by Ruby Vincent
Adeline went faster—riding that wave that would bring her to climax. Full lips parted by feverish, staccato moans. Back tunneling over the sheets. Glazed whiskey eyes struggled to stay open. She wanted to watch me watch her come, and my cock jumped at the realization.
She smacked her pussy, and my resolve broke. I jumped on top of her—earning a delighted shriek.
“That was easy.” She peppered my jaw, nose, lips, cheeks with kisses. “Will I get my apology that quickly too?”
“I apologize for all wrongs real and imagined. I don’t apologize for this.”
I took what was mine in one thrust. Adeline cried out, nails digging in my back.
“Never apologize for that,” she gasped. “But do apologize for making me wait so long.”
“It should make you feel better to know holding myself back has been a step below Chinese water torture.”
“It helps,” she said, grinning. “Fuck me, Alfred.”
“I will pull the fuck out and leave now.”
Adeline locked her legs behind my knees. “I’d like to see you try.”
“You want me like this.” I started pumping—fast and then faster still. “Crazed. Out of control.”
I hitched her onto my lap, bouncing her to my thrusts. Adeline’s screams would’ve woken the neighbors if we had any.
“Yes,” she cried. “Just like this. D-don’t hold back with me, Killian. I want... all of you.”
Roaring, I flipped her, and gave Adeline her wish. I didn’t hold back.
Clutching the headboard, I poured months of frustration, sexual tension, rage, and attraction into her soft, tight, willing body.
She spurred me on, yelling for more. Harder. Faster.
“Yes, Killian,” she breathed. “I love you too.”
And then I broke.
Hot ropes of cum burst from me, contorting me in a shape almost painful. A groan ripped out, trying to bring something else with it.
Adeline followed a second behind. She clung to me, writhing and bucking, the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, and beautiful things were once my life.
“Damn, Dangle.” I fell next to her. “Caught. Captured. Not giving it up.”
“I’m very happy to hear you say that, toy boy.” Adeline draped me over her, holding my arm to her chest. “You play hard to get at expert level.”
I chuckled—till her confession sobered me. “Adeline, I have to say this. Sex is all I’m willing to give.”
“Why?” She sounded genuinely curious.
“There can’t be something more with Killian while Kieran is out there. And you deserve more than Cash.”
There it was. The truth.
“If there’s... you. I could be forced to make an impossible choice. Neither one of us should be in that situation, Adeline. We both can’t come out the other side of it.”
Adeline was quiet for a while.
“I understand,” she whispered. “Thank you for being honest with me.”
I nodded—nose buried in her hair.
I doubt my confession made her feel better. It hadn’t done for me.
This is how it has to be. Kieran’s torn my life apart once before. He doesn’t get to have you too. So neither do I.
“Say something sweet,” Adeline asked.
“I could paint you every day for the rest of my life, and never come close to capturing the masterpiece that is you, Adeline Redgrave. I’d believe you were the inspiration for La Libertad, and the reason inadequacy drove Molina to madness, if time travel wasn’t highly improbable.”
Her laugh was a gentle, throaty purr. “I take it you’re not a Doctor Who fan.”
“Nah, that show is the shit. Seen every episode three times.”
“Three times?” She twisted, facing me to nuzzle his jaw. “So, that’s what Kieran has in his ledger. Killian Hunt is a huge geek.”
“Massive,” I said. “Your turn. Equal or higher value. The rules still apply.”
“Okay. Here goes: I’ve watched Doctor Who four times.”
The night continued on. Laughing, joking, messing around under the sheets.
We woke too late in the morning.
Adeline shopped my meager kitchen offerings, and turned them into scrambled eggs, yogurt with cut-up strawberries, and avocado toast. We ate in bed—Adeline secure under my arm—and talked about that night.
“Are you sure I should go in blind?”
“Yes,” I replied. “La Roche will sniff a scam coming around the block. I’ll sell it by wrapping every sentence in a kernel of truth. But it can’t come off like we planned what to say.”
