Hit Me (The Bailey Boys #2)

by P. J. Adams

  And this time when she stepped forward from the stool, moved into his personal space so that their legs pressed, her breasts squashed against him and her lips found him it was his mouth that they found. An abrupt pressure, her soft lips against his firmer, thinner ones. A slight parting, the tip of her tongue against his lips.

  And then pulling away.

  “I came here because of you.”

  §

  He had a room on the next floor.

  A dark door to one side of the bar opened into a small lobby, two other doors off it, a narrow stairway leading up.

  There was no light in the lobby when the door swung shut again. All a murky darkness where little detail could be resolved. Cramped spaces, so that elbows and hips and shoulders banged against walls as Lee turned to Imelda, looped his arms around her ribcage, hands to either side of the small of her back, sliding down, cupping her ass, lifting her from the ground so that her legs – thanks to that long slit in her skirt – had to lift, and wrap themselves around his waist as he pressed her back against the wall.

  The abrupt transition was intense, heady.

  From the gabbling noise of the bar, the animated faces and voices, the light and movement, to the swinging of that door as it closed, the descent into darkness, where Lee’s pale face seemed like a ghost and the space seemed suddenly so small and compact.

  The sudden physicality. The brute strength of him, the way he lifted her from the ground so easily.

  The way his arms enfolded her in an embrace that was both tender and unrelenting, an embrace that would never be prized open.

  The hunger of his kiss, nothing like the brief, polite kisses they’d exchanged in the bar. The bruising press of his lips, the tongue pressing into her mouth, the clash of teeth as he possessed her with that kiss.

  His chest was hard against her breasts. His hips like rock where her legs wrapped around him.

  And the pressure in between... The hardness of his body – the belt and buttons, the thick seams of his jeans, the hardness they contained... All pressing against her. All bringing to mind that kiss in the street, the way their bodies had fitted then and how all these feelings had found their focus, transformed into something else; how just a twist of the hips adjusting the pressure of the contact had been all it took.

  She pulled away from his kiss, tipped her head back, was panting raggedly, wildly.

  He sensed the change in her, the pulling back from the edge.

  He drew his head away as if trying to peer at her in the gloom.

  His hands on her ass, taking her weight, eased her away from him, lowered her.

  She found the floor with her feet, thought she might keep sliding down that wall in a heap and tried to convince herself that was a balance thing on those narrow heels and not that her knees had gone so weak they could not bear her weight.

  He reached for her, took her hand. Turned towards the stairs and took a step up.

  She had to follow in his wake, led by that iron grip on her hand.

  At the top, he turned left, pushed at a door and led her inside.

  It was a small room. Space for a double bed, a cabinet, a sports bag on the floor. A small window looked over the street.

  He released her hand, moved deeper into the room, leaving her by the door.

  Light flicked on, a bedside lamp, and she saw him more clearly now, standing there like a caged animal, held back only by a thread of self-restraint.

  Slowly, Imelda reached for her blouse, found the first button that was fastened, twisted it so that it slid through the opening and the top pulled open a fraction more. She let her hand stay there, resting softly on her breasts.

  His eyes were fixed on that hand.

  He rocked back on his heels. Forward.

  That thread of self-restraint was not going to last.

  Imelda knew how to strip for a man. Like so many things, it was always in the eyes.

  She waited until Lee’s gaze flicked up and then she met that look, held it, gave a slight, almost imperceptible, shake of her head. Now it was no longer self-restraint that held him in check, it was that look.

  He couldn’t tear his eyes away.

  Even as she moved her hand down over the curve of a breast, found the next button, slipped long fingers inside. Turned fingers and thumb so she could ease the button free.

  Still, his eyes were locked on hers, and he could only see all this through peripheral vision. See her hand slide inside her blouse, take the weight of one full breast.

  She swept her thumb downward, finding the hard stub of her erect nipple through the fabric of her bra. Her mouth parted a little in involuntary response, and Lee’s eyes widened, his jaw twitched, and still she held his look.

