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  Renee Rose

  Burning Desires

  Copyright © December 2019 Wild Card by Renee Rose

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this book ONLY. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Published in the United States of America

  Renee Rose Romance

  Editor: Maggie Ryan

  This book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imaginations or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book contains descriptions of many BDSM and sexual practices, but this is a work of fiction and, as such, should not be used in any way as a guide. The author and publisher will not be responsible for any loss, harm, injury, or death resulting from use of the information contained within. In other words, don’t try this at home, folks!

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

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  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

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  About Renee Rose

  Other Titles by Renee Rose

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to Maggie Ryan for her edits and to Aubrey Cara for beta read!

  All my love to the Romper Roomies. If you’re not a member of my Facebook group, please send me an email at [email protected] to join!

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  Chapter 1

  Caitlin

  Fists at boob level, elbows back, I lead my dance cardio class through some booty shaking to the song, Sweet but Psycho.

  Yeah, it’s pretty much my theme song.

  “Step touch, throw your hand down in front,” I sing into the headset, exaggerating the movements to help the class follow along.

  Dance cardio is my jam. I teach it four nights a week at the campus rec center and take other movement classes on the off-nights. Anything to keep me moving, which probably seems strange for a computer science geek.

  It does border on obsessive, but it’s not one of those body-hatred kind of things. I’m not working out to achieve some body ideal or to look a certain way.

  I just need to move. I have a hard time staying in my body, otherwise.

  Dissociative disorder is the official diagnosis. I check out when things get intense for me. Movement helps. Pain and sex work even better.

  General consensus—I’m broken.

  But that doesn’t matter much, because my time is running out.

  The siphon I put on the Tacone family’s casino business—the one where I skimmed a fifth of a penny from every transaction—got shut down two weeks ago.

  And even though I used an off-shore account for storing the funds before they paid for my brother’s and my college tuition, there’s a decent chance I’m going to end up swimming with the fishes, as they say.

  But I knew that going into my little revenge scheme.

  “Wide second position, deep breath in.” I start the cool down. It’s always over too soon. I lead the class through the closing stretches and thank them all for coming.

  “Thank you, Caitlin.” My students wave and smile as they leave. Here, I’m almost normal. I could be just like any of them. A pretty, wide-smiling graduate student getting her workout.

  It’s when people get to know me a little better they see my crazy. Decide I’m the girl to give a wide berth around. Which is totally fine with me.

  I grab my towel and head to the showers, picking up my phone to check messages. Not that I ever have any. It’s just an anxious habit from when my brother Trevor was still in foster care, and I would freak out if he didn’t contact me every day to let me know he was still alive.

  Still okay. Not living the nightmare I’d lived.

  It’s one of the many quirks I have the Tacones to thank for. The side effect of having a dad murdered by the mob.

  Except now that I’ve had my revenge, now that they’re coming for me, I’m thinking I shouldn’t have stirred the hornet’s nest.

  I was probably better use to Trevor alive than dead. Even if I did generate enough funds to pay our college tuition.

  I’d better warn him. I dial his number and he picks right up.

  “Hey, Caitie.” He’s the only person I let call me that.

  “Hey, Trevor. Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. Why wouldn’t it be?” It’s sometimes weird to me how normal he turned out compared to me. But he had a decent foster family. And he had me.

  I had only ugliness and myself to rely on.

  “Hey, I have to tell you something, but it’s going to be fine,” I say quickly, just to get the words out. I’ve tried to tell him four other times since the money got cut off, but chickened out every time.

  “What is it?”

  “Um, I may have hacked a company I shouldn’t have messed with.”

  “Oh shit. What happened? Are you in jail?”

  “Nope, not jail. It probably won’t go that route. Do you remember who killed Dad?”

  Trevor goes dead quiet. When he speaks, his voice sounds scared. “Tell me you didn’t.”

  “I did. Anyway, they probably won’t figure it out, but if they do, you remember the place we used to say we’d meet up if anything bad happened with foster care?”

  I don’t know why I’m speaking in code. It’s not like the mafia are in the locker room right now. Or bugging my phone.

  “I remember.”

  “If I have to run, that’s where I’ll go. Okay?”

  “Shit, Caitie. This is bad. Are you crazy?”

  “That’s what they say,” I remind him in a sing-song voice. “Anyway, nothing’s going to happen. I thought I should tell you just in case.”

  “Maybe you should go hide there now.”

  “No, I don’t even know if they’ll trace it to me. But if they do, I’ll figure it out. I don’t want you to worry.”

  “Yeah, I’m definitely worried.”

  My chest warms. Trevor’s the only good in my life.