“Why do you think La Roche got involved with Angelo?” she mused. Adeline fed me a strawberry. “He has money, respect, and everyone fooled. Why reveal yourself, risk La Libertad outing you as a criminal, and then get in bed with a bunch of criminals more ruthless than you? Were the millions in his account not enough?”
I dropped my head on the board. “I’d hazard a guess it wasn’t about money. For years, he’s been the best and no one knew. No recognition. No praise. No legacy. He has all of that now among the people who appreciate his talent. Plus, he wouldn’t say no to more millions.”
She rubbed my thigh. “What will we do when we’re getting a cut of those millions?”
“New place. More men. Our own territory, and the money and weapons to defend it,” I said. “La Roche will say yes. He doesn’t know yet he has no choice.”
“No more talk of sly old men.” She hopped on her knees and kissed me. “I’m ready for my post-breakfast sex romp.”
“Do you get tired?” I asked. “Are you capable?”
That wandering hand wandered farther. It struck gold.
“Do you?”
I pushed the tray off the bed. “Nope.”
ADELINE
Killian leaned against the hood of the car. You had to be looking to catch the slight widening of his eyes, and I was.
“I do look good, don’t I?” I teased.
One of our stops the day before was to get me a dress for the party. You’d think Cash could put his analytical mind away for the simple task of choosing clothes.
“Yellow is least liked by the majority of the population. Accurately, only five percent of people name it as their favorite color.”
I tromped into the dressing room and discarded the canary yellow slip dress on the pile. My next pick was a blue strapless dress begging to take my curves out to dinner.
“Blue is the most-liked color. Thigh-length and strapless is popular too.”
I giggled. “I bet it is. But what’s your favorite color, lover?”
Killian looked like he didn’t want to say. “Red.”
“Red it is.”
There I stood in a ruby red off-the-shoulder maxi dress. My slit went all the way up the thigh, drawing Killian’s eyes where I wanted them.
We climbed in and set off for the party. During the drive, I noticed Killian flicking to the rearview mirror.
“Something wrong?”
“See that black Mercedes two cars behind. That’s our tail.”
I checked, seeing the blinding glare of his headlights. “When will he stop?”
“When La Roche finds out what I want from him.”
“Will I be with you when you two talk?”
“Of course.”
I wasn’t expecting an affirmative. “I am? What am I supposed to say? What are you going to say?”
“Just follow my lead. I can’t have you sounding rehearsed in there, or like we’re playing off each other. He’ll see through that.”
I let it be. Cash knew what he was doing. I trusted him.
The drive to La Roche’s home wasn’t long. We turned off Prescott Avenue, and ended up behind a long string of cars heading for the valet. I stuck my face to the windshield.
Four stories of pillars, balconies, white stone, and iron facades overtook Prescott and the few buildings that dared to share its space.
We rolled to a stop.
Two valets sprung into action. One to take Killian’s keys. The other to help me out with satin-gloved hands and a bow. “Good evening, ma’am. I hope you enjoy the party.”
“Thank you.”
He led me to the sidewalk. Killian wasn’t there.
“Killian?”
“I’m here.” The trunk slammed. Killian strode over carrying a gray case I hadn’t seen him put into the car. He removed my hand from the valet and draped it over his arm.
I opened my mouth to ask him what was in the case, then my attention fell on a handsome couple brushing past us. She wore a gold, shimmering tulle gown. And a similar-sized satchel on her shoulder. The blue clashed horribly.
I should get used to this, I thought as we fell in behind them. I’m not going to know what’s going on all night.
We stepped inside. The Waterford-Rockchapel girl in me let out a whistle she couldn’t hold back. However Richard La Roche truly made his money, he made a whole heck of a lot of it, and he spent it well.