  Another button.

  Another, until only two remained.

  Finally, her blouse hung loose. With a roll of the shoulders, she let it drop partway; when she pulled at the sleeves it came free, fell to the floor.

  Her bra was pale, white with a filigree of silver lace. The cups held her breasts beautifully poised, pushed slightly up and together to make the most of their size.

  Her panties matched, a tiny thong with a panel of that white and silver lace at the front. All still hidden from that hungry gaze.

  She reached down, pressed the flat of one hand against her sex through her skirt. Rolled her hips.

  Still holding his look.

  Her other hand moved to the side of her waist, found the button, the hook, the short zipper, and a moment later the skirt slid languidly down the length of her legs until she stood before him in just bra and that tiny, matching thong.

  He made as if to move, as if he believed he had the strength to break her hold on him.

  A slight shake of the head again was all it took, and he remained standing there, jaw tense, eyes fixed on hers, fists opening and closing. The muscles and veins on his bare arms stood out with the tension. She needed to see the rest of that ripped body, see the tautness in the muscles of his chest, his abdomen...

  There was so much that was strange about this situation, about this thing between them. But one of the very strangest was that this man who stood before her about to burst, this man who had lifted her from the ground and kissed her, who had made her come harder than she could remember before... until now he had not seen her like this. Had not seen her breasts uncovered, seen her bare ass, her pussy. Had not tasted the sweet juices of her sex. Had not touched her there.

  “You made me come,” she said now. “That time in the street when you kissed me. When I clung to you because otherwise I would fall. When I tried to disguise it. Just your touch... your body against mine... you made me come.”

  And, slowly, she moved around the room, around him.

  His head turned to follow the sinuous movements of her walk.

  “Did you come?” she continued. “Later? Did you touch yourself?”

  She saw the answer in his eyes. Imagined those powerful hands closed around his shaft. Had it been hard and fast, or had he drawn it out with long, slow strokes? When he loved himself was it sensitive and with finesse, or was it a brutal thing?

  And when he loved her...

  “¡Hazme el amor!” she said, from just behind his ear. “Make love to me, Lee Bailey. Fuck me.”

  §

  His arm snaked out, looped easily around her waist.

  So easy. Such physical control. Such strength.

  For a moment he held her like that, just one arm. The spread of his hand covered the small of her back, his forearm slotted into the inner curve of her waist, between ribs and hip.

  She felt the heat of his skin. The contrast between taut, smooth skin and the tight, sinuous muscles beneath.

  It was Lee’s turn to hold her with a look. Eyes locked on hers. Intense.

  If, up until now he had been hers and she had been reeling him in, now she was his.

  Undeniably, meltingly his.

  She was acutely aware of the butterfly-flutter of her heart, of
the tightness in her abdomen, of the sudden wet heat between her legs.

  She was ready for him, so ready for him.

  He drew her in, one hand still on her back while the other moved to her hip, slid round to cup her ass. Hard hand on smooth, sensitive skin.

  She gasped as that hand tightened, exploring the firmness of the flesh, the movement. Pulling the thong up tight against her sex.

  She molded herself against his body, savoring the strength – like a storm, like the sea, his was a fundamental strength, an irresistible force.

  He dipped his head, kissed the hollow between neck and shoulder, dragging teeth and stubble against her.

  Every inch of her body felt sensitized, every feeling heightened.

  She reached for his white shirt, pulled it free of his jeans, started to fumble with the buttons but he just stepped back, seized it and pulled it up over his head.

  His chest was so broad! The muscles seemed to stack up in layers, an impression only heightened by the tattoos – wild, primal designs in dark ink that moved and distorted as those muscles slid against one another.

  Imelda lowered her head, pressed her cheek against that broad chest, found the tiny stub of a nipple and flicked at it with her tongue.

  He picked her up.

