The Desires That Burn - Paperback

I have a weakness for bad boys…and my latest obsession? My father’s best friend.

Gorgeous and powerful. Ruthless and deadly.
Orion is the threat of death wrapped in a 6’5 tattooed package of filthy intent.
He’s my new bodyguard.
And my father’s trusted friend and hired gun.

Lines quickly blur when he shows up to rescue me from a depraved group called the Collectors.
My Internet fame got me caught in their dark and twisted crosshairs.
Orion is the only one who can save me.
But his method of protection quickly turns into something much more carnal when I call him Daddy.

He demands everything from me.
My obedience.
My submission.
My body.

He calls me young and spoiled, swearing he wants nothing to do with me beyond this job.
Yet I’m the only one who can make him lose the control he hangs onto so tightly.

Each minute we’re together makes him forget why my father sent him.
Obligation turns into scorching hot passion that flares out of control.
He makes my blood burn hot and passions run wild.

Even though we have no future beyond this mission, we can’t stay away from each other.
I want him to make me his, to claim me, to own me in every way.

But when the Collectors close in to expose my biggest weakness, I have no choice but to go to them.
To save my Daddy Orion.
The question is, will he be able to save me?

Fans of dark billionaire, secret society, age gap, dad's best friend tropes will devour book two in the OBSIDIAN KNIGHTS SECRET SOCIETY series by USA Today bestselling author Kristen Luciani!When your best friend's sister becomes your obsession...
When a complicated assassination job comes my way, I finally get the chance to get my revenge on the woman who put me behind bars.

My best friend's younger sister.

Sweet, naïve, and innocent, Ivy becomes the unsuspecting accomplice in a cruel and twisted game that will destroy her as well as my target.

Only one thing threatens my plan. She makes my blood burn hot, setting off all kinds of fires. One taste, and I’m addicted to the forbidden. Each depraved act draws us further into a dark, sex-soaked world where my objective for revenge becomes blurred by obsession for the girl who ruined me.

She thinks she knows betrayal. She has no idea.

And as Ivy falls deeper under my spell, she doesn't know that the dark secrets of my past are about to shatter her dreams for the future.

Fans of dark billionaire, secret society, enemies to lovers romances will love this spicy hot new standalone novel by USA Today Bestselling Author Kristen Luciani.

