And then his rhythm eclipsed hers, shakily, hungrily, speeding up so that his mouth dipped under her jaw and tasted down her throat, tonguing along her collarbone, to the top of her shirt and down to its first button. He stayed there, waiting for his hand to arrive and unbutton her, to handle her bra with a touch of savagery, a firmness that told her it would be best to stay out of his way.
Clara laid her head fully back on the mattress, happily submitting, happily waiting for him to decide how he’d best devour her. For now it was his teasing, Sam’s breath at her neck. It tickled her so barely, so softly, making her feel squirmy and tight. Her muscles constricted in little spasms when Sam’s mouth encircled and consumed the tip of her breast. For a moment, he’d owned that part of her. Her nipple, bare and hardening in the hot darkness of his mouth. It made her squirm faster. It made her only just a little aware of the tiny pleading whimper she’d just made, a sound quickly swallowed up by the black emptiness of his hotel room. Even her weight, small under his mass, had been taken. Her breath, her spirit, her mind consumed so effortlessly by this man.
There could be no rejection of it. His mouth, on just her nipple now, made sure of that, made it form a thick and swollen point between tongue lashes, made her squeal out loud, too loud, when he held it between his teeth. When he pulled back.
How did he get into her pants? How? When did his hand slide under and in and over her? Back and forth, opening her to his gaze. How did he wipe her mind away like that, breaking her down and transforming her into pure feeling? To primordial lust?
Only it wasn’t his hand but hers. He had gotten her to do that, too, somehow. His way with her, his mouth, his intensity, it had somehow sent a message directly to her body, bypassing her conscious mind and convincing her hand, quite easily, to do his bidding like an extra extension of him and his uncontested assault on where she’d needed him the most.
“Oh,” he whispered, sounding very pleased. “Look at you.”
Clara rubbed herself harder.
But Sam grabbed her wrist and took her away from the hot, wet work, taking her hand up to his face, bringing her fingers into his mouth. He sucked them hard, tonguing, working, until she almost became part of him. Just another part of her taken. Consumed wholly. But there was more. Much more. She needed it all gone. It all to disappear. Please. Her body and her mind. Please do that.
For now, he was happy to continue her work for her, his hand replacing hers between her widening legs. She groaned for it, for his hand, his fingers sliding inside her. His hands were much larger than her own, his fingers stretching her as he worked one, and then two, deep into her core. Her mouth fell open, silently. Fuck.
Good. His pants were off. Good, the sound of elastic waistband siding over his skin until getting stuck on something, and then suddenly unstuck. Good. He was good and hard and hot in her hand. Good boy.
Clara sat up, bending forward and down, her face traveling blindly to him. The first point of contact was her cheek, her flushed warm cheek barely feeling the change, and then as she moved in closer, he slid up the whole of her face, burning now against the air-conditioned cool of her forehead. God, it was wild and unwieldy, and very fucking big. And he seemed to enjoy toying her with it, letting her mouth gape and stretch and aim and still trying to find the right angle for it in the dark. She liked feeling this way. She could be a mouth if that was what he needed, her body, protecting him, letting him inside and squeezing him. She could be fucked so thoroughly that she would forget, for an hour or four, or forever, forgetting anything pertaining to the outside real world of Clara. Forget that she was human. Forget that she needed air.
“Oh, God,” he said, breathy and weak. His breath and body shook as her mouth moved up and down, lips squeezing on their way up, and squeezing, and squeezing. And then his hand at her head, tapping for mercy. Clara pulled back, catching her breath after taking him all the way.
He was a man possessed now, ripping down what was left of her clothes, pant legs pulled from the cuffs, panties discarded like the wrapper of some forbidden treat. And now she felt his close-cropped hair, his stubble, his breath between her thighs as he moved in to taste that treat.
Yes, Sam. Taste it.
Her fingers gripped onto his head, squeezing at his hair, holding him until she felt something glowing deep inside her.
“Sam,” she said. “Give it to me.”
His cock. It was still hard when she grabbed it one last time, sliding down a condom over his length. He was still wet from her mouth. He pushed deep inside her, growing harder still with every inch as he stretched her. With each bit of progress he made, Sam groaned, deep and low. Underneath him, Clara kept silent. She kept still as he slid his cock deeper. There was no other sensation in the world than him filling her. She wanted all of him, right now. She told him so, and Sam became a little less patient with his strength.
He had always been careful with her, with his strength and size advantage. But now, with her claws pushed into his flexing ass, and with her pleading, he succumbed to the lowest and most animalistic instinct and fucked her. Hard. Finally, fucking, the sound of their colliding bodies echoing off the walls, the bed’s headboard smacking into her every time, and the feeling of almost unbearable tension before the glow spread through her body. It radiated out through her limbs, and then out of her mouth in a moan of guttural, sexual completion. In here, in the four walls and behind the locked door and in the bed, as long as they were in here, as long as he was in here, in her, as long and as deep as she could stand.
“Ohh . . .”
