LUCAS' POV
Sweat clung to my skin as I slipped into the back of Vincent's black SUV, the dock's chaos still buzzing in my veins. Vincent slid in beside me, his presence swallowing the air. His jacket hung open, shirt clinging to his chiseled chest, and I forced my eyes away. Raul, in the driver's seat, gunned the engine, peeling us into Miami's neon veins. The city pulsed, alive with sin, and Vincent owned half of it—clubs, casinos, even cops. But The Coral Sting, his crown jewel, was where he went to breathe.
"Coral Sting," Vincent said, voice rough, like he'd swallowed gravel. "Need to check the books. And a drink."
I nodded, throat tight. He sounded off, his usual predator's calm frayed since the dock fight. Or maybe since I'd walked in on him last week, his hand wrapped around his thick cock, head tipped back, a groan ripping from his throat. I'd frozen, heat flooding me, and he'd smirked, unashamed, daring me to stay. I'd bolted, but the image burned—his sculpted biceps, the veins on his forearm, that monster between his legs. Since then, we couldn't share a room without Raul as a buffer. Alone, we'd almost.
"You okay, boss?" I asked, risking a glance. His hazel eyes glinted, catching the streetlights.
He leaned closer, elbow brushing mine, and my pulse spiked. "Been better, Liam. You?"
"Fine," I lied, shifting to hide the heat creeping up my neck. His scent—leather, smoke, and something primal—clogged my lungs. I hated how it stirred me, how his body, all muscle and menace, haunted my thoughts. Vincent was a devil, Miami's most wanted, and I was the cop sent to cage him. But my body craved him, a hunger I couldn't shake.
Raul parked outside The Coral Sting, its neon sign buzzing red and gold. Bouncers snapped to attention, nodding as Vincent strode past, me and Raul trailing. Inside, the club thrummed—bass pounding, bodies grinding, liquor flowing. Dealers slipped through the crowd, pockets fat with cash. Patrons parted for Vincent, eyes lowered, respect bordering on fear. He owned this world, and I played my part, scanning for threats, Glock heavy at my hip.
"Business looks good," Raul said, nodding at the packed bar.
Vincent grunted, heading for the stairs to his VIP lounge. "Let's see the numbers."
Upstairs, the lounge sprawled, all velvet and glass, overlooking the dance floor. A private bar gleamed, stocked with top-shelf rum. Vincent sank into a leather couch, legs spread, exuding power. I stood by the railing, watching the crowd, but my eyes kept drifting to him—his broad shoulders, the way his shirt strained over his pecs. Fuck, he was ravishing, a walking sin I shouldn't want.
"Liam, pour me a drink," Vincent called, snapping me out of it.
I crossed to the bar, grabbed a bottle of Bacardi 8, and poured, my hands unsteady. My mind replayed that night—his cock, slick and heavy, his low moan. I wanted to hate him, but my body screamed otherwise, aching to taste him, to feel him pin me down. I handed him the glass, our fingers brushing, and a jolt shot through me.
He sipped, eyes locked on mine, unreadable. "Another."
I poured again, slower, and gaze snapping on his lips, the scar on his jaw. He was built like a god—biceps bulging, chest carved, and that dick I'd seen, thick and perfect. My cock twitched, and I cursed myself. He was the fucking enemy, but the hunger gnawed, raw and relentless.
"You're staring, Liam," Vincent said, voice low, teasing. He snapped his fingers in my face, smirking. "What's in that head? Thinking about me fucking you?"
My face burned, and I choked on air. "Sorry," I stammered, stepping back.
He laughed, dark and wicked. "Don't be. I like the way you look at me." His eyes roamed my body, stripping me bare, and my breath hitched. The air thickened, charged with something dangerous.
Raul cleared his throat, breaking the spell. "Boss, books are clean. Want me to check the floor?"
Vincent's gaze didn't leave me. "Go handle the dealers, Raul. Make sure they're moving products."
Raul hesitated, glancing between us, then nodded and left. The door clicked shut, and my stomach twisted. Alone with Vincent, the room felt too small, his presence too big. I shifted, uneasy, my skin prickling under his stare. He enjoyed this, making me squirm, knowing I wanted him and hated myself for it.
"Sit," he said, patting the couch.
"I'm good," I said, voice tight, moving for the door. "Gonna check the floor."
He surged up, grabbed my wrist, and yanked me back. My back hit the wall, his body caging mine, all heat and muscle. "Don't run, Liam," he growled, his breath hot on my neck. "We're in public. Relax."
"Public's the problem," I snapped, heart pounding. "You're my boss, Vincent. This is—"
He cut me off, smirking. "What? Wrong? You think I don't see how you look at me? Like you want me to bend you over this bar." His hand slid to my hip, gripping hard, and I bit back a moan.
