just couldn’t pass up.

Emma shakes her head, banishing her anger. “We are not dating, Quinn. You are my best friend, and prom night was—“

“What?” he says, softly. Hurt.

She sighs. “It was special. And because you are my best friend, it could be special. But—that’s all it is, Quinn. A special night that I needed.”

“But I am your best friend. And you lie to me—constantly.”

Her face goes carefully blank. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Quinn leans into her space, bumping the coffee. It splashes, staining the thick tablecloth.

In a Morgan hotel, even the tablecloths are decadent.

“Your family is a fucking criminal syndicate.”

She doesn’t react. Doesn’t even blink. Just gives him a very cold stare, until Quinn flushes and backs away from her. Hotel security is by their booth. “Miss Morgan, is everything—?”

“Fine,” she says, soft and cool. She flicks a look at the security guard, sees the ink peeking out of his cuff. A banded ouroboros.

The family wouldn’t recognize this look on her face—remote, and regal, and completely in control. “I’m fine. Thank you. “

The guard looks a little uncertain, and Quinn snaps, “She’s
fine.
Leave us the fuck alone.”

Anger flares in the security guard’s eyes and he tenses. Emma makes a slight motion, a faint noise in her throat, and his eyes go to her. She shakes her head, and his expression settles into a mask. “Yes, ma’am.”

She watches the security guard retreat, and then refocuses on Quinn. His anger is gone, replaced by fascination.

“What the hell was that?” she asks, softly.