“Albie,” she murmured. “I’m ready. Aren’t you?”
He sucked in a little breath. “God, yes.” And then kissed her.
An immediately forceful kiss, lush, and deep, and wet. She opened her mouth to his, and she could tell then just how much he’d been holding back, trying to be respectful and careful of her. Not because he thought her weak, she knew, she his grip on her throat tightened and his other hand found the bare skin of her waist, but because he cared that much. Because he wanted to do this right.
The thought left her neck weak. She leaned into him, hands finding the front of his shirt – of his cut; cool leather and warm flannel. She was already dizzy, nearly overcome. She didn’t want to think anymore; to doubt, and restrain, and be cautious.
“Albie,” she murmured, between kisses.
“What, darling?” His hand skimmed upward, over the fretwork of her ribs, ghosting high on her side, shy of where she wanted it.
And how did she tell him? More suggestions and conversations? Or just…
“Touch me, please,” she whispered, and bit his lower lip.
That was the trigger, apparently. His hands found her breasts, and the kiss went dirty. Filthy.
She whimpered. She didn’t mean to, but the sound happened, and suddenly his arms were around her, and he was towing her to the bed, pulling her down into his lap. She straddled him gladly, and felt the hardness of his erection through his jeans. Had he been hard for her all this time? While she was in the shower? The thought had her pushing her hands through the glossy thickness of his hair, clutching at his skull as he trailed kisses down her throat, and out onto her shoulder. Down her collarbone and, finally, blessedly, to her breast.
“Oh,” she said on a gasp, because it was electric. The heat of his mouth, the silk of his tongue, the faint rasp of his teeth, just enough pressure to send pleasure rippling down her back. “Albie.” She clutched at his hair, desperate, suddenly – even more desperate than she had been. She ground down against him, the denim too rough against her most sensitive skin, but the burn of friction was good. Necessary. She needed…
He suckled hard, and his hand skimmed down the flare of her waist, over her hip, and finally, blessedly, through her curls to find her damp sex.
A teasing touch at first, feather-light. She rocked against him and felt herself growing wetter, slicker; his fingers – oh, they were clever fingers – parted her and finally stopped teasing. He pressed one into her, slow and steady, bit lightly at her nipple, and that was it, she was coming.
She made a shocked, choked sound as the pleasure washed up in a sudden, hot wave. She closed her eyes against it, hands going slack in his hair, clenching tight around his finger. She was weak with it, overwhelmed, trembling and unsteady.
His arm hooked around her waist, holding her tight, and he massaged her gently with that finger still inside, working her through the spasms.
“Christ.” Through the pounding of her pulse in her ears, she could pick out the reverence in his tone. “Christ, sweetheart, you went so easy.” He nuzzled into the sweat-tacky skin between her breasts, his breath hot, quick, but soothing.
She tried to say something, to thank him, but just murmured wordless nonsense instead.
He withdrew his finger, and then she did say, “No, wait, stay–”
“Shh, it’s alright.” He shifted her around and laid her out on the bed, hand cupped behind the back of her head as he lowered her to the bed with a sweetness that had her eyes burning.
She blinked up at him, still panting and pulsing with sensation, but getting her senses back. Sense enough to be both touched and terrified by the want and tenderness on his face as he looked down at her.
“You’re beautiful,” he said.
“Take your clothes off. Please.” She managed to grab the hem of his shirt and tugged. “I wanna see you.”
Nothing about him was hesitant now. He stood and stripped with a few efficient movements; she heard a boot go thumping across the carpet when he kicked it off. He didn’t stand back and give her a twirl, didn’t let her look her fill, but it was enough. Enough to see that he was all compact muscle, and old scars, and thick thighs…and that he was hard, and flushed, and leaking for her already.
He climbed on the bed, prowled on all fours when she opened her legs in ready invitation. Planted a hand on the pillow beside her head and hovered above her, dark hair falling forward to tickle her forehead, his breath sharp, quick, warm against her lips.
Kiss me, she wanted to say. No more waiting. But the look in his eyes stopped her. He was just studying her, his pupils blown, his expression nothing short of awed.
