“Yes, thank you. I’ll arrange a car and be out of your hair as soon as I’m dry and it arrives.”
“It’s not necessary for you to leave so quickly,” I came alive, moving from the wall and striding towards the pair. “There are plenty of guest rooms. You are welcome to rest here and leave later.”
“No,” she refused to look at me. “It’s better if I leave. For both of us.”
I opened my mouth to speak again, but Balthasar shoved the leather satchel towards me. It would contain everything I needed.
“Your travel details are inside, as well as The Candy Factory’s most recent sales figures and future projections.”
I nodded. “Good.”
“Your plane leaves in an hour.” Balthasar pushed, looking from me to Juliette, and then back again. He wanted me to leave, wanted me to end whatever this thing was that was boiling between me and the woman who was trying to sear herself into my soul.
“Juliette,” I moved towards Balthasar, and he stepped aside to give me his space facing her. His intentions were good, but he didn’t decide whether I pursued a woman.
“Don’t say anything.” She shook her head, frowning. “Whatever this is, it needs to stop. God, I’m not even acting like myself. I’m a special agent with the FBI, Romero. I’m held to certain standards. I know the media and the government, and every fucking person thinks you’re the golden boy, cleaning up your father’s bad behavior. But I... I can’t get involved. I can’t, because of who I am and who you are. And what our names mean to each other.”
“I’m not perfect, definitely not fucking golden. But I’m not a bad guy, Juliette. I’m not my father.” I was begging. Fucking begging a woman to give me a chance.
Balthasar was right. Juliette was right. This needed to end.
“Fine, if that’s how you feel.” I growled, before she could speak again. “Stay, change, get dry, and then go home.”
She stuck her chin out defiantly. “That’s exactly what I plan on doing.”
I turned heel, stalking away from her.
It was for the fucking best. I preferred submissive women. I preferred women who followed the rules. Women who bent to my will.
Juliette wasn’t any of those things.
And, fuck help me, that was exactly why I was drawn to her.
*
Chicago did not smell like deep dish pizza.
The river was having one of its bad days, sending sulfurous scent up from its surface to spoil the air. I pinched my nose, sighing. I hadn’t been here in years. Not since I’d shut down The Candy Factory the first time.
They were a smaller operation of human traffickers, earning the name for using street vendor carts full of candy to lure children in. The kid would eat a piece of laced butterscotch, feel dizzy and tired, and the operator would stuff them down in the belly of the cart to stroll away from the scene of the crime with none the wiser.
But I’d known, discovering their workings and tracking their movements once so many children had gone missing in Chicago that it became a fucking epidemic. It went how it normally went—pain, death, roses, and proof sent to the local authorities anonymously.
I hadn’t torn the root out though. The traffickers were small time, working for a larger organization. Human trafficking was fucking everywhere across the states, the victims going to neighboring countries and further. It was a putrid network of demons that needed a fast track to hellfire.
Balthasar’s file was comprehensive and concise, per usual. I’d spent the roughly three-hour flight going over the details, memorizing faces, time stamps, probable locations for where they were taking the girls after the snatch.
The operation was full force again, only this time they were targeting the homeless. Mostly teens, young adults. People who’d been on the streets long enough to not be missed by anyone who’d care enough to contact the police. Instead of candy, they offered other luxuries now. Hot food. Potable water. New socks.
They were functioning under the guise of a small charity. Older van, no markings. Official looking pamphlets and a fake tax EIN if they were stopped by the authorities. It was good enough for cops to look the other way. It was the homeless after all; a cursory glance was enough.
They weren’t being as aggressive this time. A handful taken a month. A shipment every three months.
Even changing their MO, The Candy Factory followed a pattern. They rotated which areas of the city they hit, trolling tent city on South Desplaines and West Roosevelt, the underground where more of the young people lived, and the less crowded spaces dotting the city viaducts. The group was hitting the viaduct under Lakeshore tonight, likely between the hours of midnight and two am, avoiding patrol unit schedules.
