| BOOK FIVE | THE LONDON CRIME KING | A DARK MAFIA ROMANCE NOVEL |
This book contains adult language and subject matter, including graphic violence, drugs and explicit sex that may be disturbing to some readers.
This series is NOT a typical romance...
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Josh's slippered feet scuffed the old black and white mosaic floor tiles as he whistled through the wood-panelled lobby. Versace's opulent robe with the gold statement medusa prints and iconic motif embroideries hung in a haphazard fashion from his semi-naked body. Perspiration trickled down his bare chest from a gruelling workout session. His dark brown hair was unwashed and dishevelled, and his dreadful, untidy beard very much resembled Chuck Noland's physical transformation when stranded on the island of Monuriki.
He foraged the fridge freezer in search of midnight snacks. Squirted whipped cream and maraschino cherries flavoured his tongue, thick chocolate milk lined his stomach.
A tiny-waisted, big-breasted blonde with tight coils sidled up to his side and snaked an arm around his waist. Her pink diamante thong unsuccessfully concealed natural blonde curls between her thighs, where red handprints and distinct bite marks blemished her pale white skin. Purple bruises smirched her slender neck, where Josh—or perhaps the pug-nosed brunette who just entered the kitchen—suckled her skin during intense fornication.
I sipped coffee.
"Let's order pizza," the brunette suggested, the fridge's dim light outlining her disproportionately large head and augmented lips in the dark. "Pepperoni."
"No," the blonde purred, pawing Josh's cotton-clad cock. "Let's get the mighty meaty."
They both giggled.
Cheesy pizza puns? Savage.
"Behave," Josh said throatily, throwing grapes in his mouth. "I could smash the absolute banger."
"You can 'absolute banger' me if you want," one of the women moaned, the blonde, as she straddled the chair. "Does Josh Junior want to come out and play?"
Josh Junior?
My cheeks puffed.
Do not laugh, Jones.
Pull yourself together.
"It's all he wants." The brunette's tongue flicked out and licked the column of his neck. "Isn't that right, Sailor?"
I seemed to have unwittingly entered a parallel universe, where unbecoming females suckled each other's toes and a man, who goes by the name of Sailor, popped a dangerous amount of ecstasy tablets to rationalise the unprovocative sequence of events that led to their idiosyncratic behaviour.
Now would be an excellent time to speak up before rampant sex landed on the wooden table. The raunchy females might burst a blood vessel if they rolled onto an intruder's lap. Or, judging by their hypersexual promiscuousness, the sight of said intruder might titillate their inner deviousness, and the dire thought had my stomach in knots.
It was dark again, the fridge door closed, but I heard enough salaciousness to know erotic scenes unravelled. I liked sex. Christ, I fucking craved sex just as much as forty-year-old virgins. I am not opposed to multiple females joining me in the bedroom, either. One is fun. Two is exhilarating. Three is an eventful crowd. I am not into sexually dominating women, though, and these two liked to dominate, rough each other up, and wrestle for the upper hand, which, in my personal opinion, was a huge turn-off. I might have a misogynist attitude, but I preferred an assertive yet manageable woman—or women—who bent to my will. If they dare to overpower me or mount me like a bike, I will throw them into next week—literally.