A grand staircase curved down the second floor and looped around to welcome us up. On the walls were masterpieces painted by renowned hands that I resigned to never lay eyes on in my lifetime. Gleaming marble floors reflected the well-dressed, diamond-crusted, politely laughing crowd making their way down two paths. The double doors to our left where soft music floated out, and the hallway disappearing behind the stairs.
I took a step. A hulking mass of guard slid in my way.
“Good evening, sir. Ma’am. May I see your invitations?”
Inexplicably, Killian held out the case. “Here—”
“Killian Hunt.” A deep, ringing baritone broke through the chatter.
Looking over the guard’s head, it was his eyes I connected to first. Two almond-shaped robin’s eggs that struck me the first time we met. Richard La Roche hadn’t changed a whisker since that alumni party. His fitted gray suit and white scarf were on the right side of original. A trimmed mustache and beard encircled full, brown lips. That they were soft was answered by the peck on my knuckles.
“We haven’t been introd— Hold on.” He squinted at me. “Two years ago. Cinco University alumni dinner. I believe you were in the company of the charming young lady who provided that night’s entertainment.”
“Wow,” I said. “I’m impressed.” Or I would be if I didn’t know you had us followed and researched.
“You barely looked at me,” I continued. “As tends to happen when I’m in the company of that charming young lady.”
La Roche grinned. “I very much doubt it’s possible to miss your presence, Miss...?”
“Redgrave.”
La Roche had the sweet talk and the silver fox looks to match. Salt sprinkled prominently in his beard and full head of wavy locks. He had a wide, pointed nose. Long face. And, of course, those eyes.
“Killian.” La Roche hugged him warmly. “Good to see you, old friend. I’m pleased you could make it.”
“As am I.”
“What did you bring me?”
“You might kick me out when you see it.”
The guard unstrapped Killian’s case, flipping the top off. My eyes popped.
“Oh ho,” La Roche laughed, clapping Killian on the back. “You devil!”
“I couldn’t resist.”
La Roche turned on Killian. “Don’t think you’re slipping away without me picking your brain. Until then, eat. Dance. Have a good time.”
He moved on to foist a hug on another woman.
“Killian,” I breathed. “Is that The Lacemaker? How did... you...?”
Killian’s quirked brow silenced me. I looked from him to the Vermeer that should be hanging in the Louvre.
“Oh.”
He took my hand to lead me away.
“Did you paint that?” I whispered.
We took the path away from the double doors. Inside, white-linen tables spread around the edges of a dance floor.
“Yes.”
“You’re a forger?”
“You don’t have to whisper. Pretty much everyone here is.”
I whipped around, seeing the well-dressed, diamond-crusted, politely laughing crowd in a new light.
“Where the hell am I?”
He laughed. “Among the people who answered the advertisement.”
“This is a party for grifters.” My gaze drifted up to him. “And you’re one too.”
“Retired,” he said. “That fact you should whisper. As far as La Roche is concerned, I’ve spent the last three years working in Canada.”
The line turned down a hallway. Everyone seemed to know where they were going through these high-ceiling hallways, passing statues, antique tables carrying vases too exquisite to hold ordinary flowers, and the deeper we went, the more art whose originals could not be here.
“The paintings in the loft,” I began. “Are they forgeries?”
“Some are. Some aren’t. I practice to keep my skills sharp.”
“Why?” There was more to the question but it stalled in my throat.
“I was the youngest of seven kids, Redgrave. My parents put all they had either into the circus, or keeping us alive. My brothers and sisters stayed on when they got older. I wanted to be a doctor,” he explained. “Med school wasn’t going to pay for itself.”
“I’m not trying to sound judgmental.” I linked my arms around his waist. “It just bowls me over sometimes how little I know about you. That’s going to change, Killian Hunt.” My finger snuck beneath his coat, rubbing small circles on that well-defined V leading to his length. “I will learn every sentence of your storied tale. If that sounds like a threat, it should.”
“You’re ridiculous,” he said, humor lacing the reply.
“Why did La Roche wig out over The Lacemaker?”