He filled her and then left a gaping hollow, and then filled her again and again. She exploded, that warm glow burning up her insides, blurring her vision of a completely dark room, quivering her body tight around his surging cock in a long and intensifying rhythm, until she collapsed under him and gave way to the sensation of him driving deep into her once again, shuddering above her as he filled her.
It was a few more minutes of her life, a small gap this time, that she had no recollection of. Sam had made her cum so hard that her memory, her mind, had been momentarily destroyed. It was only when her mind returned a moment later, that she could finally open her mouth and say something halfway intelligible. “Oh, my fucking God.”
And then she stayed quiet enough to catch her breath after the devastation.
Somewhere during that time, Sam had slipped out and away from her. And thank God for it. She was so sensitive now, so raw. The gentlest breeze up her legs would’ve given her a seizure.
“That was so good,” he said, his face coming closer in the dark. His lips on hers. And then he said it again. “So good.”
She could feel his cock, hard again and twitching against her thigh. It excited her, but she couldn’t . . .
A hand began traveling down her belly, but she held it away. “Sam, wait . . .” She was still out of breath. She was still deliciously sore. “I know you want more,” she said, mustering up a little laugh but still holding him away. His hand and his cock.
“I need it,” he said.
“I know.” She kissed him. “You’ll get it.”
He went back in to grab her bottom lip with his. A little tug, and then, “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
She smiled. “No. I asked for it, and I’m so glad I did.” She was. And she was glad she was sore. She wanted to be made sore again. She wanted to feel it all week. “I can’t believe it took us so long.”
“I like delayed gratification.”
“Well, then,” she reached down, held him, then began stroking. “Let’s delay all night long.”
20
Sam
“Not much of a view, huh?”
They sat on the concrete steps facing the muddy Mississippi. The water was choppy and dark, almost the color of chocolate milk.
Sam looked away from the water. “Did you bring it?”
“I brought it,” Jasper said, patting his jacket pockets.
“Can I see it?”
“Let me see it.”
Jasper reached into his pocket and pulled out a little laminated card. It was attached to a lanyard. He held the lanyard and let the card dangle in the wind. It was Sam’s chance, his extremely slim chance, at gaining access to that night’s FBI press conference. Jasper had been invited. They seemed to like him. But the local law enforcement weren’t so keen on Sam. The captain especially. The FBI still thought he was just some crazy guy that climbed planters in the middle of a biological terror attack.
“Looks like someone did a good job,” Sam said, admiring the counterfeit press pass. “Does the magnetic strip work?”
“What do you think?” Jasper said, still not handing it over.
Sam held his hand out, his fingers curled for it. But Jasper just pocketed the card. “I thought it over.”
“That’s not your call to make.”
“No, it’s Jackson’s, and that’s what he told me.”
“You’re lying.”
“Sam, they already gave me the preview. I can give you the press conference right now, here on this step.”
Sam waited for his private press conference to begin while a small group of joggers plodded by on the jogging path behind them. It had been a cool, windy December in New Orleans. Christmas was only a week or two away.
“And you’re not going to like it. So forget about the card and the conference and—”
“Just tell me what they know.”
“I helped them trace the substance back to Tulane University.”
He looked up sharply. “When did you do that?”
“Last night,” Jasper said. “When you were . . . taking care of Clara.”
Sam compared the importance of “taking care of Clara” to nosing around at another of New Orleans’ colleges. He couldn’t disagree that Clara had been the better move. God, he’d never leave that woman’s side again if he had a choice. But still, he’d been lagging behind yet again. It was becoming clear more than ever, especially after last night, that he would have to pick one or the other. He didn’t have room in his life for two obsessions. He couldn’t work this on his own and still take care of his woman. Sam smiled ruefully. Clara was definitely his, even if she hadn’t realized yet.
“Kafi and Timir are microbiology students, Sam.”
“They’re from Somalia, though.”
“Still doesn’t make them terrorists,” Jasper said.
Sam couldn’t contain his anger. He turned to Jasper and said, “I don’t care where they’re positioned on the power totem pole. They tried poisoning a whole city block of people. That fucking makes them terrorists. Don’t give me that horse shit, Jasper.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t care if they’re students. That only makes them more dangerous. And how the fuck did they get their hands on the lab and technology to make enough hydrogen chloride?”
“It was a very weak dispersal.”
“I didn’t know Tulane was the new Fort Detrick.”
Jasper cleared his throat and continued. “So they went out there and checked out their lab. Got physical evidence, and cleaned it up. Shut down any possible pathways for non-authorized access. It’s open and shut now.”
Sam still couldn’t believe it was that simple.
“And, I think that’s it, Sam. I’ll be heading back to D.C. pretty soon.”
Sam was looking at his shoes. A gust of wind blew at his laces, but his feet were steady, firmly planted on the bank of the Mississippi.
“You should come back with me,” Jasper said. “You’ve been out here a long time.”
“Maybe I’ll stay and get fired.”
“If that’s what you want.” Jasper patted him on the shoulder. “That’s not what I want, though. No one wants that.”
“I think I do,” Sam said. There were others who agreed with him. Clara. Molly. “I’m burned out with D.C. And I like the pace here.”
