by Nico Rosso
And they moved, finding their rhythm. She ground against him. He pressed up to meet her. The heat in her pussy grew and she felt how wet she’d become. His cock was firm in his jeans. More of the man was made real. It wasn’t enough yet.
He swept her shirt off. While he held her, she released her bra and dropped it. He took a moment to gaze at her face, her breasts. She felt his attention and grew ravenous needing his touch.
“So beautiful,” he murmured and brought his free hand to her neck and along her collarbone.
She arched her back, inviting him farther down. He palmed her breast, and she sucked in a breath. He was still for a moment, his warm breath splashing across her chest.
“So smooth. So fine.” An almost reverent expression crossed his face. “But you’re not delicate.”
“But I am sensitive.” She brought their hips closer together and moved her breast across his palm.
“To this?” His hand continued rubbing hard pads along the edges of her tight areola. Rough sparks of pleasure spread over her chest.
“Yes,” she barely breathed.
“And this?” His fingers circled her nipple, then pinched it.
She moaned and bit her lip.
His mouth swallowed her louder sounds as he continued to tease her nipple to a firm point. Their tongues tested along each other. Her hand smoothed over his shaved head and clutched the back of his neck.
The rhythm of their bodies quickened. He thrust up and she ground down. Through all the layers of clothes his firm length slid against her wet lips.
She broke the kiss to breathe out, “Too many clothes.”
Art turned them and leaned her down onto the narrow bed. The wood and metal of the cheap frame creaked out in loud protest of their weight. Still holding her, he picked her off the bed and placed her standing on the floor.
They both stared at the bed for a moment. Her body ached to be closer to Art again. Just that one second apart was too long after all the tension that had been building between them.
He gripped the mattress and muscled it onto the floor with one swift move. Then he was back with her, helping her down to the rumpled sheets and blanket. They kneeled, facing each other. She tugged at the hem of his T-shirt, and he obliged, reaching back and pulling it off over his head.
More tattoos came into view, along with more muscles. And scars. A long one across his ribs and a series of small ones on his shoulder.
She traced the Mexican eagle tattoo on his chest, then trailed her fingers down to the scar on his ribs. “You’re not delicate either.”
“But I can still feel you.” His low voice was almost reverent. He tilted his head back, eyes closed, as she continued.
Her hand skimmed farther down, over his defined abs and to where his narrow waist disappeared into his jeans. When she undid the top button, his eyes snapped open and his gaze fixed on her.
He stepped to her again, pressing their naked chests together and inspiring harder sparks in her sensitive nipples and breasts. He leaned her down onto the mattress, resting her head on his shoulder as he curled an arm around her back. They kissed, supporting each other. Her hand found his jeans again and moved over where his cock strained in the fabric. He growled into her mouth.
While she touched him, he slipped his fingers along the waistband of her sweatpants. Every inch of her skin blazed. The top edge of her panties was so flimsy in contrast to him. Pulling down his fly, she slipped her hand into his jeans. His cock jumped in his boxer briefs when her palm glided along it.
She made low moans of her own as his touch dove under her sweatpants, under her panties and along her waistline. She rubbed her thighs together, her pussy wet and flushed. His palm smoothed over her ass, then came forward while she lay back and spread her legs.
His fingers slowly skimmed down her lower belly; she ventured under the waistband of his boxer briefs. The firm length of his cock filled her hand. He surged forward and pressed harder into her grip.
She stroked along the warm, tight skin of his shaft, his whole body rocking to her rhythm. Every muscle, every part of this capable man, was under her control. He’d always been tuned to her, focused, and now she found out how much they were connected.
Heat raced through her. He chased it higher, his fingers just at the top of her sex. Then he paused, letting them both feel the building tension. She urged him to touch her by running her fingernails in light lines along his cock.
He hissed a breath and dove down along her clit and pussy. She moaned as he parted her slick skin.
“Oh, God.” His voice vibrated in his chest, moving her.
She repeated his words back again and again. He slid along her folds and gathered her moisture and swirled it around her clit. Jolts of electric sparks shot up her body and down her legs, and she bucked against his hand.
Their mouths met again, open and hungry. And their bodies moved in unison. Need tightened through her. Even this wasn’t enough.
She released his cock and tugged at his jeans. The two of them parted for a moment, hurrying through the process of him kicking his socks and boots off and her helping him out of his jeans and boxer briefs.
Art lay naked before her. She leaned down and kissed his ribs, up his chest to his neck. He ran his fingers through her hair and across her back. She swung her leg over his body and straddled him. His smile was ravenous.
She braced her hands on his chest and rocked. His cock pressed through her sweatpants and panties, grinding with her pussy. He locked her in his grip and leaned up to lick at her nipple. Then he took it in his lips and nipped it with his teeth. Her fists curled onto his shoulders. An orgasm started climbing through her, tight like an electric coiled spring. Ready to break. She sped her rhythm, rocking back and forth on him.