Seventy-two fucking hours without sleep and a whole lot of dead assholes means I’ve missed the goddamned NYC marathon. There’s a bottle of rum in my apartment with my name on it, and I intend to put a deep and mortal dent on the contents. 
It’s not a perfect replacement to the run, but it’ll do. 
I climb the stairs to my apartment in Bushwick and slide the key into the lock, not pausing when I realize the door is open. 
“Please tell me,” I say, not bothering to turn on the light as I drop my bag in the small foyer. “That I don’t have to kill you. I’m not in the fucking mood and I’m running on empty.”
A lamp in the living room clicks on, flooding the place with light. “I’d rather you didn’t kill me, too. Just so we’re on the same page.”
I shoot Smith—one name—a dark glare and grab the rum bottle sitting on the bookshelf. It’s Cuban with caramel overtones, and just the right rough around the edges to settle my tortured mind. I screw off the cap, take a long gulp, and throw myself on the sofa without offering Smith a drop. 
Although judging by the glass in his hand, I see he’s already helped himself to the bottle of Tanqueray gin since I don’t have vodka. 
“Your sister’s made Mercer slightly softer.”
I let out a snide laugh. “Ivy’s like that. Always has been. But I’m betting he’s still a deadly and cold motherfucker to everyone else.”
Running a hand over my thick beard, I take another swallow. 
It needs a trim.
“Are you stopping by to gossip about the other Knights, Smith? Or are you beating the fuck around a big-ass bush?”
He doesn’t answer, just looks around with a sneer on his face. “You could live somewhere fucking nicer, Orion.”
I glance at the room. Sure, it’s basic, but what the fuck do I need with a goddamn mansion? Jaxson Gardner, the spoiled rich guy I used to be, is long dead. 
This place serves me just fine. A Bushwick address in a three-apartment building on the edge of the industrial section, near the JMZ subway trains. I own the building. And it’s the perfect place to store the load of illegal hardware I use for my work. 
Honestly, it’s borderline ostentatious. For me.
“If you came to talk to me about my décor choices as well as gossip, you can fuck right off.” I take another swallow of the rum. “But let’s face it. You didn’t waste a trip down here for that. So it must be a huge fucking bush.”
“Have you heard of the Collectors?” Smith gets up and goes to the window, watching a train speed past on the elevated track. “Nasty bunch. They make regular billionaires look middle class and think they’re above the law. They collect and consume the rare, the illegal. Art. Animals. People.”
“Are you offering me a job to destroy them? Extract someone? Take someone down? All three?”
He hands me an iPad that displays an open file. I flick my gaze over the contents and yeah, these people are fucking cretins with an operation that looks to run all over the fucking planet. They’ve taken animals, art, kids. And the shit they do with all of it…
Nefarious shit doesn’t usually impact me, but this?
It makes me shudder, it’s so goddamn disturbing.
I skim the rest about their sex trafficking operation.
Sex slave is too nice a term. Personal movies, party toys, and favors. Enforced body modifications like piercings and tattoos. Auctions of the same person for a Collector to use as they see fit. 
The ones they take aren’t average. They take beauties, the rich, the talented. What they did to a virtuoso piano player—
I put down the iPad.
Tonight, I’m not in the mood for real-life horror. It’s too close to what I just dealt with.
The Collectors…
I’m not surprised I haven’t heard of them. As long as there are people with money and the need for power in all its forms, there’ll be a new group to fill the void in depravity. 
It’s a reason the Obsidian Knights, the elite, highly secretive society I am part of, exists. 
Sometimes the only answer is to fight bad with a different kind of monster. 
People like us.
The bad guys versus the worse guys.
“Not exactly.” Smith gestures at the iPad. “Read on.”
I twist one of my silver rings as I do, skipping over a few of the more detailed things they’ve done. I’ll read that later, but it’s not what he wants me to read now. He wants me tuned in to the where and how they run their operations.
Delicate infiltration of elite groups and long-term extractions would be best in this situation if you weren’t trying to rock boats. 
That kind of approach isn’t in my wheelhouse, though. I’m heavy artillery. I’ll either keep someone alive against the odds, or make them very, very dead. 
Quickly.
And while I can do that invisible or like a fucking fireworks display, I don’t do being seen long term; I don’t do undercover. 
“I’m going to ask once, Smith. Why the fuck are you showing me? This kind of job looks like it needs someone like Malone running it.” 
He cuts a look my way. “No.”
I take another pull on the rum. I’m too fucking sober for this shit. Way too sober for whatever game Smith’s playing.
“These people own a lot of properties,” he says. “And a lot of small private islands, places where they can do whatever the fuck they want. They have one off the Gulf. Rumor is they’re currently keeping people there for auctions that are scheduled to take place in the next week. Most of those people who end up there aren’t ever seen again.” He goes back to the window, waving a hand at the iPad. “And if they are, let’s say it’s not fucking good when they’re found.”
“Sex trade?” Because based on the reports in the file, the piano virtuoso and many of the other victims were found dead. Supposedly the reports weren’t given to the police. 
“Something,” he says, sipping his gin, “like that. My client’s worried about a girl who’s fallen onto their radar. Her name is Dakota. Dakota Hunt. Orion, I need you to go undercover as a new Collector—”
“This is more Malone, like I already said.” I rake a hand through my hair.
He turns away from the window to face me. “He’s already infiltrated them on a mission for another client, trying to identify the people in charge.”
I shake my head. “I’m not the rich-fuck type.” Anymore.
