Including the man whose body now presses into mine.
“Let go of me.” Even I sense the weakness of my voice. I might as well have just encouraged him to go further.
He shifts his body so that my bare legs are forced apart. I feel the growing need in his jeans pressed against the fabric of my underwear still damp with seawater. It matches the wet heat nestled right underneath.
“Stop,” I whisper, unsure if I’m speaking to him or my own body.
Both of them disobey that lukewarm command.
The muscles of Enrique’s jaw harden, just as his eyes do as he leans in close enough to whisper across my lips. “No.”
He’s taunting me with my own words from back in the sea. And I’m left just as frustrated as he probably was.
“Enrique,” I exhale. Something about his name on my lips makes it taste so wickedly good. Like a fingerful of frosting off a cake I was told not to go near. Or more like a sip of tequila snuck from my father’s liquor cabinet.
It seems to have a similar effect on him as he hears it. His dark eyes are like black fire. His breath is hot against my face. His muscles strain against the cloth of his shirt.
He bucks his hips, pressing harder into the soft, warm secret part of me hidden by nothing more than a flimsy piece of white cotton. That chaste slip of fabric makes the act even more obscene.
Enrique’s eyes fall to the gold cross settled against my throat. I feel the skin underneath it tingle, then burn.
“Are you truly Catholic?”
As if he gives a damn about my religion. I know what he’s asking, but the way he’s asked it has that two-headed snake of guilt and ecstasy slithering through my veins.
“Yes.”
Rather than backing off, he presses in harder, as though testing my faith. The rough denim collides with thin cotton. His hard bulge invades the yielding softness underneath. The first signs of the pain that would bring cause me to moan. With pleasure or protest, I’m not sure.
As though sensing that debate taking hold of me, Enrique snakes his hips, increasing the friction. The spasm that erupts down there answers the question fully.
“What are you doing?”
“Finding out just how strong your devotion is,” he says, slowly bucking his hips again, testing not just the underwear between my legs, but everything else about me as well.
“I am…” I whisper. I am what? Devoted? Strong? Willing?
All lies, if the stirring just above the area he teases means something.
“I can practically feel how wet you are through my jeans. I think the idea of me taking what you’ve promised not to give is even more exciting to you than swimming naked. More exciting than standing there on the beach with nothing on save for the pretty white panties protecting your precious chastity.”
He’s right. As appalling as the idea is, even the thought of it sends a shiver through me that definitely isn’t revulsion. His hands still hold mine captive near my head. His body leans lower over me, his chest grazing across my hardened nipples through my shirt. His hips invade the space between my legs, and now his thighs spread, forcing mine wider.
Enrique could so easily take me now, and there’d be nothing I could do about it.
I hate myself for being turned on by that.
“I think,” he says, lowering his head enough to whisper in my ear, “I’ll punish you myself.”
My eyes flash wide with panic, realizing that he might actually—
He releases my hands, and I blink in surprise. When he lowers his head once again, it isn’t to whisper in my ear. Instead, I feel his lips on the tenderest space just beneath it where it meets my jaw.
I’m not sure if it’s a gasp or a sigh I feel escape my lips. Which direction is my breath even going? It doesn’t matter, because when his kiss continues to descend, I stop breathing altogether.
Why haven’t I used my free hands to push him away yet? Even now, fully cognizant of my ability to do so, I keep them up in surrender.
But it feels…amazing. In all the wrong ways of course. No wonder the Church warns against this sort of thing. It could cause a person to lose control. And we haven’t even taken our clothes off.
His mouth comes to a stop at my throat. My eyes go wide once again when I realize why.
“Enrique!” It’s a whisper, but there’s no missing the urgency of my warning.
He patently ignores me, dragging me right down to the lowest level of depravity as his tongue darts out, drawing circles around the gold cross. The circles contract, coming closer and closer until the very tip of his tongue outlines it, as though for my benefit. As if that symbol isn’t right now searing my skin with its imprint. Then he does the unthinkable, lapping it right into his mouth with his tongue, sucking on it for just a second before releasing it. It lands against my skin, wet and hot, as corrupted as I now feel.
“Please…” This time it’s more of a cry.
Enrique just chuckles, wicked vibrations tickling my chest.
I was right, back there on the beach, when I declared Enrique the serpent himself. And here I am, playing Eve, letting that wicked tongue have its way with me—tempt me.
He rises up to stare down at me. I feel the cool air of the hotel room dance across the wet outline of the cross still clinging to my skin. I wonder if this was a form of torture used by the Spanish Inquisition, teasing the sinner in the most indecent ways with their own hypocrisy.
His eyes pierce me, like two obsidian blades sinking past this thin facade of good to find the sticky, sweet evil underneath.
“I wonder just how far I could push you before you reached the edge of your limits.”
Rather than wait for an answer, he moves further down on the couch, his body slinking across mine until his head is positioned right between those legs that he forced open.
What the hell is he doing?
It comes at me like a shockwave when I feel his fingers scrape across my hips, digging into the waistband of my panties.