And he surged up with her pace, giving her plenty to spark with. Commanding but not forceful, his hands cupped her ass, moved along her legs, grabbed her ankles.
She was so close to coming, but there was too much fabric holding them back.
He must’ve understood her frustrated sigh. Turning them both, he soon had her on her back. He kissed her jaw, her neck.
With his mouth at her ear, he whispered, “I’m going to taste you.”
She might have pleaded or demanded he do that, but wasn’t sure what words she made.
The naked shape of Art moved down her body. His fingers skipped along her sensitive skin until they hooked into her panties and sweatpants. She arched up, and he eased the last of her clothes away.
His hands smoothed back up her legs. A wicked little smile curled on his face. He nodded and tilted his shoulders in that rhythm she’d seen in him since the beginning. And he moaned with appreciation like the first time he’d tried her food.
He leaned close, scooping her up to turn her slightly. “There’s that pomegranate.” His mouth found the tattoo on her lower back.
She arched for more. Having his lips on her that low rushed her blood faster. He carefully turned her back onto the mattress and leaned back.
With his hands on her thighs, he parted her legs. She spread for him, pulling her knees up and placing her feet on the mattress. His broad shoulders moved her legs farther apart and he leaned closer to her sex.
She ran her hand over his shaved head. He held her hips and his mouth found her pussy.
Was her gasp lost in the sound of the pounding rain?
It didn’t seem like there was enough air in the room. She was caught up in the rush while Art licked deliberate circles around her clit. His tongue slicked lower, through her lips and into her. Then back up again, more firmly.
One of his hands reached up and palmed her breast. She writhed to rub her nipple on his rough skin. Searching for something to brace herself, both of her hands stretched over her head and grasped one leg of the bed frame. Now she co
uld buck harder against Art’s mouth as he continued to drive her dizzy, moving up and down.
“Oh, fuck,” she thought she whispered when she tasted the first sweet edge of the climax, but her voice was breathless and hoarse.
Art paused for a second and smiled up at her. “You taste like peaches.”
“You’ve got to be kidding—” Words failed when he brought his lips back down around her clit.
He sucked her lightly into his mouth and played along the most sensitive tip of her bud with the point of his tongue. A few flicks, then the flat of his tongue ran over her clit and back down again. Her heels dug into the mattress. The orgasm surged closer. She gripped the bed frame and thought she’d snap the wood in half. Her back arched and she pressed hard into him. He did not stop.
She came, trying to swallow her cries and not knowing how loud she was. Her legs squeezed his shoulders. He remained still, letting her move on him to savor all the sensations.
Her hands tingled as she released the bed frame. Blood rushed through her. The air thickened and she caught her breath.
Art crawled up next to her and encased her body in his arms and legs. She held him. The pulse in his veins matched hers.
There was a smile in his voice. “You do taste like peaches.”
She kissed him for proof, but only detected her own musk. Once she found her voice, she asked, “Was I loud?”
“The rain was louder.” He stroked along her back and ass. “Barely.”
She licked her hand and rubbed it along his rigid cock. “Let’s see how loud I can make you.”
He growled. The need in his eyes was downright animal, adding to the thrill of having him in her touch and moved by her will. He thrust with her strokes. She’d seen him fight, knew his power. His muscles now moved for her, because of her.
“I have to have you,” he rasped.
“Yes,” she gasped back.
For a quick moment he pulled away and rustled in his jacket. He came back, unwrapping a condom.
“You knew before we left San Diego?” she asked, almost coming again with just the sight of him rolling the condom on.
He took her leg and pulled it over his hip. “I also brought twenty feet of rope, water purification tablets, spare flashlight batteries and a fire steel.”
“Kinky.” She put her hands on his rib cage, directing him over her.
“I can be. We can be.” His face grew serious. “Another time. I just...need you now.”
“I’m yours now.” The meaning of her words sunk in. A deep blush rushed through her. Her connection with Art changed every second.
She laced her fingers behind his neck and leaned him down for a kiss. He returned it, then they parted and breathed together as his cock lined up with her opening. Deliberate and slow, he entered her.
When he filled her completely, he stopped. They gripped each other. The rain continued, protecting them with blankets of sound.
Art slid out and returned. The pace increased. She hooked her other heel over his leg and tilted her hips up to invite him deeper. And faster. Her breath rushed with him. Her body sweated and slicked and opened to have as much of him as she could.
His brow pulled low over intense eyes. He licked his lips and bared his teeth and kissed her. His arms curled around her back and his hands climbed higher to wind into her hair. She held on to his shoulders while his thrusts continued, moving both of them.
Another orgasm started to glow deeper than the first. Every time he entered her, grinding their sex close, it grew in intensity.
“Yes,” she told him. “Yes,” she commanded. “Yes,” she promised.
He returned the promise with his lips on her mouth, on her cheek, on her throat.