  Turned, and placed her on the bed.

  When he lowered himself his face was against her belly.

  The scrape of stubble sent stabs of pleasure coursing through her body.

  The drag of teeth.

  One hand slid up the inside of a thigh, and came to rest hard against her, fist tight, knuckles hard so that every slight movement was magnified – pressure against her pussy, the roll of a knuckle across her clit.

  She had never been like this with anyone else... never reacted so quickly... never felt the sudden rush of approaching climax steal up on her with such surprising rapidity.

  She clung to his hand, stayed him, rolled her hips against his pressure in such a way that she rode the peak without ever quite cresting it.

  When she looked down his eyes were on her, meeting her look.

  And slowly, he moved his head down until his chin pressed against her soft mound through the lace of her panties.

  Down, until his lips pressed through the fabric against the lips of her sex, squeezing and caressing them.

  So many touches, points of contact! Lips and tongue and chin, fingers and knuckles... So many sensations, it was hard to tell what was pressing where and then fingers hooked into her panties, pulled them aside, and wetness met wetness – his tongue, parting her, running along that wet groove, finding the opening and driving deep.

  Instantly, she was right at the edge again, and this time she knew she wasn’t going to be able to hold back.

  Tongue deep, lips against her labia, against the hood of flesh that shielded her clit, sliding wetly. Fingers against her, squeezing her lips, sliding inside her as his tongue moved up to push at that hood, tease the hardness, circle it, flick across it in a rapid, delicate patter.

  She clung to his head, holding him hard against her as her back arched, her thighs involuntarily clamped around him, and her head threw itself back.

  She cried out loud, so loud they must surely hear in the bar below.

  Everything tightened, released, tightened again. A clenching deep in her belly, a quivering of muscles around those fingers deep inside her.

  Another wave of tightening. Her heart hammering, her breath shallow, fast.

  And then, finally, her legs relaxed, her spine slumped, every muscle in her body subsided a little.

  She reached for him, barely capable of movement. Drew him up the bed until he lay with her, her head on his chest, her arm trailing across his waist, her leg across his thighs.

  Clinging to him.

  Knowing she had momentarily lost sight of why she had come here, that he was meant to be a means to an end, not the end itself.

  8

  It was a whirlwind. A wave of craziness.

  For someone like me, a planner, a thinker, an assessor of risk, it was like nothing else I’d ever known.

  I don’t do spontaneous. I don’t do relationships or complications. I don’t do unpredictable.

  And yet all those things summed Imelda up perfectly.

  She was exactly what I didn’t do.

  Not until now, at any rate.

  §

  I lay there, with Imelda’s near-naked body wrapped around me.

  My erection was straining against the tightness of my jeans. She must surely feel it, where her leg was draped across me.

  Hungry for her, like I’ve never been hungry for a woman before.

  And yet... we lay there, an oasis of calm. Her body in my arms, the taste of her on my lips, in my mouth. The memory of the way her whole body had flinched and shuddered in orgasm, a truly animal thing.

  This was a moment that might draw itself out forever.

  Another period of being perfectly in tune, like that night at Los Momentos when we had sat and talked for maybe an hour but it felt like we could have gone on forever.

  I couldn’t work out what she had, what attracted and compelled me. It had no name. No easy way to sum it up.

  But up until now there had been a gap in my life that was the same shape. A gap that this thing, this being in tune, this sense of connection, now filled.

  §

  She moved against me.

  Maybe we’d dozed. Maybe I’d just lain there thinking mushy bollocks and wondering what was happening to me.

  But she moved.

  That thigh, draped across me. A tightening of the muscles, a pressing against my hardness that almost made me groan aloud.

  The slight roll of her hips, pressing her pussy against me.

  She turned her head so her chin rested on my ribs. Looked up at me, dark eyes peering through a curtain of hair.

  She drew her leg back, twisted so she could take her weight on her knees.

