by Nina Bruhns
She finished her drink, slipped her fingers into her jacket pocket, threw a ten onto the bar, and nodded toward the door. “If you don’t want to dance, let’s go.”
She twisted off the bar stool, but Frankie moved only to tilt his head toward hers so she’d hear him over the music and the crowd.
“How do you know I’m not waiting for someone?”
Surrendering to her instincts, Marisela drew one of her long fingernails over Frankie’s angular jawline. “I don’t. But you just got a better offer.”
Knowing she had to seal the deal, she dropped her touch slowly down his neck, until the ruby red enamel on her nail sparkled beside the gold chain he’d worn since his confirmation. Unlike the other Cuban-American males in this part of the world, Frankie didn’t dangle a crucifix or saint’s medallion from the necklace. No sense in contradicting his daily activities. He wore the gold serpentine necklace flush to his dark skin, even if the links probably pinched the hell out of his chest hair every once in a while.
Marisela grabbed his open collar and with surprise on her side, yanked him to his feet. Frankie wasn’t the tallest man in the world—just shy of six feet—but to her tall-for-her-genes five foot seven, he towered over her just enough so she could glance through the veil of her eyelashes when she spoke.
“Do you understand what I’m offering?”
Before he could answer, she slipped her free hand between them and cupped her palm over the bulge in his jeans. She smiled, a thrill streaking through her like lightning.
He was hard. As a rock. Thinking he’d want her again was one thing. Knowing stole her breath.
Like the charmer he was, Frankie seized her winded moment and kissed her. Not hot and impatient like he used to. Oh, no. The son of a bitch took his time, pressing his lips against hers like a warm iron on a silk blouse, careful not to scorch her by pressing too hard. His hands inched from her hips to her ribs, his fingers tantalizing the bared skin of her midriff with hungry, yet contained caresses.
Harvesting all her self-control, Marisela forced a step back, breaking the connection so quickly, Frankie’s lips were still puckered.
He had the audacity to grin as if he’d been the one to push her away.
“Blast from the past too much for you, vidita?”
Marisela slipped her hands into the pocket of her jacket. Feeling the handcuffs she’d hidden there, she remembered the true purpose of this seduction.
She scooted away from her stool, away from him—knowing he had every motivation to follow. “Too much for me?” she asked, sassy and doubtful at the same time. “I’m just getting started.”
Dirty Little Secrets: Chapter Two
Damn if Marisela’s ass didn’t look even better aged ten years. He pushed through the crowd to keep up with her, knowing that if he’d had any sense, he’d realize that meeting up with her tonight was no accident. Maybe Blake moved in without Frankie’s answer? Not plausible. Ian Blake was desperate, but he wouldn’t act haphazardly.
Still, before Frankie left town tomorrow, he wanted to make sure Blake didn’t pursue Marisela for his operation. Why Frankie cared, he didn’t know. The chica could take care of herself. But Frankie had been the one to bring her name to the table and since he was ditching the deal, he’d decided to make sure she wasn’t sucked in to a dangerous, treacherous world without him there to watch her back.
And yet, he couldn’t ignore the fact that she’d come to the club armed. Maybe Blake had made contact. Maybe he’d sent Marisela to lure him back to the fold. Or was she simply being Marisela, ready to protect herself from the lowlifes he’d heard weren’t too happy with her job hauling in criminals for cash? She’d tried hard to conceal her piece under that sexy black jacket, but Frankie’d become quite good at spotting guns. ¡Coño! He didn’t need this distraction!
His arrest last week had been the final straw. Yeah, he’d left Miami seriously entertaining Ian Blake’s job offer, but being booked for possession five minutes after he cruised into town had changed his mind. He’d had enough of the life. Serving six years in prison for armed robbery, most of the time spent doubling as a DEA mole, had cut out the last of his cancerous obsession with high stakes thrills. Now, he just wanted to lie low until his hearing tomorrow morning, take care of business, and then get the hell out of town before he burned his cojones on the big trouble brewing so close to home.
