Taming Seraphine

LEROI

I’d suspected she was building up to this request, but hearing it still takes me aback. My heart rate picks up several notches. Seraphine deserves someone better. Someone with ethics, training, experience. Someone who doesn’t get hard at the thought of her with a knife pressed to my neck.

“That’s not a good idea,” I reply, keeping my voice even. “You need a professional. There’s another woman in town⁠—”

“Then I’ll stab her too,” she snaps. “I want you.”

My eyes narrow. I take another look at Seraphine’s face. There are no signs of the tears that were threatening to fall, and she looks just like the defiant girl who taunted me with a cock sandwich. Scratch that. She’s more like the little vixen who sat and slid on my shaft.

She’s cornering me. Trying to take away all options until I’m forced to agree to her demands.

“You’re being a brat,” I say.

Her expression softens, and she bites her lip. “I don’t trust anyone else. And I know I can trust you not to freak out.”

So, she’s not denying being manipulative.

“I know nothing about psychology.”

“But you know how to control your urges.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. She thinks we’re similar? The difference between us is that I’ve never killed in a fit of emotion. At least not after becoming an adult.

“My situation is different. I only kill for money or out of necessity.”

“You didn’t have to slit the gas station man’s throat last night,” she murmurs. “But you did it because that’s what you wanted.”

“I did it to protect you. And myself. He would have reported you to the authorities and led the cops to my door.”

She hums as though dismissing my explanation as bullshit. “Then it’s in your best interest to teach me how to be more like you.”

Any notion that Seraphine is innocent flies out the window when I remember that this is the same young woman who got me all hot and bothered this morning before conquering me with a knife at my cock.

She’s trying to wrap me around her twisted little finger.

“I’m a monster, not a mentor,” I mutter.

“Then teach me to be a better monster,” she says with a practiced pout.

“Answer my questions truthfully.”

She nods, knowing I’m not asking.

“Did you stab Monica because you wanted me to be your therapist?”

She hesitates. “No.”

My eyes narrow. “Did you really lose control yesterday on your killing spree?”

“Yes,” she murmurs. “And I know I need help.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask about her end game. If the answer is her, Gabriel, and me playing happy families in my apartment, then my answer to her request is no.

I don’t get attached to women. Certainly not a woman who has the face of an angel and the heart of a killer. Definitely not a woman whose darkness rivals my own, and especially not a woman trained to throw a man’s common sense off kilter.

Before I can say anything, she slides a hand over mine. Electricity zips up and down my spine as she clutches my finger.

“You’re the only one I can touch. You’re the only person I trust.”

I meet her pleading eyes. Eyes so clear and blue, I swear I can see the flames of her soul. Eyes that draw me in and won’t let go. What’s left of my resolve crumbles.

“I’m not a good man.” I mumble.

“I don’t need a good man,” she replies. “I need someone who understands me.”

“The training will be difficult.”

She gives me an eager nod.

“There will be punishment for failure.”

“Are there rewards for being a good girl?” she whispers, her voice husky.

Her words race straight to my cock, which pushes painfully against my fly. My mind is going in the wrong direction. She doesn’t mean the type of good girl that gets on her knees and gets down and dirty to earn my approval. Seraphine probably wants chocolates or clothes or gadgets. Not my kind of reward.

I clear my throat, but it’s already too late to clear my thoughts. My filthy mind is already picturing her beneath me, naked and writhing and flushed.

“What kind of rewards?” I ask.

Pink blooms across her cheeks, and the fingers around mine intensify their grip. My brain won’t stop picturing how tight she would be around my shaft.

“Well…” She licks her lips, and it takes every effort not to lean across the driver’s seat for a taste. “I’ve never had an orgasm.”

My eyes squeeze shut, along with the muscles of my throat. I rasp, “This conversation calls for a drink.”

One of the few legit businesses my cousins retained after Uncle Enzo died is Phoenix nightclub. It owns the bar next door that serves food and hard liquor. It’s also one of the few places where the tables aren’t jammed so close together that you can hear the people next to you chewing.

Seraphine and I sit in a booth close to the fire exit. I knock back two shots of whiskey and she drinks from a strawberry milkshake.

“This isn’t the kind of training I had in mind,” I say.

“I can’t think of any reward I want more than an orgasm,” she says.

I shift in my seat. “What about perfume, clothes, makeup?”

“No.”

My jaw clenches. “Tell me why.”

She peers up at me through her lashes and slides her fingers up and down her straw. Her coy act is screwing with my judgment. “I liked sitting on top of you, and I think you could help me feel good.”

My cock stirs, and I gulp. “Do you even know what you’re asking for?”

“Yes.”

The waiter brings me another shot. I turn the glass in my hand and swirl the amber liquid, still not sure she really knows what she’s asking. When I screwed up with Anton, he made me run laps, perform press ups and burpees.

“If your reward is an orgasm, what kind of punishments can you tolerate?” I lean back in my seat to observe her reaction.

Her cheeks flush.

“Um… spanking. Maybe leather bondage. I’ve never tried that.”

“How do you even know about BDSM?”

She raises a shoulder. “I’m not as innocent as I look. I learned a lot in the past five years.”

My heart skips a beat. I try not to imagine the kinds of places she had to infiltrate as a Lolita assassin. She at least has some idea of what to expect, but her request still doesn’t make sense. “How is that going to help you control your urges?”

She leans closer, her knee pressing against mine and sending a thrum of sensation where I need it the least. “It’s like you said. You’re going to teach me to be more controlled and every time I succeed in something, I’ll get an orgasm.”

“And you accept the consequences of disobedience and being a brat?”

She nods, her lips lifting into a smile.

My cock fills, and I let out a ragged breath. She’s serious. If this arrangement between us is going to succeed, I’ll have to keep a tight rein on my urges. She is, after all, another assassin. Seraphine doesn’t know that I’m aware of her background, and I don’t want to think about how she got close enough to her targets to murder them.

“I have two conditions,” I say.

Her brows rise.

“No kissing and no orgasms for me.”

Her face falls. “Why?”

“Because this is your training, not my opportunity to take advantage of you and get off.”

She frowns. “But⁠—”

“Take it or leave it.”

Her shoulders droop, but the flush on her cheeks darkens. “Fine.” She holds out her hand to seal the deal. “Let’s get started.”

Something about this agreement is off. Abused young women don’t approach strange men for orgasms. Perhaps there are more layers to her than I thought, but then I remember a TV show where a woman’s psyche was splintered by trauma.

“You’re still Seraphine?” I ask, making sure she’s not another personality because I still can’t believe she’s serious. “The girl I carried out of the basement?”

“Of course.” Her fingers twitch, eager for my touch.

I take it, the corners of my lips lifting into a half smile.

This is going to be interesting.