CROSS

Eight

Fourteen days since he last saw her and even longer since he sank into her tight little cunt.

Roman stands under sizzling hot water falling from the shower head above. One palm rests against the marble tiles and his free hand wraps around his cock, pumping as his thoughts wanders to the girl in his basement.

Winter Cohen as he remembers here on the snowy mountains in Aspen. Long blonde hair and captivating blue eyes sparkling with life and aspirations. He's learned everything he needed to know about her; from her school records down to the size of her shoes.

Yet, he still couldn't figure how she managed to get under his skin. All he could think about the last two weeks is her. Plump lips, doe eyes and long lashes. Her soft skin and the wave of her long mousy hair falling down to her back.

"Fuck," he groans, squeezing the head of his cock but his hands did not feel the same as her sweet cunt. Not even close.

Roman throws his head back and move down his shaft in an agonising speed. Jerking off, that's all he had been doing the last two weeks. But everything he comes, it didn't satisfy him the way she did. Fuck fuck fuck.

How did it happen? How did he let himself become addicted to her?

He turns, his back resting against the wall as he continues to pump to his cock. Then, through the steam and droplets of water, Roman catches a reflection of himself in the glass.

He won't consider himself handsome - not at all, not like his younger brother. He's a mere mountain with crooked nose, wrinkles on his face from the stress and sleepless nights. Jagged scars plagued his skin; bullet holes and knife wounds. Winter won't have looked at him if they passed on the streets.

She won't know what kind of person her father was; that he was one of the reasons why Roman become a monster.

As much as he didn't want to admit, Boris Balandin made him into a ruthless leader; made him take over the Cartel and instil fear into its members. Roman became richer than he could ever image because of him. Because of what he did and the blood he spilled.

Perhaps he should show Boris' daughter how grateful he is.

Roman's hands come to halt. How pathetic, he bitterly chuckles to himself. He's pinning for the enemies daughter. Fuck. With his hands falling to his side and his cock dangling limp, he steps out of the shower with a bitterness drenching the atmosphere.

It's crazy, he thinks, how the thought of Winter Cohen makes his mood swings. Remembering the delicious taste of her has his cock straining then, the realisation that she's the enemy makes him bitter; angry and so full of vengeance. His palms itches to hurt her so bad that her father feels it in the pits of hell.

Blinded by rage, Roman pulls on comfy clothes and marches down to the basement. It's located in the furthest corner of the house, secured by a top notch security system.

The door clicks open as he scans his thumb against the keypad. Motion sensors lights illuminates the staircases the moment he trots down the stairs towards an armoury. Weapons imported from Colombia are securely locked in their individual shelves along with the most expensive jewels and priceless family heirlooms.

"Matías." Roman greets his head of security with a curt.

Matías sits in front of multiple screens live recording every nook and cranny of over a hundred acres of property. He immediately stands to attention in his presence and lowers his eyes to the ground out of respect.