“There’s no type.” Smith downs the rest of his drink in an almost nervous move. “And having Malone close to the girl won’t work.” 
“Because he’ll fuck her?”
The look on Smith’s face is beyond interesting. 
“This is your cover.” He hands me a file folder that’s on the side table. “It’s close enough to you. Ex-military. This Jaxson made his billions playing all sides and selling cutting-edge, top secret hardware to governments and private groups.”
“Jaxson Carter?” I make a face at the top page. Jaxson was my name in a former life… one who died years ago. And one I don’t particularly care to resurrect.
“You’re already vetted.”
“I don’t give a shit. I never said I’m taking it.”
“The girl… She’s very pretty, innocent,” he says, a scratch to his voice, barely detectable except to someone like me. “She’s an influencer, an internet star, whatever the fuck that is. But she’s also an art student, and she was targeted for this cruise by a couple of big names in the Manhattan art world.”
 “There’s a whole fucking group of Knights who can…” I stop talking and hold up a hand. “Wait. You want me in case things go to shit. Because you think things will. Getting her out isn’t a matter of just sending someone in to do the extraction; it’s having me there if you need someone to blow a hole in everything. So…” I let out a deep sigh and roll my eyes. “I’ll blow this shit up and get the girl.” 
“It’s delicate. The client wants the best. There’s a yacht cruising around Miami. It’s been operating for the past two weeks, stopping every few days at a specific port for more guest pickups. There are groomers on board the yacht who’ve invited these targeted ‘guests.’ They either fly into Miami or drive there, then wait for the yacht at the port. The Collectors use the groomers to brainwash the sex slave targets once they get on board, making them vulnerable to all kinds of sick and twisted shit using drugs and alcohol.” 
“And the girl?”
“She’s been on the yacht for about a week after being lured by these art scumbags who have dangled opportunities in front of her if she joined them on board, according to her friend who alerted the client,” Smith pauses, his eyes darkening. “She waited too damn long to tell anyone about it, and if we’d found out any later…”
His voice trails off. 
It would be too late. 
“The island’s where they do the fucked-up shit. And the yacht is scheduled to head there in the next day. If Dakota gets to the island, she’ll be lost forever.”
Unless I get her the fuck out first. 
“I can’t take down a yacht.” 
“We don’t have time to argue bullshit details. Just get down to Miami and board the damn yacht tomorrow. I need you to get her off the ship before it docks at the island. And you have to do it without ruining Malone’s mission.” 
“I never said I’m taking the job,” I say again.
Smith keeps going like I haven’t spoken a damn word. “You’ll have extra funds to do whatever you need. Malone will vouch for you. He’ll get you on the yacht. To be a Collector you need…” He pulls a slip of paper from his jacket pocket and hands it to me. “This amount in liquid funds.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “That’s fucking astronomical.”
“Your job is to find her and get her to go with you.” 
“Still never said I’d take it.” I pause. “But in my opinion, you should take all the fuckers out if you get the chance.” 
“Not that simple,” says Smith. “It needs to look like you two are into each other, an item. If you blow shit up and the Collectors find out it’s really a rescue, we’ll never find the head of the organization. And with the kind of money they have, if the Knights don’t take out the head of the Collectors now when we have the chance, they’ll dig themselves so far underground, it’ll be impossible to find them again.” 
“This is definitely a Malone job. He can get any girl to do anything he wants—”
Smith’s jaw tightens. “Are you fucking hearing me, Orion? This is your goddamn job. There’s no negotiation. And if things go sideways, you’re completely on your own. That’s why the client wants you. You’re the only one he has faith in.” 
Coldness trickles down my spine.
“Okay, so who’s the client?” I ask.
Smith sighs, ignoring me, and to be honest, it’s getting really fucking irritating. “If you end up on the island, run with her, do your best to make it seem like you’ve fallen and that she has, too. Try not to do anything that leads them to believe the Knights are behind this. But get her the hell out and away from them.”
“Why is this so important to you? Whoever this client is must know you could get this done yourself.”
“Not this job. And Orion? If you find the fuck who’s behind it all, take him down, take them all down. Incinerate their fucking twisted, demented, and depraved world. Just keep the Knights clear of it.”
I throw my hands in the air. “You just said get her out and away from them. Now I’m taking down the leader as some anonymous, rich douchebag?”
“I want those bastards ground into dust. Destroyed. But do not leave any loose ends.”
I hold his gaze and put the bottle down on the coffee table. “There’s something else you’re not telling me. I can feel it. What the fuck is it, Smith?”
“This is her.” He takes the iPad, pulls up a picture, then hands it back to me. 
I look at the picture. Dakota Hunt is beyond fucking gorgeous with honey-blond hair and big cornflower-blue eyes. She looks young, maybe twenty or twenty-one. 
Fuck no.
“Not my thing,” I say. “Sorry.”
He’s silent for a very long time.
“I need you to do this, Orion. You. Not me.” He pauses, blue eyes glittering with cold, hard light. “Remember when I did that thing for you? When I helped you all those years ago?”
“You know I don’t forget debts, Smith.”
“Then consider this me calling in the IOU.”
Nodding, I rise. I’m aware of exactly how intimidating I am with my size and build. And while he’s a big man, he’s not me. Not even close. “Why?”
“Pulling the IOU card?”
“No.” I frown. “Why are you so desperate for me to take on this job?”
“Because,” Smith says with a deep sigh. “I’m the client. Dakota’s my daughter.”