  “Well, don’t. You know me—I can take care of myself. I’ll figure it out. Just be cautious about any texts from me and don’t give up my location if anyone comes asking.”

  “I won’t. Shit, Caitlin.”

  “It’s okay. I promise. I’ll text you tomorrow.”

  “All right. Be careful.”

  “I will.” I hang up and shove my phone down in my bag before I strip out of my sweaty clothes and step in the shower.

  If only I believed I have this all under control.

  I rinse off with the Sweet but Psycho song on repeat in my head.

  Paolo

  I break into the apartment of Caitlin—aka WYLDE—West using the key I had made
by a locksmith who owed me a favor. I sent one of my henchmen over to watch her for the past week and give me the deets on her habits, so I know she’s teaching her dance cardio class now.

  I know she’ll be home soon, and I’m looking forward to putting the surprise on her when she arrives.

  Intimidation is an art form I’ve spent a lifetime perfecting, and I’m going to scare the piss out of the little hacker who targeted my family’s casino coffers.

  As the second son of now imprisoned Don Tacone, head of the biggest Chicago crime family, I learned how to crack my knuckles and posture practically as a toddler. How to give a beatdown by age six.

  Most of the time, my reputation and the flash of a gun do all the work necessary. It’s rare I have to actually hurt anyone or make a plain threat.

  So when my brother asked me to take care of our hacker, I was happy to do it. Especially after I saw a picture of the computer geek. The moniker Wylde seems to fit her. It’s not the mess of long thick hair or black glasses. It’s the pink lip gloss on her smirking mouth that makes me think she’s not the antisocial nerd you might expect of someone with her exceptional skills.

  The place is tiny—a studio, I guess they call it—with the kitchen on one wall and the bed on the other and a tiny bathroom off the living / dining section. It’s a mess. Clothes everywhere. Dirty dishes on every surface.

  I pick up a miniscule white thong with one finger.

  Nerds in hot panties. That could be a whole fetish. Kinda goes with the sexy librarian thing. I toss the panties in her hamper and continue my perusal.

  Stacks of books and computer equipment line the walls and desk. An old bike is parked against one wall, helmet hanging from the handlebar.

  I wander around, looking through her things. Ramen and baked beans in the cupboards. Frozen burritos in the freezer. At least she’s not living large on our cash.

  According to my brother, Stefano, all the stolen money was transferred from an off-shore account straight to the bursar’s office of Northwestern University. But if I’m supposed to think it’s noble that she only steals for her education, I don’t. She fucked with the wrong family.

  I stop to examine her bulletin board. Schedules from local yoga and dance studios are pinned over restaurant takeout cards. There’s only one photo—of Caitlin and a young man. I pull it down and examine it.

  It’s the younger brother, Trevor—I see a family resemblance.

  He’s my ace in the hole. I have a guy watching the twenty-year-old kid who is an art student at the same university. No way my little hacker is going to try any funny business when I hold her brother’s balls in a vise.

  She’ll return our money—steal it from someone else or do whatever she needs to do—and I’ll consider letting both of them live.

  Normally that wouldn’t be Tacone policy, but she’s a chick.

  And a hot one at that.

  Plus, I don’t hurt women.

  I look through her closet, smiling when I find the clothes I half expected or hoped to find. The vibe I got was right. She has kinky shit—Fishnets. Bootie shorts. Ripped sheer tops. Stripper gear, only she’s not a stripper.

  I fucking knew this girl was freaky.

  I swear I could tell it from the photo. The computer geek thing just doesn’t sit on her, despite the big black glasses and sloppy clothes. Something about her just screams sex. Maybe it’s the candy-colored lip gloss on that wide-mouthed pout. Or the way she holds herself. She just fucking embodies carnal pleasure.

  And that’s why I’ve been looking forward to this meeting all week.

  I glance at the clock. Almost showtime. I throw the clothes tossed over the easy chair onto the floor and make myself at home to wait.

  I don’t even bother taking out a gun to rest on my thigh like I might with a dude.

  She’ll be scared enough to find me in her apartment.

  And I shouldn’t let that give me a hard-on, but it does.

  But even with my research and my own conjectures, I’m still unprepared for the hot sexy mess of a hacker who blows in.

  She enters her apartment with earbuds in her ears, apparently still jamming out to her workout playlist. She’s in a pair of yoga pants and puffy jacket, which she instantly strips to dump on the floor. Underneath, she’s wearing a crop top that shows off a perfectly toned midriff below a pair of perky tits. Her dark hair is piled on top of her head in a thick, messy bun and she’s wearing that bright lip gloss that makes me think about how that mouth would look around my dick.