The climax took her.
She bit into his shoulder to keep from calling out too loudly while the release swept up and down her body. He moaned with her and his pace increased. Her orgasm swirled with his energy.
Faster. He thrust harder. His breath rasped while his muscles tensed. She held on with all her strength. Deep inside her, he came. She felt his cock pulse as he spent, and she wound herself tighter around him.
For long breaths, they remained motionless, coiled together.
Art turned to the side, pulling from her and lying next to her. He blinked slow, staring at her. “Mi reina.”
An intense blush heated her face and the top of her chest. He had called her his queen.
Quiet air settled on them. The patter of the rain slowed outside. Time shortened.
Art rolled off the mattress and removed the condom, folding it into one of the facecloths stacked on her side table. She sat up, noticing now how the sheets had all been pulled from edges and bunched in the middle of the mattress.
Still naked, she and Art reassembled the covers and tugged the mattress back on the frame. When they were done, they both stared at the narrow bed.
“A little small for two.” The chill of reality started to invade the room and her bones.
“We could make it work.” Sadness darkened Art’s smile. “But I can’t.”
She nodded. “I get it.”
He dressed, collecting his gun and knives and reattaching them to all their hiding places. She put her sleep clothes on, not wanting the night to be over and knowing it was.
The rain had receded so much that she could hear the drips of water from the roof. Even the metallic rasp of her door’s lock echoed in the room. Too damn loud.
Art kept his hand on the door, face dark.
She moved to him, and he kissed her.
His voice was thick with emotion. “I’m still right here with you.”
They kissed again until he eased the door open. They parted. He slipped out the door, and she closed and locked it behind him.
Quiet chilled the room. She turned out the light and got into bed, trying to preserve the warmth she and Art had created. It faded, but she wouldn’t let it go. The house full of criminals had become her world. And Art was the only good she’d found. Those few minutes of pleasure might be the last she would ever feel.
Chapter Twelve
Instead of sleeping with Hayley’s arm draped over him, Art had spent the night in his windowless room with his pistol in his hand. Light sleep had taken him to morning. His mind had swirled with the tactical details of the house. Every time the floor plan emerged in his imagination, the map moved to Hayley’s room.
Instead of satisfying the built-up need between them, he was left wanting to know every inch of her. His body ached from how they’d thrown themselves together. It wasn’t enough. The image of her naked and writhing on the mattress on the floor haunted him.
Art rose from the bed, knowing he was done with sleep, and pulled his supplies together for a shower. Sunlight already blasted through the second-floor windows. Yesterday’s clouds had been erased by the bright blue. Traces of moisture remained outside in the long morning shadows.
He was the first one in the bathroom. There were three shower stalls, and he took the one farthest from the door. If someone was coming, he would have a second of extra time to know. He had his soap, towel, change of clothes and his push dagger. It was stainless steel and held up fine in the water. Because of the T-handle grip, he didn’t need to worry about soapy hands mishandling the knife.
This morning, he showered in peace. Though his mind churned with thoughts of Hayley. She trusted him. She’d let him into her room. She’d let herself go with him.
And he’d let himself go with her. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been that honest with someone.
Never.
He finished his shower and dressed, wondering if trust was a mistake that would get him killed. The stakes of the mission rose every second he was with Hayley. His judgment, his aim, needed to remain clear.
/> After kitting himself back up with his pistol and knives in his room, he emerged while the others were waking up. There was the usual dirty look from Garin, and Vasily was stone-faced. If anyone knew Art had been with Hayley the night before, they didn’t indicate it. And he knew they wouldn’t have been able to keep from making lewd comments or gestures. The secret was secure.
So was Hayley. He watched from the first-floor living room as she exited her own bathroom, dressed after her shower and headed straight for the kitchen. Her chef’s coat was already buttoned over her, like a flak jacket. But he knew how she was curved beneath it. How silky and responsive she was.
Before she immersed herself with work, she looked up to where Art leaned on a pillar in the open living room. Her smile for him was private, knowing, and it built a warm glow in his chest. He gave her a small wave back but couldn’t approach. That floor of the house was too quiet. He wouldn’t be able to keep his hand from her hand, his mouth from hers.
She hurried together the walking breakfast, then prepped other things, presumably for lunch. The men started filtering into the kitchen, collecting their coffee and rolls, while looking a bit weary of the guard detail in the compound. How crisp would they be when he called in Automatik’s strike?
Rolan approached Art in the living room, interrupting a count of which guards carried extra submachine gun magazines. The boss revealed in Russian, “Krylov is delayed.”
He ran the northeast territory of the Orel Group. Art didn’t know the arrival times of the bosses, which was one of the complicating variables to the mission.
Rolan went on, “We might push the meeting longer once he arrives. But be ready with all of your information.”
He nodded back and gave a small thumbs-up.
The clock for the assault changed. All the springs stretched tighter. They could break any second.