It was after five now. I drove slowly down West Lawrence in the nondescript rental car, surveying the area and finding my vantage point for the evening. There was a fairly guarded place close enough to the entrance of the viaduct. A walking trail, trees for cover. It would work.
Tents rose like unwanted weeds inside the viaduct, blocking bike lanes—the city’s shit tactic for discouraging the homeless—and in complete defiance of the posted signs. Chicago’s homeless problem was inhumane.
Time to kill, I headed to my hotel. A smaller place on Clark Street. They took cash, didn’t ask questions. And the suite was clean, stocked, comfortable. I wasn’t looking for luxury, this wasn’t a vacation. I snagged a front street spot, after five meant it could stay there all night.
“Enjoy your stay, Mr. Montego.” The grandmotherly front desk attendant smiled. “Have a complimentary cookie. They’re fresh baked.” She pointed to a clear display unit, three shelves of cookies fogging up the interior. They were still warm.
In some situations, I would have used an alias. But Juliette had been at the house when Balthasar had revealed I was taking a business trip. I couldn’t be too careful.
Because I was a goddamn idiot who was courting an FBI agent.
Like I wanted to be caught.
“Thanks, they look great.” I grabbed a napkin, lifting the lid and folding it over one of the chocolate chips. Nodding at her, I headed for the stairs. No elevator in a place like this. Which was just as well. I wasn’t a fan of enclosed spaces that could malfunction and send you careening towards sudden doom at any second.
Security was shit here, which was a downside to the small establishment. The ancient key slid into the brass lock, turning easily. It would be a cinch to pick for anyone with even the slightest idea of what they were doing. I wouldn’t be here long, but I still slid my own compact locking system under the door to secure firmly against the outer framework. Most locking knob systems and even deadbolts were only mounted with a subpar screw. It was always better to replace them with longer versions to thread deeper and make it harder to kick down the door. It was a good bet that this hotel hadn’t gotten that memo though.
I kicked off my shoes and stripped out of my suit and shirt, until I stood in only my blue boxer-briefs before picking up the concierge phone to put in a meal and beverage order.
“Ann speaking, Head of Hospitality. How can I serve you?” A feminine voice rang out after the second ring.
“Suite 203. I’m staying in tonight and would like to put in an order. Two orders actually—I didn’t have lunch.” I laughed, sending a sexy rumble through the phone.
“Certainly, sir. What would you like? Our kitchen closes at nine, though, in case you haven’t stayed with us before. And our specials are filet mignon with roast potatoes and a white garlic sauce that’s just delicious or herb crusted salmon with seasonal vegetables.”
“I’ll take both. Can you have them sent up around seven, along with a bottle of champagne and two glasses?” I went through the motions, giving the impression that I was expecting a guest and wouldn’t be going anywhere for the evening.
“We’ll do just that, sir. Anything else?”
“I wouldn’t say no to about a dozen of those chocolate chip cookies from the front desk,” I smiled, pushing the e
xpression through my voice and oozing pleasantness.
She laughed “Darcy makes them herself. I keep telling her she should start a bakery, but she says she’s too old.”
“Never too old for a dream,” I quipped, so sweetly that I made myself ill.
“True! You know what, I’ll bring the food up myself. We’re short on staff now anyways and you’re so nice.”
“I don’t want to put you out. I’m sure the Head of Hospitality doesn’t normally deliver food orders.”
“I do whatever duties necessary to make sure the hotel runs smoothly, sir,” she simpered. This woman didn’t even know what I looked like, unless the elderly front desk attendant was a gossiper, but she was literally purring at me through the phone, the first brushes of flirtation in her tone. Maybe the kind of woman who threw herself at anything that would have her.
“Thank you, then, I appreciate it.”
“Of course, sir.”