Trouble that seemed to follow him wherever he went. Trouble Marisela didn’t ask for. And probably didn’t deserve.
Maybe he was just being paranoid. Maybe his running into his ex had been a simple stroke of good luck. And maybe Marisela’s flirting was just because she was hot to trot, and for once in his hard-luck life, he was in the right place at the right time. He might as well take advantage while he had the chance. Once he left Tampa this time, he was gone for good.
Marisela waited for him at the exit, leaning suggestively against the door, one foot flat against the surface, her knee drawn up, sexy and bold. She always did have a way of broadcasting exactly what was on her mind at any given moment. Lying and manipulating took too much time and effort. With Marisela, what he saw was what he got.
And man, he liked what he saw tonight.
He slapped his hand on the door above her shoulder, then eased forward, inhaling her spicy scent as his nose neared her neck. “You want to start right here or take it outside?” he whispered, brushing his lips across her fragrant skin.
She chuckled softly, but enough so that her breasts bounced gently against his chest. “Either way, we’ll have an audience.”
He ran his tongue against the cool gold of her hoop earring. “Does that turn you on?”
“Who says I’m turned on?”
In a flash, she’d ducked away from him and pushed into the thick, outdoor air. The bouncer pretended to ignore the overheard exchange, but as Frankie strutted past the oversized cue ball of a man, he caught the glimmer of lust in the man’s eyes. That same hungry shine reflected in the stares of the half-dozen or so punks hanging out with their backs to the wall, swinging their Colt 45 malt liquors. He smirked, confident that Marisela not only wanted him, but that for the first time in a long while, every guy in this joint wanted nothing more than to be in his zapatos.
As Marisela predicted, the parking lot outside Club Electric was jammed with nearly as many hot bodies as inside. Under aged girls sat on the hoods of cars driven by boys they had no business messing with, boys with knives in their back pockets and oversize beer cans clutched in angry hands.
It wasn’t so long ago that he’d been one of those jerks. In a lot of ways, he still was. But now he had the chance to jump back to a simpler time in his life—when the only thing that mattered was hot sex and cool living.
He caught up with Marisela as she approached the one-of-a-kind rust bucket his mother called her second car. Most of the time, she tooled around in the practical four-door Chevy Malibu she’d bought herself after hitting good numbers on the lottery. But to accommodate any one of her six children who often returned to the nest with one sob story or another, she kept the beat-up Impala. Frankie hadn’t thought much about the car parked perennially in his mother’s garage until he’d found himself in quick need of wheels to make a fast escape, his own ride impounded.
“Why does your mami keep this old thing?” Marisela asked, running a tentative finger over the oxidized paint of the dented outer shell.
He leaned one hip on the door, knowing he looked just as cool now as he used to back when Marisela thought he’d owned the world because he had wheels at his disposal. “Yo no sé. I think she’s sentimental. I may have been conceived in this car,” he said half-joking. The Impala hadn’t been around quite that long, though he wouldn’t doubt if some of his brothers hadn’t spawned a few of his nieces and nephews in that spacious backseat.
Marisela rolled her eyes, and then leaned in through the open window to inspect the interior more closely, giving him a view of her backside that made his cock tight.
“What the hell are you doing, Marisela?”
She wriggled back out. He had to adjust the seam of his jeans. He didn’t try to be sly about it, either. Why should he? She certainly wasn’t.
“Just seeing if the old juices still flow between us,” she explained.
“I could be an old man sitting in my wheelchair on the front porch and you’d get my juices flowing, vidita.”
Marisela stalked toward him slowly, allowing him time to appreciate every soft bounce of her unbound breasts, every swing of her sexy hips.
“Why don’t you let me taste some of those juices, Frankie? I’m thirsty. Aren’t you?” When she stood toe-to-toe with him, her nipples brushed against his chest. His entire body tensed, hard and electric as if he was on the job, ready to jump, react, strike, flee.