"Boss, you're drunk," I said, desperate to ground him. "It's me—"
His eyes darkened, pinning me. "I know exactly who you are. My sexy, fucking ravishing right-hand man I've been jerking off to for weeks."
His words hit like a punch, shock and heat flooding me. He'd fantasized about me?
"No," I said, voice weak, pushing at his chest.
"Liar," he purred, leaning closer, lips brushing my ear. "You're hard as fuck right now." His hand grazed my crotch, and I gasped, traitorously hard. He was right—I wanted him, bad, and he knew it.
I opened my mouth to protest, but he kissed me, rough and claiming, tongue forcing its way in. I groaned, melting into him, hands fisting his shirt. He tasted like rum and sin, and I was done fighting. He dragged me to a hidden door behind the bar, leading to a private room—dark, soundproof, a single couch in the center.
I sprawled, panting, as he loomed over me, unbuttoning his shirt. His chest gleamed, muscles rippling, and I licked my lips, hunger overtaking reason. "Fuck it," I muttered, yanking him down.
Our mouths crashed, teeth clashing, hands tearing at clothes. My shirt ripped, his belt clattered to the floor. He pinned my wrists, grinding, his cock against mine, both of us rock-hard through our pants. "You're mine tonight," he growled, biting my neck, and I arched, moaning loudly.
"Yes, daddy," I gasped, clawing his back.
He freed my wrists, and I shoved his pants down, his thick cock springing free, just as massive as I remembered. I wrapped my hand around it, stroking, and he groaned, thrusting into my grip.
"On your knees," he ordered, voice rough. I obeyed, mouth watering, and took him deep, gagging as he hit the back of my throat. His hands tangled in my hair, guiding me, hips rocking. "Suck me, butterfly," he moaned, voice wrecked.
I pulled off, gasping, and he yanked me up, flipping me onto the couch. He ripped my jeans down, spitting into his hand, slicking his fingers. One breached me, then two, stretching me rough and fast. I cursed, pleasure-pain sparking, and he smirked, working me open.
"Beg for it," he said, fingers curling, hitting that spot that made me see stars.
"Please, fuck me," I panted, shameless, ass clenching around him.
He didn't wait, lining up and slamming in, filling me in one brutal thrust. I shouted, gripping the couch, as he pounded, relentless, skin slapping skin. His hand wrapped around my cock, stroking in time, and I bucked, lost in the heat, the filth of it. "You feel so fucking good," he growled, biting my shoulder, and I came undone, spilling over his hand with a cry.
He followed, roaring, filling me with heat, his thrusts slowing as we collapsed, panting, sweat-soaked. My chest heaved, his weight grounding me, and for a moment, nothing else existed.
Then screams shattered the haze—shouts, crashes, voices barking, "Miami PD! Get down!" My blood froze. The police department. But they were not supposed to be here—at least not now. I'd sent the intel days ago asking them to raid during the coke shipment next week. How the fuck were they here?
Vincent stiffened, pulling out, both of us scrambling for clothes. I yanked on my jeans, heart hammering, as he grabbed his Beretta, eyes wild. "What the hell's going on?" he snapped, zipping up.
I swallowed, fear clawing my gut. "No idea," I lied, grabbing my Glock. I knew those chants—"Miami PD, on your knees!"—too well. My precinct. But why the club? Who tipped them off? Not me. I hadn't sent a word about tonight.
We burst out of the room, back to the VIP lounge, and peered over the railing. Cops swarmed the dance floor, cuffing dealers, patrons screaming. Vincent's jaw clenched, gun raised, but I grabbed his arm.
He shook me off, storming for the stairs. "Are you coming or what?" he barked.
I followed, legs shaky, mind racing. Did they track me here? Did someone else sell Vincent out to them? My cover hung by a thread, and if Vincent learned I was a cop, the trust I'd built—fuck, the sex we'd just had—would mean nothing. He'd kill me.
We hit the main floor, and cops spun, guns trained on Vincent. "Vincent Delgado!" one shouted, a sergeant I recognized. "Stop your weapon! You're under arrest!"
Vincent froze, gun still raised, eyes narrowing. My knees buckled, dread choking me. The sergeant's gaze shifted, landing on me, and he fucking saluted. "Detective Lucas Harper, congratulations on your first big bust."
The world stopped. Vincent's head whipped to me, eyes wide, betrayal carving his face. "You're a fucking cop?" he spat, voice raw, gun trembling his hand.
My mouth opened, but no words came. The cuffs clicked on Vincent's wrists, cops dragging him away, his glare burning into me—hurt, rage, and something deeper I couldn't name. My cover was blown, and I didn't know how the PD had found us. Someone else had talked. But who?