  She doesn’t notice me as she comes in. She doesn’t notice much of anything. She appears to be lost in thought as she walks straight to the kitchen, pours herself a bowl of Golden Grahams cereal and milk and starts eating standing up.

  Only then does she turn and spot me.

  The cereal bowl clatters to the floor as her scream pierces the air. Milk splatters fly everywhere.

  Her wide eyes lock on mine, that pretty mouth opens.

  But she recovers way faster than I expect. Just one short scream and she goes silent.

  “Hello, Caitlin.”

  “Oh.” Her palm travels down her toned belly, wiping at the milk splatters, then she dries it on her ass. And a very fine ass it is.

  “The Tacones sent you?” She sounds breathless. Good. She was expecting me.

  “I sent myself.”

  “Mr. Tacone, then.”

  And that’s when I realize my usual intimidation schtick is a total and complete fail.

  Because little miss hacker slowly slides her hand between her legs, holding my gaze while she curls her fingers there, touching herself like she’s watching porn.

  Or rather, like she’s the porn star and she knows she owns me with that simple move.

  Caitlin

  “What the fuck are you doing?” my hitman demands. He has that decidedly urban, definitely dangerous way of saying fuck. When a college boy says fuck, it means nothing. The way this guy says it hits me square in the chest. It’s an assault all in itself.

  He’s way more beautiful than I expected. Wickedly, darkly handsome, which seems unfair, since he’s also a multi-millionaire.

  And a killer, I remind myself as I seek my clit through my yoga pants. It is a manipulation. I’m trying to throw him off guard with my crazy. But it’s also for me. Sex pulls me back to my body and I have to think now. I can’t dissociate when my life is on the line here.

  So I move my fingers slowly between my legs, rolling my clitoral hood piercing while I force myself to breathe and stare into the dark brown eyes of Chicago’s Most Dangerous.

  I always knew it would come to this. Me digging my own grave while a guy in an Italian suit holds a gun to my head. Only he doesn’t even bother with a gun. It’s like he knows, even sitting down without a visible weapon, I’m at his mercy.

  I rub my clit harder, pushing the piercing against it for added friction, as my mouth goes slack and my nipples get hard, all the while watching the man in my apartment, looking for the opportunity to get away or kill him first. He raises his brows, and I realize he’s waiting for an answer to his question.

  I shrug like it’s perfectly normal to finger yourself when you find a mafia hitman in your apartment. “If I’m gonna die, I’m at least going to make it feel good. You know, make it my fantasy, not yours,” I tell him. I try to make it sound like I’m not scared at all.

  And that’s partly true. Life will fuck you hard in the ass, so you might as well find a way to enjoy it. That’s been my mantra since the day my dad disappeared. Since the night social services showed up and took my brother and me away to separate foster homes.

  “Yeah?” The Tacone—I don’t know which of the five brothers he is because he hasn’t told me—slowly unfolds his long legs from my easy chair and rises. He’s tall and stocky—over six feet, with broad shoulders. Despite the size and hulk, he saunters toward me with an effortless, casual grace. And he’s not pissed off by my masturbation. Judging by the bulge in his pants, he�
�s enjoying my show. Which means sex is a place I can find leverage with him.

  I’m definitely not above using the only things I have—my sexuality and lack of sanity—to fight back in an unwinnable situation.

  He pulls two zip ties from his jacket pocket, a grin playing at the corners of his mouth. “So what is your fantasy, little hacker?” He catches my wrists and pins them together in front, then wraps a zip tie around them.

  And with that simple act—his taking control of my body—some more of my sanity slips, because now he’s got kinky Caitlin under his thumb.

  The zip tie hurts, so I twist my wrists against the hard plastic, letting it dig into my skin, keep me in my body.

  I return my bound hands to my pulsing clit and continue a slow rub. Mr. Tacone watches.

  Then he feeds right into my fantasy and pinches one of my nipples through my shirt and sports bra. He holds it tight and twists. “I asked you a question, Caitlin. I expect an answer.” His voice is low and smoky. It curls between my legs, creating shivers of pleasure tremoring through my body.

  Don’t get lost in lust, I warn myself. It’s a delicate line. I use sex to stay in my body, but I can just as easily lose myself there, as well. And I didn’t expect my hitman to be quite so… appealing. I’m losing the sliver of leverage I imagined I had.

  My eyelids flutter. If I were wearing panties, I would’ve soaked them. As it is, I’m bare under my yoga pants so there’s probably a wet spot.

  Tacone tosses me easily over his shoulder and carries me the few steps it takes to get to my bed, where he throws me down and fastens another zip tie around my ankles. When I roll to my side, he slaps my ass.