  And one hand ran down over my ribs, my abdomen, her touch making the muscles quiver in response.

  Where before had been strange calm, now... now there was a storm beneath the surface, dams waiting to burst.

  Her hand reached my belt, fumbled with it and then fed the end back through the buckle, freed it.

  The buttons, one by one, until my jeans were parted and her hand could slide inside.

  That first touch, fingertips against the base of my shaft. A stab of fingernail, a thumb sliding underneath so the hand could coil around me, tighten, gently tease me upright, clear of the waistband of my shorts.

  She paused, studying me. All I could see was the back and side of her head, that glossy dark hair hanging down over my belly.

  The flat of her hand, bearing down. The soft wetness of lips, of tongue, gliding across and then enclosing, taking in deep.

  She moved so she was kneeling between my legs, her eyes peering up to meet mine. Both hands wrapped around my shaft, twisting and pumping. The head of my dick squeezed between those lips, tongue swirling and sliding. So many sensations...

  I gripped the bedding, fists tight, every muscle tensed.

  She started to bob her head, eyes still locked on mine. Taking me steadily deeper, until I hit the back of her throat. Swallowing, so her throat constricted around me, she took me in even deeper, a new tightness. Then she drew her head back up, until I was almost spat out, and all the time, those hands squeezing and twisting and pumping.

  I wasn’t going to be able to take much more of this.

  I had to have her.

  I pushed up onto my elbows, reached one hand forward, touched her cheek then slid my fingers into her hair, tightening, drawing her head away.

  Drew her into a kiss, my back straining as I leaned forward to reach her, to taste my own salty sweetness in her mouth.

  I moved quickly, swooping forward, taking her weight easily as I flipped her onto the bed beside me, face down, and that perfectly formed peach of an ass high in the air.

  A couple o
f seconds and I’d shucked my jeans, and then I kneeled, poised behind her, my knees either side of hers.

  She arched her back, looking under her arm at me. No talk, but in my head the words she’d used earlier. ¡Hazme el amor! Make love to me, Lee Bailey. Fuck me.

  One hand on her ass, I took my dick into the other fist and started to pump as she watched. The wet head of my dick slapped against her ass as I worked the shaft hard and fast and my eyes devoured the view before me.

  Just as I was about to come I flipped the tiny slip of fabric aside from her pussy and drove myself inside her for the first time. One long hard, almost brutal, thrust until I was buried balls-deep in her and she was crying out again – surprise and I don’t know what else as her silky wet softness folded itself around me.

  I held myself deep, motionless, not wanting the tiniest movement to take me over and then, slowly, I drew myself back until I had almost completely withdrawn.

  I paused then, met her look, waited for that almost imperceptible nod, and then drove deep again. Slower this time, savoring that sliding sensation, the softness, her wetness.

  Drew back and thrust.

  ¡Hazme el amor! Make love to me, Lee Bailey. Fuck me.

  Again.

  Both hands gripping her ass now, the dusky Mediterranean flesh gone pale around my fingers from the pressure.

  Fucking her fast and deep, all control gone now, all delicacy and sensitivity.

  Just need.

  Just the purest physical hunger.

  Until she cried out and I paused, deep in her, felt that tightening and fluttering deep inside as she came again, and that was all it took.

  I gave one last thrust and then held myself fully inside her, felt that delicious surging sensation building from deep inside me, the throb in my shaft, the abrupt release as I filled her with my juices.

  Another throbbing pulse. A slight softening. A thrust, as if I might somehow drive deeper.

  And then, finally, a change in the tensions in our bodies, a slumping, a realization that we were done for now. That we must somehow move, disentangle ourselves, before we could subside into each other’s arms once more.

  §

  She left the next morning, saying she had things to do, although with Imelda it was never clear what ‘things’ she did. How did she live? How did she get by? She’d told me about her past, about the con tricks and simple thieving on the streets of the Canary Islands and then here on the mainland, but I had no idea if that was still what she did.