“You…” But I can’t bring myself to finish that protest, not that it would stop him, the way his eyes still keep their hold on me.
I lie there helpless—still with my damn hands up to the sides of me!—as he drags them down my legs and flings them into the air. Although this is hardly the first he’s seen of me naked, I’ve never been so…exposed. I ache to close my legs, if only to cool the heat that has rushed to my face as Enrique gets a front-row view to everything I’ve had to keep hidden from every other man.
Even handcuffed naked to the boat as he waved a gun, I didn’t feel so vulnerable—and in danger. I know what’s coming, and this is my last chance to stop it, put an end to this madness. This sin!
His mouth seals my fate. The same tongue that danced around the cross at my neck now flicks against my clit. I’m not sure if it’s that connection or the intense feeling of it that has my body jolting almost into a perfect arc.
Enrique doesn’t so much as pause. That tongue signals my loss of virtue a hundred different ways as it flicks and circles and caresses and teases. His lips surround the entire head to draw it out even more sending these sensations from zero to sixty.
I’m no longer frozen in place. My body is far too heated for that. Now that the floodgates are open, I happily wallow in the pleasure that rushes over me. My hands come down, fingers sinking into that thick hair of his, still damp at the roots. That seems to spur both of us on, him pressing in closer, me bucking my hips up writhe across his face.
“Yes…oh God, yes!”
The first orgasm doesn’t even ride in on a wave, it just takes over, like lighting striking out of thin air. It leaves me sizzling with electricity from my brain, which is practically fried to insanity to my toes, which curl with pleasure.
How could this be a sin?
The Bible doesn’t even mention it.
I giggle like a maniac, imaging how this little act of depravity could be jammed into one of the passages. Maybe it’s a borderline sin—a gatew
ay drug to the real thing.
Enrique’s fingers give me another hit of pure delight. This time when he sinks into me, it’s not as painful, especially considering how easily they glide in. I must be soaking wet. The hint of pain only enlivens that erotic swell somewhere deep inside, sending me to the brink.
Talk about temptation.
If Enrique whipped off his pants and unceremoniously plunged into me, I doubt I would even protest. I doubt I could even protest. He’s just so damn good. And bad.
I’m so dizzy with what’s happening to me, more importantly, how my body reacts. I have no idea how long we’ve gone, nor how many orgasms I’ve had before my body finally protests, needing me to come up for air.
Enrique continues just a bit longer before he finally releases me. I scramble away like a crab, escaping him before he can find an inventive way to torture me, yet again. I tug my shirt down to give myself at least some modicum of decency.
“Too late now…Sister,” Enrique says with a taunting smirk, licking his lips as though to show me exhibit A of my fall from grace.
“You—we shouldn’t have done that.” Once again, the protest in my voice is about as strong as tepid water with three measly grounds of coffee in it.
Which is probably why he laughs. It comes to an abrupt stop, and he once again bores into me with a hard gaze, through lashes so thick and lush it’s almost obscene. “Why not?”
“Because…”
“It’s a sin?”
Once again, I’m questioning that myself. Is it?
Then, I think about what the opinion would be of all the people involved in my life.
Father Pascal back in Los Angeles? Probably.
Mother Agnes? Certainly.
Dad? Without a doubt.
But what about me? This tiny bit of freedom—as ironic as it is, considering the circumstances—has made me question so many things.
Including my faith.
Obviously, I still believe in God but…
How can something so enjoyable be so terrible? I can’t even get pregnant that way. My eyes inadvertently fall to the fly of Enrique’s jeans, thinking of yet another way I couldn’t get pregnant. The images of him standing on the boat, completely naked, then later inside the boat when he was erect invade my head. My mouth waters, wondering if giving is as exciting as getting.
Good grief!
Maybe this is why immoral thoughts are a sin. It’s all-consuming. A person could easily forget themselves thinking of all the ways to pleasure the flesh.
“I’m tired,” I say, closing my eyes and shaking my head free of those thoughts. The heady daze the sangria had me in has evaporated under the flames of excitement that took over my body. Now, I just feel the beginnings of a dull headache.
“You’re right. We need sleep. You take the first round. One hour, while I keep watch.”
I nod and rise from the couch. I’d love to take a shower first, but right now, prioritizing our time seems important.
Which is a joke, considering what we just did.
Once again, I push that thought aside in favor of the bed that is seriously calling to me. I grab my underwear from the floor and wriggle back into them. I don’t bother looking back at Enrique as I enter the bedroom. I don’t need his dark, taunting gaze invading my dreams. As soon as I fall into the bed, my head sinking into the soft pillows, it takes me no time to fall asleep.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Enrique
Some people sleep like angels.
Leira is not one of them.
I smirk as I stare down at her, face smashed against the pillow turning it into some grotesque configuration. Her full lips are open into a lopsided O. Her nose flares a little with each soft snore. Now that those beautiful brown eyes are closed, I’m less susceptible to being mesmerized by them.
Then there’s the shirt, which has ridden up just enough to show off a cusp of ass, outlined by white panties, which somehow makes it more tantalizing. Her legs are also parted just enough to reveal a nice outline of everything my mouth savored not five minutes ago.