He was awed by her.
She shivered, cold now, as the sweat cooled, bereft of his body heat. She reached up and touched his face; traced her thumb along his lower lip. “I want you.”
He dropped down and kissed her; pressed them together, skin-to-skin, finally. He was warm, and his shoulders were hard and tensed when she gripped them.
She was sensitive, when he touched her again, messily wet; he slipped two fingers in easily, and she broke the kiss to take a deep breath.
“Okay?” He pressed deep, and crooked his fingers, and her body was singing.
She could feel her brow furrowing, her body almost overcome with sensation, but she wanted more, and told him in a broken murmur. He added a third finger, and kissed her mouth while he stretched her; lazy plunges of his tongue deep into her mouth that matched the thrust of his hand at her sex.
She dug her nails into his biceps, bit at his lip, marveling at how aggressive and needy she felt. It had never been like this with anyone else. “Albie. Come on.”
It was a loss when he withdrew, but then she got to watch him tear open a condom packet with his teeth and roll it on. Watched him stroke himself a moment, hand wet from her, face tensed like he was in pain, hips rolling like he couldn’t help it.
She opened her legs a little wider, and tweaked her own nipples.
“Christ,” he groaned. “Oh, Christ, wait, I’m here.”
Over her again, one hand supporting his weight, the other lining them up. He’d stretched her well, but his cock felt huge compared to three fingers. The pressure was sharp – and then the head slipped inside and her body opened for him. Welcomed him. They both let out harsh breath, and then he was pressing in, in, in, and was fully-seated, better than she’d imagined.
He rested his forehead against hers a moment, holding still. Trembling with restraint.
Axelle tightened her legs around his waist. “It’s okay. I’m ready.”
His breath shivered in the air between them as he pulled back, and then rocked back in. He hissed. “You’re tight. I – damn.” Another withdrawal, and a slow press back. Working her open, going slow. Withdrawing a little much on each retreat – until he pulled nearly out, and then his hips snapped forward, and he filled her on one fast stroke.
She pressed her head back into the pillow and sucked in a breath, legs tightening on his hips – she wondered, vaguely, if she’d have bruises to show for it.
He did it again. And again. Building a rhythm. She could feel herself grow impossibly wetter; feel the sweat building on both of them, until skin was sliding, and their bodies were meeting with an audible smack.
He pressed his face into her throat and fucked her in earnest. Axelle could only cling to him, delighted, hazy with pleasure, toes curling.
She marveled at the contrasts: the frenetic, desperate thrusts, and the breathy little endearments he breathed into her ear. He was coming undone, unraveling, as pleasure-drenched and overcome as she was.
They were in this together. In the moment, bodies tangled, yes, but in this adventure; this scary week of cartels and guns and bikes and blood. She wasn’t alone in it; she had Albie. She had this.
Axelle turned and sank her teeth into his throat to hold back the words that built on the back of her tongue, and she felt him shudder.
“Yes, love, like that.”
Thirty-Four
Fox tightened the last strap of his flak vest and tugged a black sweatshirt on over it. She didn’t make a sound, but when he turned, he knew he’d find Eden propped up in the door of his dorm room. What he didn’t expect was the way she was dressed: black turtleneck, black jeans, her usual Doc Martens. A shoulder and a hip holster, both loaded. She held her jacket folded over one arm, and her hair was pulled back so tight it left her a little cat-eyed.
He’d always thought she was beautiful, had always warmed inside when he looked at her, and traced the contours of her body with his eyes. That had never been in question. But lately, since moving to Knoxville, he’d noticed a lack of – something. An ephemeral, uncatchable thread that always seemed to be sliding through his fingers. The sex was good, but the thrill of work would always be better. Tonight, right now, looking at her ready for work, he felt the old thrill. That spike of desire in the midst of the buzzing anticipation of getting his hands dirty.
His father had picked him to be the prodigal, and for good reason. Fox had never hated Devin for what he was – only for leaving. For never explaining to his children what they were. And when it came to the work, Fox enjoyed it.
Eden got that. Eden felt it, too. It had always been his favorite thing about her.