He swiped his tongue around his lips, then yanked Marisela close and pressed his mouth over hers. In an instant, she soothed the parched thirst crackling through his body. Just as fast, they were in his car, barreling out of the parking lot and over the half-bricked city streets of the old neighborhood. She climbed onto his lap, laughing her deep, throaty laugh, kissing his ears, sucking his neck, untucking his shirt, popping buttons so she could dip her fingers into his waistband.
Several skidding turns and rolling stops later, Frankie killed the engine, allowing the momentum of the car to propel them up the driveway beside his mother’s house. When he’d first hit town, he’d planned to take up residence in the tiny apartment above the detached garage, but his arrest changed all that. Instead, he’d crashed in some flea-bit motels on the port side of town, avoiding Ian Blake and his far-reaching grip. Instinct alone steered him here, to the same apartment where he’d lost his virginity to Marisela—and she to him—all those years ago.
He fished the key out of the flowerpot beside the door and by the time he turned to Marisela, she’d kicked off her boots and jeans, right there in the open air.
Lust surged and he grabbed her, not thinking about anything but feeling her naked against him. They fell into the apartment, landing half on the bed, half on the floor. Before Frankie could remove his own shoes and pants, Marisela lost her jacket and her T-shirt. For an instant, he spied the black holster she’d worn around her shoulder and waist, but the minute she crawled onto his bed, wearing nothing but pale pink panties, he willingly forgot about her gun. She hooked her hands under the lower rod of the cast-iron headboard, tested the strength of the metal with one wanton tug, then waited, her breasts round and tight-tipped, her areolas dark, her mouth slightly parted and still a blurry red from his kiss.
Frankie stopped, just for a fraction of a second, to drink in her illicit beauty. He tore off his own shirt, but swallowed a grin when her deep brown eyes sparkled with appreciation. Not much for a man to do in prison but work out, and his last job on the docks had enhanced his physique. He wasn’t some scrawny schoolboy anymore—if he’d ever been.
“Jesus, Frankie. You look good,” she said, slicking her tongue over her lips. He loved her mouth. He’d always loved her mouth. How it felt pressed against his skin. How she could use all that hot, wet flesh to drive him insane.
“Vidita, I could come right here, just looking at you.”
She glanced down at her own prone and posed body, then shifted into the moonlight streaming in through the window. “That would be a big waste, wouldn’t it?”
The glow emphasized the gloss of sweat forming over her skin. The air inside the apartment was hot, stuffy. He hadn’t noticed. He glanced at the dormant air conditioner unit shoved between the window and the cracked wooden frame.
In a rush, he marched to the window, pressed buttons, turned knobs, and cursed until the ancient unit kicked to life, blasting tepid air against his naked chest. He adjusted the thermostat, breathing easier when the temperature dropped just enough to let him know the junker still worked. But the last thing he wanted to be was cool. He spun around, just in time to catch Marisela fiddling with the pillows, propping them purposefully against the slender wrought-iron bars of the old headboard.
“Comfortable?”
She snuggled into the cushions, patting and fluffing as she spoke. “Not as comfortable as I could be.” When she had the bed arranged as she wanted, she stretched her arms toward him. “Come here,” she said, her voice husky.
Frankie crawled across the mattress, ignoring the pop of the tight springs beneath his hand, his knee, his foot. He stopped and placed one hot, delicious kiss on her thigh. Sweet cocoa butter teased his nostrils, taunting him with hints of the musky scent he’d discover when he kissed her a little higher.
But just as he moved into position to taste her through her panties, Marisela rolled aside, quick and agile. He opened his mouth to protest, but she silenced him by pressing her now free lingerie against his face. He growled, inhaled like a junkie, and while he wondered how she’d taken off her underwear so quickly, she pinned him, her bare breasts inches from his face.
“Screwing around with you again can’t be a good idea,” she said.
He gripped her around the waist, spreading his fingers so he could feel her skin so hot beneath his. He inched his thumbs upward, teasing her sweet, round breasts. Her chin dropped and her tiny tortured moans fired his lust.