Definitely not angel material.
At least it’s keeping me awake. Just thinking about the way she squirmed underneath my tongue, the way her voice sounded when she cried out in pleasure, it’s enough to send continuous jolts of adrenaline through my system. Then there was the way her pussy clenched around my fingers. Even now, my dick gets hard as I imagine invading that space, piercing the veil of Catholicism she claims to hold onto.
I smirk and turn to stare out at the clear blue waters of the Mediterranean visible from our room. No wonder this room cost so much, not that money is an issue for me. Constantin was quite a generous victim, and he wasn’t even our biggest target.
That thought brings me back to our present predicament. I’m in a chair in between the bed and the door, holding my broken bottle in my hand. I have a full view of the front door to the suite and the balcony outside the window.
If these people do come for us, I doubt we’d have much of a shot at making it. Considering they had enough people to cover both my apartment and my boat, they are well-manned.
I’m ninety percent sure it’s me they are after. Which means that the other four men on my team are probably targets as well.
Unless they are in on it.
By design, we make it a point to have no means of communication outside of the jobs we do. It’s a safety precaution, in case one of us gets caught. No traceable phones, numbers, email addresses, or anything of the like. I know their first names, and in some cases, countries of origin, but that’s it. Even the idea of some kind of alert system if one of us was discovered was nixed, the thought being that it could be traced or some kind of a trap. The consensus was that we all just use extreme precaution in our daily lives outside of the jobs.
In other words, no ties whatsoever.
I get in touch via a special cell phone with about ten different levels of protection. It’s hidden well away, obviously not with me currently. A single text message sent with a code word that gives the coordinates and a specific time and date to meet so we can plot out the next heist on the list of targets I have.
The list is based on the information that fell into my hands several years ago. It was a list of all the people for whom my father had helped launder money via several banks in Luxembourg. It included the exact amounts each individual had laundered and where the money was located. The rest was up to me. I still have no idea who sent it, but it only proved the suspicions I had about Richard Coleman. My father. My mother’s killer. Soon to be dead man.
Once again, I take a moment to imagine the day I face him in that New York penthouse of his. First, I’ll get him to confess to the murder of my mother. Then, I’ll reveal who I am—right before I put a bullet in his head. I’ve never killed a man, but the thought of taking him out gives me absolutely no pause whatsoever.
I still have a few months left to take care of that. For now, I’ll focus on whoever is after me. How did they find me here on the island? The apartment is leased by an LLC with no obvious connection to me. I check my boat for any trackers before each trip to the island where Santa María de Atlántica Convento is located. I’m a familiar face in this part of Ibiza, considering how often I visit, but no one here knows what my day job is.
Except one person.
Ulrich is supposedly still here on the island. He’s no doubt making the most of the time between now and his planned night at the club with his two companions. Unless he’s also been targeted.
I don’t know which would be worse, finding out that he has betrayed me, or discovering these men got to him already.
Right now, he’s not my problem.
I stare down at Leira, feeling a tiny swell of something dangerously akin to affection. The last thing I need is emotion getting in the way of this. In retrospect, I probably shouldn’t have done what I did back on the couch. She might be developing feelings for me, as well.
My eyes scan the sha
pely legs splayed across the bed.
It was worth it.
Still, there’s something perfectly innocent about her that I have to be careful of. In some ways, she’s so damned naïve. In other ways, she’s sly as a fox. Not too many women would have remained silent for so long under similar circumstances.
Which makes me wonder what it is she’s holding back.
That can come later.
I look at the clock. In ten minutes, we trade places.
Until then, I stand watch.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Leira
I feel the firm hand on my shoulder, forcing me out of my slumber. I groan in protest, and I sink my face into the soft pillow. My head is pounding, ordering me back into the relief of blackness. I’ve heard enough about hangovers to know I’m seriously suffering one.
That damn sangria.
“I don’t think so, Sleeping Beauty,” Enrique’s voice says through the fog of sleep.
“Just ten more minutes.”
I sense him leaning in so that his mouth is only a whisper away from my ear. “Or I can wake you from your slumber the same way Prince Charming did. Of course, I’m no Prince Charming as you well know, so It’ll be something far more than a simple kiss from me.”
My eyes snap open, no longer groggy with drowsiness. I wriggle away from that wicked grin and those teasing eyes, which only remind me that I’m not wearing anything other than a shirt and underwear. I sit up, tugging the shirt back down to cover myself.
Enrique rises up and laughs.
“Fine, I’m up,” I say, crawling off the bed.
“There’s a coffee machine in the other room. Make use of it if you have to,” he says as he takes my place on top of the covers. He nods toward the little table by the chair where his broken bottle is. “Use mine, not yours if the worst happens.”
I give him a brief sneer at the subtle slight, but grab it all the same. Suddenly the thought of him being out cold while I stand watch as the only defense between him and whoever is after us seems daunting.
Spanish Pirate: A BWWM International Legacies Romance Page 11