I rested the phone back in its cradle and turned to the travel bag packed by Balthasar, unloading its contents carefully, deliberately. Spreading them out on the bed to wink up at me, each eager for what was coming. I moved to the suite desk, flipping open the secured laptop and reviewing the files once more before deleting them. They were no longer necessary; I had what I needed. A copy would be sent to Chicago PD later.
I’d been green around the gills the first time I’d dealt with The Candy Factory. But this time would be different. And hopefully the intel sent to law enforcement would act as proof, yes, but also as information to better arm them in the future against similar threats.
Nervous energy coursed through me.
Only fucking six thirty. There were still hours before I needed to get into position to stake out the viaduct. I repacked the laptop and equipment in anticipation of hospitality arriving shortly.
And then I paced the room, rolling my neck and shoulders and trying to get in the head space I’d need for tonight’s activities. When that didn’t work, I resorted to a physical release, dropping to the ground and doing pushups and sit-ups.
By the time a knock sounded, presumably announcing the arrival of my double meals, I was glistening with sweat and ready for action.
Not bothering to dress, I opened the door to reveal a middle-aged woman with ginger hair. A mix of sunspots and freckles dotted her face. And clear blue eyes behind the cat eyeglasses roved my nearly naked body, taking in the sight of me.
“Ann?” I questioned, eyeing the way her tailored white blouse and black slacks hugged her ample curves. She was slightly pear shaped, with an ass for miles that threatened to bust from containment.
“Mr. Montego?” She smiled from behind the rolling cart, speaking hopefully. “Shall I bring this into the room for you?”
Who was I to disappoint her?
15.
Romero
“God, look at you.” Ann the Head of Hospitality traced her index finger over the network of tattoos covering my body. Most of them celebrated my Chilean background. My father’s side of the family. I hated the bastard, but could not hate the culture that raised him. “You have so many.”
“I like the pain of it,” I shrugged.
She continued to touch my body, outlining each and every bit of ink. Mapuche symbols interconnected and swirled around one another to create a tapestry across my skin. Eyes to see the soul. A place to kneel. Cosmos and sky. A tree of life sprung from the symbol for world.
“What does this one mean?” Her finger paused, and I glanced down. Though I knew which tattoo she meant. There was only one line of writing on my body, scripted above an abstract cherry blossom, outlined in black with splashes of red in a watercolor style across the design.
“It says: I am the spring to the cherry trees.” The words were inspired by a Neruda poem.
“I don’t get it...” she murmured, her finger beginning to move again, working slowly and surely down to the waist of my underwear.
“Spring causes the cherry tree to blossom, its flower opening to the season. The pollen releases, falling like snow to the ground. It happens every year. Spring calls the new buds. The flowers open. The pollen comes.” I pushed my hands into her copper hair, pulling her head back gently to tilt her face and make her look into my eyes. “A good lover can make every time feel like the first time, always making the bud grow, the flower open. Always making the tree’s pollen come.”
She swallowed, expectation flushing her cheeks. “That might sound ridiculous if you weren’t so fucking hot.”
I didn’t say anything, regretting I’d shared something so personal with this stranger who only served one purpose.
My mind flashed to Juliette. Her dark curls. Plump mouth. But she wasn’t here. Ann was.
“The night manager comes in soon and my shift ends at eight. I won’t be missed.” She slipped a finger into the waistband of my boxer briefs.
“And even if you would be missed?” I stared at her intently, waiting for her answer.
“Let them fire me.”
I smiled. This was the kind of woman I wanted. Like soft clay, easily shaped.
Even Juliette, with her stubborn streak and hard outer shell, would be like this for me. Eventually.
“I have rules,” I told her, gripping her hair more firmly and squeezing until she gave a small gasp.
“Okay.” Her voice was breathy, both of her hands pressed against my chest now.
“I’m in charge. At all times. Nod if you understand.”
She nodded.
“If, at any time, you don’t feel safe, I want you to say the word softer. But if you want it rougher, if you want me to push you to your absolute limits, you say harder. Nod if you understand.”
She nodded again.