“During our first conversation, we had an interesting, if veiled, talk about how none could match his talent. He mentioned that his only trouble was Vermeer and acquiring the right mixtures for seventeenth-century Dutch oil paint.”
“Which of course, you have,” I teased.
The line curved for the final time, leading past frosted glass doors. Killian and I stepped inside his home gallery. A crowd gathered at the far end of the room.
“What are we looking at?”
“The works of Aurelio Molina,” he said, “and La Libertad.”
Somehow, I didn’t have to ask which one it was. My arms fell away from him. I crossed the space as if tugged by an invisible rope, tethering me to the rolling hills.
Seven paintings shared the wall. They could all be works of Molina. The paintings certainly seemed to be by the same hand. Bold colors and soft lines. Portraits of unsmiling people with heavy cheeks. There were secrets in every brushstroke. A colorful macaw hiding among the trees. Intricate patterns on the lady’s skirt.
I saw the style that linked them. Then, I fell on the canvas in the middle of it all. A landscape where there were people, animals, and angels. Rolling Spanish hills came to life in a sea of greens and golds. Grass undulating in the wind seeking up to a cloudless sky, and there I was running through those hills.
The story of freedom was told in a way so different, naming it the jewel of his collection made sense.
That’s why you’re damn good, La Roche.
I had as much skill as a grifter as the average woman. We all learn how to smile, hedge, and manipulate to get what we wanted. While there were few I’d name better than me in any area, I mentally bowed a head to the talent that executed this con to perfection.
“Let’s go.” Killian’s hand on my hip took me away.
We joined the party in the dining room. I spotted La Roche at a table nearest the terrace.
“Are we sitting with him?”
“A table close to him. We’ll track him coming and going, and avoid conversation. We can’t have him questioning you. You’ll inevitably spill your life story.”
“I will not,” I protested.
Killian seated us at the neighboring table anyway
. I gave him a look.
“If I’m not trusted to speak, I’ll find other ways to amuse myself.”
“Sounds like another threat.”
“It is.”
He grinned over the arm of the server setting out the first course.
“Moroccan carrot soup, madame. Please, enjoy.”
“Thank you.”
I tasted the creamy soup and moaned. Others joined our table, introducing themselves in a flurry of names, titles, and crimes.
“Trevor Le.” A man sporting wire-framed glasses and an easy smile leaned over to shake our hands. “Forger. Documents.”
“Killian Hunt. Forger. Art.” He cupped my neck, trailing a line down my spine that sent a shiver through me. “Adeline. Lovely distraction.”
“Ah. Lovely indeed.” Trevor inclined his head to me. “What’s your biggest score?”
“A Paul Gauguin sold to a private collector. The bastard still has it hanging on his wall!” Killian laughed uproariously, kicking off the whole table. It took me a second to laugh too.
“I should’ve sold him a Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot.”
Apparently, this was hysterical. Trevor teared up howling.
Who is this man?
Smacking the table, cracking jokes, greeting people like old friends. This was not the Cash I’d come to love and loathe in equal measure.
Suddenly, I saw him. The young, grinning con man using his natural skills to turn people around him into marks.
And that picture isn’t any less sexy. I gripped his thigh under the table. Do I know how to pick them, or what?
My hand did something else under the table—fingers flying across my screen.
Me: I can still feel you pulsing inside of me. What I wouldn’t give to take you into a closet right now, and swallow that cock to the hilt.
“It’s all about patience,” Killian said. He absentmindedly pulled out his phone. “Use a nail dryer to slowly age th-the paint.”
Killian skipped a beat reading my message. The next one dropped a second behind.
Me: Have I told you how cute your ass looks in those pants? Fit and molded like you’re not wearing underwear. I’m not either. If you were wondering.
“Tell me about the world of musical forgery, Malia.” Killian threw the conversation to a short woman with long brown hair and golden roots. Her peach one-shoulder gown was held together by a sparkling diamond brooch.