Pulse tripping, he said, politely, “Going out?”
She smirked. “If you’ll have me.”
“Well, it’s just me and those two robotic wankers. I suppose I could use another adult on the team.”
~*~
With four witnesses staying at the clubhouse overnight, it had become imperative for some people to share dorms. Reese had been told to share with Tenny. Nickel had brought in an air mattress. It was all handled very casually and as if it wouldn’t cause any bother.
Reese was bothered. Even if he did feel rather sorry for Tenny, post-crash, his patience was still a new, tender, developing thing, and Tenny was challenging it mightily.
Reese dipped his fingers into the tin of grease paint on the dresser and dragged them carefully across his cheek, the green-black of it stark on his pale skin. He’d scraped his hair back tightly, so it wouldn’t be in the way, and painted his face with practiced efficiency.
Tenny’s face appeared behind his in the mirror, lip curled up in a sneer. “Are you really going to wear that shit?” he asked, in his most posh accent.
“I always wear it.”
If the way his shoulders twitched was any indication, the calm answer ratcheted Ten’s anger up another notch. “Why? Because you like pretending to be a Navy SEAL? You’re not a real solider, you know.”
Reese painted the bridge of his nose, the thick paint gleaming in the lamplight. “I go where I’m told to go. I kill who I’m told to kill. Isn’t that what a soldier does?”
“Fucking hopeless,” Ten muttered, and turned away.
“I have enough if you want to wear some, too.”
“No, I don’t want to wear it! What’s wrong with you?”
Reese didn’t answer.
Tenny kicked the end of the air mattress – Reese’s air mattress, because Ten had of course called “dibs” on the bed with a snide comment about Reese not even appreciating a real bed, probably.
“Aren’t you going to get ready?” Reese asked. When Ten whirled again, teeth bared in a grimace, he couldn’t account for the warmth of satisfaction in his gut, like when he executed a perfect hit; the personal pleasure of a job well done.
Tenny opened the halves of his jacket and revealed the guns and knives strapped strategically to his person. “I am ready. I don’t have to do my makeup first, like you.”
Reese finished, tidying the last of the excess around the corners of his eyes – eyes that now looked too bright by contrast. He capped his tin, and wiped his fingers clean on a bit of rag he kept for the purpose, pre-soaked with solvent. He turned around, then, and leaned back against the dresser, observing Tenny as he paced the width of the small room. He’d been gathering his thoughts for the past hour or so, deciding what he wanted to say.
As if he sensed he was being watched, Tenny paused, and lifted his head. “What?” He was so full of hostility it was a wonder he hadn’t split open along some hidden seam in order to vent it.
“My sister told me something.”
“Well, good for you.”
“She said that sometimes a person acts like they’re angry with you, but they’re really angry about something else.”
Tenny had stood poised for a retort, lips set in a cruel line, dark brows lowered and malicious. But when Reese spoke, his face blanked. He blinked.
“She gets angry with me sometimes, but she says she isn’t really. She’s angry about what happened to us.”
Tenny waited a beat, and then wet his lips, and his voice came out small and choked. “What happened to you?” He sounded like he really wanted to know.
Reese’s own mouth felt dry, suddenly, but he didn’t lick his lips; he’d learned long ago to hate the taste of grease paint. “The Commander raised us. I was his soldier. I killed for him. Kris – I don’t know where Kris was, most of the time. They would bring her to see me, sometimes. She always told me to be good and listen to them, do what they said. I don’t know why, because I always did. When I did a job right, they let me see her more often. She was always crying.”
Tenny’s brows lowered again, but in an entirely different way.
“That was before Badger – that was…” he didn’t want to talk about Badger. “She smiles more, now. She has a boyfriend. She says our mother was sick, and the Commander took us from her, and that he shouldn’t have. She wants me to be a person. She gave me a book to read, but I don’t like it.”
Tenny snorted – but his expression wasn’t cruel, now.