“The Big Easy, huh?”
“I like the people.”
“You like your girl.”
“Yeah,” Sam said, turning to him. “I really do.”
“How is she?”
“She’s doing great. She did a poetry reading last night.”
“Wow . . .” Jasper smiled and then chuckled. “You went to a poetry reading?”
“With her, yeah. I don’t understand it, but I like it. She did a great job.”
“You know, you can try the long-distance thing.”
“Yeah, but, she’s got this guy, her ex. Molly’s father. He’s a real problem.”
“You don’t trust her?”
“It’s not that kind of problem. He just got out of jail, and he’s been . . . bothering her.”
“Sam, I might not agree with you quitting DARC Ops. But I do think you need to take some steps back from this investigation, and maybe work on your personal life. Work on her. Do what you have to do, but, please, think about coming back when you’re done. Okay?”
It was a reasonable request. Since coming down, Jasper had been firm, but fair, with his assessments of Sam’s latest predicaments. He was someone Sam could trust.
“You haven’t seen the last of me,” Sam said, thinking already about his night ahead. Should he already consider himself a free man from DARC, a freelancer, with a free night to spend with his girl? Should he call Jackson already and tell him about it? Or should he stay at his hotel and focus on how he should deal with the Kurt situation? He still had all those clips of news footage. He could maybe comb through them in search of Kurt, use it as evidence for Clara’s restraining order.
Sam took another look at his good friend. He would feel a little sad, saying goodbye. DARC had been good to him, almost like a family.
“Hey,” Sam said. “One last thing before you go. A beignet.”
“A what?”
Sam pointed up over the road behind them to another of New Orleans’ famous landmarks, the Cafe Du Monde. “Let’s do something touristy for a change.”
It was like fishing. But less scenic. And a lot less relaxing.
Sam sat in his hotel room, hunch-backed in front of two linked monitors, watching clip after clip of anything pertaining to the event—watching carefully and closely for Kurt’s clothing, hair style, manner of walk. He had been straining his eyes for almost an hour, during which time he’d already had gone through the clips of Clara. Those were painful to revisit. When he’d first discovered her, his reaction with Bren had been a mix of excitement and horror. Now he just felt a muted sense of sadness.
She looked so broken and pitiful. He fucking hated it.
Sam clenched his teeth and fast-forwarded those parts, all while making a promise to himself that he would never let anything happen to her ever again. It could be his new job. It could be her future, protected. Really protected.
It made him stare at the screens harder, his focus sharpened, even his peripheral vision opening up and taking in wider and wider swaths of visual coverage. But still no fucking sign of Kurt.
Of course, there was that possibility that he’d never been there. At the time of the event, Sam’s adrenaline had been off the charts. His breathing fucked up. He might have even been affected by remnants of the attack. Kurt could have just been a product of that, some maddening mirage.
When Sam’s phone vibrated against the table, the intrusion into such hard concentration made him jump in his seat. He was glad no one was around to see it, or to hear the little squeal he made.
“Dave?”
“Hi, Sam. Got some news for you.”
It could either be about Kurt or the bio attack. Although he’d sworn off researching the bio angle to Jasper, he still wasn’t sure what info he’d like to hear.
Dave spoke again. “It turns out that Kurt is most definitely in New Orleans.”
“Shit . . .”
“But don’t worry. Clara’s safe. He’s in jail.” Dave lau
ghed quietly on the other end. Sam thought he sounded drunk. “He got swept up in a sting operation. A crack house in the lower Ninth Ward.”
“He smokes crack?”
“You wouldn’t believe some of these guys,” Dave said. “They go in there and get straight for five years and then as soon as they get out, it’s the first thing they want.”
Sam was glad that Kurt was off the streets and no longer a threat to Clara or Molly, but there was something about this latest news that made him hurt inside. It was such a terrible tragedy all around.
“I just figured you’d want to know.”
“Of course,” he said. “Thank you. I’m just . . . I guess I’m stunned.”
“Why? The guy’s a loser.”
“True.”
“Sam, he beats women. I don’t want to get into it, but—”
“I know, I know. I just don’t want to celebrate something like this.”
“I do,” Dave said. “I’m celebrating right now.” There was the cracking sound of an opened can of beer. And then some hard swallows coming through on the call.
“You okay, Dave?”
“I don’t mean to be crass,” he said. “I’m just glad to be done on your little research project.”
Sam kept staring at the screen of his own research project, all the faces and shapes blurred into an ugly impressionist painting. One of Monet’s worst works. Biological Attack in the Courtyard.
Dave kept going. “Unless you’ve got some more bright ideas. Maybe you want me to get Vivian to be the guy’s lawyer? A legal assistant posing as public defender. She’d probably do a better job than most of those hacks. But you’re not looking for that; you just want to keep tabs on the guy.”
“Yeah,” Sam said, just letting him go on.
“Actually, you should get her to do that, make Vivian sabotage the case and keep him in jail for the rest of his life. You know how hard this state is on drug crimes? This ain’t Washington.”
DARC Ops: The Complete Series Page 101