“Want to leave?” he asked. He could feel her moist warmth against his thigh, could see the sharp tightness of her nipples. Her lids had dropped, but not entirely. He watched as her pupils dilated with pleasure.
She wanted him just as much as he wanted her—just like before when they were too young and too stupid to know better. Only now they were old enough to know that you take what you want when you want it—or you might lose your shot forever.
She splayed her hands on his chest, tugging gently at his chest hair. “Leave? Not right this minute, no.”
She inched upward, pressing her sex against his body so that her sweet, wet lips taunted his hard cock. Frankie filled his lungs with air, hoping to keep himself still enough to do this right.
He countered her attack by stretching to capture her breasts with his mouth. He flicked his tongue over her pebble-hard nipples, loving the hot, salty taste of her skin. She tilted her neck back and sighed, the sound deep and arousing. Could he make her come right here? Right now? With only his tongue and lips? Did he want to send her spiraling so soon?
She rocked and writhed atop him, sealing their bond with slick need. Dios, he ached to push inside her, feel the hot heat of her flesh encasing his sex, milking him, squeezing him, tugging him toward the ecstasy he hadn’t experienced in way too long. Was she still tight or would her woman’s body coax him deeper, right to the sweet target that would make her scream his name? He bit and suckled until her tiny, pleasured cry squeezed him from the inside out.
He grabbed her hips, loving the blistering slide of her body over his. With her hands on the iron headboard, she pulled herself completely up, repositioning her knees on either side of his face. He grinned up at her.
“Mi vida, you are so hot. I have to taste you.” He eyed her hungrily, then wasted no more time before slipping his tongue inside her.
She nearly bucked off the bed, so he braced her with one hand on her bottom and the other on her breast. He kneaded and plucked and licked until she came, her pulse surging against his tongue.
Almost instantly, she pushed away, panting, and if he wasn’t mistaken, softly cursing.
“Marisela?”
She shook her head, her hair spilling across her eyes in damp streaks. When she spoke, her words shot out on a series of panted breaths. “Frankie, you always could make me lose my mind.”
He swallowed, loving the flavor of her in his mouth. God, how he’d missed that taste. He leaned forward and took her hand in his, then pulled her back on top of him. “The power is mutual.”
He stretched to the opposite side, reaching over the edge of the bed. He couldn’t wait one more minute. Unable to reach the pants he’d tossed o
n the floor, he spat out a venomous, “damn.”
The curse cleared the cloudiness from her eyes. “What?”
“I can’t reach the condom.”
She grinned, a little too forced for his liking, but Frankie wasn’t going to let her amusement slow them down. She shifted so he could move, then wrapped her hands around his left wrist.
“I can’t let you go too far away, Frankie.”
He smiled, then performed the needed gymnastics to reach the jeans without leaving the bed. He didn’t realize what she’d done to his wrist until he heard the all-too-familiar metal click and felt cold steel press against his skin.
He dropped the rubber.
“What the fuck?”
Marisela vaulted off him, her panties reclaimed. She slipped them on, then reached for her T-shirt and gun while he tugged and cursed, a noisy clatter renting the air.
He watched her intently, somewhat relieved when she strapped the holster on, but made no move to remove her piece.
Forcing himself to calm down, he decided to revert to charm. “Okay, great joke, vidita. I can do kinky if that’s what you want.”
She tugged her jeans over her hips. “Frankie, baby, I want to try kinky with you more than you know.” She grabbed her jacket from the floor and punched her arms into the sleeves. “But not tonight.”
He laughed, hoping the slightly crazy sound covered the desperate metal clanks of the handcuffs. “Why not? We got all night. I’m not going anywhere.”
“No, Frankie. You’re definitely not going anywhere. Not until tomorrow morning.”
“I have court,” he said, trying to figure our what the hell was going on. “Ten o’clock. Courtroom B. What’s this about, Marisela? You don’t work for Alberto no more. And I haven’t jumped bail.”