“I don’t like you,” Reese continued. “I hate you. And I’ve never hated anything before, I don’t think, except for maybe Badger. I hate that you don’t take orders, and that you think you’re smarter than me, and that you’re pretending, all the time, to be a real person when you aren’t. You aren’t.” His breathing had picked up, and he forced it slow.
Tenny’s chest swelled as he took a deep breath of his own. “You said that before,” he said, tightly. “But my handlers spent millions turning me into about fifteen different people. Each with his own uses. I am a soldier, and a martial artist, and a sniper, and a driver, and a gangster, and a seducer. I’ve convinced rich old women to name me in their wills, and I’ve fucked closeted politicians in the beds they share with their wives. I’ve killed a third world dictator with my bare hands, and I’ve batted my lashes at warlords. I was cultivated to be whichever kind of person my handlers needed me to be. For my government. For my country.”
His voice shook. “And your Lean Dogs tore it all down. Fox tore it all–” He cut himself off, abruptly; pushed hands through his hair and laced them together at the back of his neck, head bowed. “What was it all for?” he whispered. “What a waste.”
Reese knew pity again. “I’m sorry.”
Ten’s head lifted, sharply, scowl back in place. “What are you sorry for?”
“I’m sorry you’re afraid. I wish you weren’t.”
“Fuck,” Ten swore – but didn’t contradict him. “Finish your makeup,” he snapped, and stalked out of the room.
Reese went to assemble his weapons cache for the night’s work.
~*~
Doc Gilliard’s house glowed like a jack-o-lantern. It stood against the dark of night as a modern, flashy stucco fortress, studded with windows, circled by iron fences, embellished with swimming pools and ornate gardens. Candy had given them a general idea of the layout, based on what he remembered, but had grimaced when he admitted he didn’t know where all the entrances and exits were located. Fox had waved him off. “We can take care of that.”
He lay now on his belly in the dirt, on the rise above the good doctor’s property,
surveying the place through binoculars. His heart pounded like a metronome, quick, but steady, limbs full of anticipatory chills.
“I make one guard by the garage doors, but that’s all I can see outside.”
“That’s where they’ll be keeping the valuables,” Eden said.
“Some of them. But there’s outbuildings,” Fox said, handing over the binoculars.
She put them to her eyes, and then cursed softly. “You’re right.”
“We’ll have to check all of it.”
“Right.” She caught his gaze, and tipped her head toward the boys, brows lifted in silent question.
“They’ll be alright, won’t you, boys?” To Eden: “They’ve been briefed.”
Reese gave him a solemn nod. Tenny shrugged, which Fox figured was the closest thing he’d get to acknowledgement from him.
“Just like we talked about: you two start east, and moved west. Eden and I’ll start west, and we’ll pass one another, and meet back here. If you have to kill, kill silently. If you find Doc Gilliard, drag him out. You’ve got your phones? Take photos. Call if you get pinned down.”
Reese nodded again, and they slipped backward down the ridge, silent as wraiths, disappearing into the gloom.
Fox turned to Eden. “I would say ladies first, but in this case, I think going first would be the chivalrous thing.”
There was just enough ambient glow coming from the estate to reveal her smirk, and the gleam of excitement in her eyes. “Just concentrate on not getting yourself killed, Charlie. I can take care of myself.”
“Uh-huh.”
They picked their way carefully down the backside of the rise; Reese and Tenny were long gone, nothing but a bit of stepped-on sage to mark that anyone had moved off toward the east side of the property. The moon was out, half-full and waxing, and it offered enough light to see by – especially for two people used to slinking along in the dark.
The approach to the house was flat ground, and mostly bare, grasses rippling in the breeze, the odd, stunted tree twisting here and there, and offering little in the way of cover. Up top, through the binoculars, Fox had spotted two important bits of information: the solar panel that sat beside one gate post, and the way the guard at the garage was paying more attention to his phone than anything else. Fox headed for the panel, bent double, keeping low, pausing now and then to listen, and scan the area. He figured they were registering on a camera, popping up on grainy black and white on a monitor somewhere inside. Hopefully, they wouldn’t be here long enough for the cavalry, if called, to show up while they were still on the premises.
Lone Star (Dartmoor Book 7) Page 28