Push-ups and sit-ups hadn’t done the job. I needed to fuck. Needed to release the last morsels of stress clinging to my insides so I could do what I did best. Balthasar never liked it when I had a one-night stand, away from his NDAs and background checks, but the reliable bastard always tossed condoms into my luggage. God fucking bless him.
“This is a one-time event. No strings. Can you do that?”
Another nod.
“Good.” I pressed my lips to hers and she moaned against my mouth like she hadn’t been kissed in too long. Or if she had been kissed, it hadn’t been the right way. The kind of contact that made her squirm, growing wet before the real fun even began.
The kiss was fine.
Nothing special.
My mind kept wandering. Kissing Juliette had been… fuck, I couldn’t even really describe it. I only knew I wanted more. The damn woman was infecting me.
When I pulled away, hand still curled into Hotel Ann’s hair and holding her tightly to me, she was panting, trying to catch her breath. “You have protection?”
“Yes,” I growled, “now undress.” Releasing her, I took a step back to watch her fumble with the buttons of her blouse. For the first time, I noted a very faded line on her wedding finger. She’d not worn the ring for some time; it wasn’t a new development. Divorced.
A sensible bra. Sensible matching panties. I’d been wrong earlier when she’d flirted over the phone. This wasn’t a woman who did things like this often.
I’d give her a memory worth keeping, something she could masturbate to long after I was gone.
“Lay on the bed and touch yourself,” I ordered once she was naked. Her breasts were surprisingly perky, thick and round, tight to her chest and not sagging. Her pussy was full bush, and the carpet matched the drapes. It wasn’t my favorite style, but a woman needed to be comfortable in her own skin. That’s the only way the power balance worked. She had to be comfortable to let go of everything, to give herself over to the pleasure and pain, but also confident enough to use the safe word if necessary.
Hotel Ann turned, walking over to the bed and crawling onto it slowly, large ass jiggling in my direction and making my cock jump to life. She rolled over, spilling herself down onto the sea of pillows and parting her legs wide
to give me full view as she dipped fingers tentatively between her folds. I took off my underwear and rubbed my dick, hand moving up and down the shaft rhythmically as she alternated between rubbing her clit and finger fucking herself.
“Taste yourself.” I walked forward, the words a low growl.
She obliged, pulling her hand away from her pussy and lifting it to her mouth to lick her fingers slowly, suggestively.
“Good girl,” I breathed out, moving to my luggage to snag a condom from a side pocket and tearing it open with my mouth before sliding it over my tip and rolling it down.
I climbed onto the bed after and wrapped a hand around her most sensitive area, giving it a firm squeeze and letting my middle finger push into her body, barely teasing her opening while she sucked away her juices. She made noisy, sloppy sounds. And she was so damn wet.
Leaning over her body, I kneaded one tit while sucking the other’s nipple into my mouth. She mewled, arching her back, fingers leaving her mouth and moving to touch my body and dig into my side. She tried to pull me closer, tried to take the reins. I stopped massaging her breast and gripped her wrists to slam her arms back down against the bed.
“Who’s in control?” I breathed out, lips hovering above her hard nipple.
“You are,” she moaned, fighting to free her arms, but she wasn’t strong enough. Not by a long shot.
“Remember that,” I warned, biting down on her nipple and making her squeal.
She didn’t respond with words, but stopped struggling against my hold, opening herself up to my touch. The fight gone, the pleasure flooding in.
I released my grip on her wrists, nibbling the other nipple briefly before kissing down her body and pushing two fingers slowly into her, keeping my exploration shallow at first and then sinking deeper, stimulating her into a goddamn rushing river while my tongue worshipped her clit. It didn’t take long; her body had been denied too long. It was needful, wanting. Wet. Inviting. Woman were full, sexual beings. Goddesses, with temples meant for acts of devotion.
“I’m going to fuck you until you can’t walk now. Is that what you want?”
Her Villain: A Dark Bully Romance (Aqua Vitae Duet Book 1) Page 10