Last Hit: Reloaded

by Jessica Clare

  When he gets home that night, I’m baking cupcakes. I found a recipe online for chocolate cupcakes with salted caramel centers, and getting the inside to remain liquid while baking the rest of the cupcake was a challenge, but I’m pleased with how they turned out. I’m icing them as he walks through the door, and I’m wearing one of my new acquisitions. It’s a silk tank top, out of season for the Minnesota weather and on clearance for only a few dollars. The front is low cut and has spaghetti straps, and the back is almost nonexistent save for a flutter of material near the base of my spine. I’m wearing tight jeans with it. As Nick opens the door, I turn to him with a smile.

  “Welcome home, Kolya,” I tell him, moving to his side to kiss his beloved face. He’s full of tension once again; I can tell by the set of his shoulders and the grim lines around his lovely mouth. “How was the gun range?”

  “Busy.”

  I nod and help him take off his coat. He hasn’t said a thing about my shirt yet, which means he hasn’t seen the back of it. Once his coat is hanging on a hook near the door, I deliberately walk back to the kitchen, exposing my back and the fact that I’m not wearing any bra.

  “Are you hungry?” I ask, keeping my voice light.

  His brows draw together at the sight of me, and his gaze fixes on my back. “Your clothing . . .”

  “It’s new,” I tell him, giving my shoulders a wiggle. “I’m trying to be a bit more modern. Do you like it?”

  “Too much,” he tells me, coming to my side. His warm hand glides down my spine in a titillating caress. “Promise me you will not wear such things out in public with other men, or I might destroy them for looking at your beauty.”

  I giggle. “You are far too dramatic.” His reaction is pleasing to me, though. “And no, I won’t wear this out in public. This is just for you.”

  My hips have a bit more swing to them as I walk across the tiny kitchen to the counter where I’ve left the food.

  “Any man would not be able to help himself if presented with such beauty,” he says, and instead of teasing, there’s a grim, almost helpless look on his face. “It is a good thing I practice at the gun range.”

  Exasperated, I shake my head. That is the opposite reaction I wanted from him. I wanted to distract him with dirty, lustful thoughts, not make him think about guns more.

  I’m concerned that my poor Nick is so stressed, but I know what will relax him, and it’s not food. “I just finished baking some new cupcakes and I want you to try them.” I give him my most sultry look over my bare shoulder. “They’re very sweet.”

  And I turn and lick chocolate off of my fingers in a slow, deliberate manner, imagining that the chocolate is on his skin.

  Chapter 6

  Nikolai

  “Nyet,” I say hoarsely. “Nothing could be as sweet as you.”

  I want to forget the fear inspired by McFadden and drown myself in Daisy’s honey. Her invitation is unmistakable.

  Her tight jeans raise her ass and frame it for my gaze but I prefer her nude. The rasp of the metal teeth of her zipper kindles a flame low in my groin. I tug the tight fabric down her legs, exposing one creamy inch at a time. When I reach her knees, I realize how tightly bound together her legs are. She does not move well.

  I rise leaving the jeans trapping her knees and thighs tightly joined.

  “My legs are stuck,” she laughs and reaches down to push them off but I stay her hand.

  “I know.” The words come out gravelly and rough. I turn her around and slip the thin silk straps over her rounded shoulders and to her elbows and then pull tight. Knotting the excess fabric at her mid back, I fasten her arms to her sides and then with one measured push, lean her onto the table.

  “What are you doing?” her curious voice asks.

  “I am loving you,” I respond. Taking the bowl of bittersweet confection, I scoop out a healthy portion and begin to paint the bare spaces around her shoulders, down the valley of her spine to the base and around the curves of her ass. She tries to move, maneuver me into touching more sensitive places, but the clothing only tightens around her.

  She shivers as if my touch is cold.

  “When you are in class and your professor is discussing lines and forms, zones and uses, do you think about me inside you? Do you remember how it feels to have my cock stuffed inside you?”

  I twist a finger between her thighs and am delighted by the heat and wetness that greets me.

  “God, Nick.” Her breath catches. “How would I pay attention if I’m always thinking about this?” She shoves back against my hand, and my finger slides inside her. Her walls hug my finger, and my anxious, hungry cock jumps response but is stymied by its denim prison.

  I keep one finger pumping slowly inside her as I lick off the frosting. Because she is so beautiful, so enticing, I move around, leaving tiny bites here on her right shoulder and there at the spot on her left, just above the mole that is two inches from her side.

  Between each caress I tell her how she consumes me. “I think of you always. Art is about passion. In every curve, I see your breast and in every face, I see your lips. In rolling hills of landscapes, I envision the dip in your waist and the rise of your hip. In the tendrils of vines, I see your honey hair entangling me.” The depths of my obsession are laid bare for her. If I were to lose her, I would be nothing. I would burn myself to ashes so that the winds could carry me to the four corners and where each molecule would search endlessly for her.

  “You’re always with me, Nick. In my heart and mind and soul. I promise you,” she gasps.

  “Then show me how much you want me to fill you. Show me your desire.”

  I slide another finger between the tight passage of her thighs and into her sex. She raises on her tiptoes and then sinks back down to welcome the intrusion. The pace of my hand quickens and as she tenses, back arching, head thrown back, the fever inside me expands.

  “Yes,” she hisses. “There. Right there.”

  I thrust into her with one hand and fumble with my jeans with the other. My heavy, aching cock juts out and slaps against her ass.

  “I must have you,” I growl. Her bound legs make the entrance of her pussy tight. I lift her entire lower body off the ground with one hand under her hips and then enter her swollen sex with my hard erection. Her moans are muffled by the table.

  Once inside, I lower her feet to the ground, just enough so that the tips of her toes can press against the floor for leverage.

  “Tell me how much you want me, Daisy. I must know,” I demand. I withhold several inches of my cock. Her warm heat pulses around the head of the beast.

  “Oh, Nick, I want you so much. I love you. I can’t express how much.”

  Heart full of giddy happiness, I thrust inside her until I’m fully seated and my balls are thumping against the backs of her thighs.

  Her ripe breasts sway above the oak table, the wood scraping her hardened tips with each pass. I reach around and cup one handful and squeeze it so that the peak is abraded by more direct force with each invasion.

  “I want to live inside of you,” I gasp. “Your arms are my only home. Your breast my only source of comfort. Your body my only haven.” I glide in and out, lubricated by her desire. Her closed thighs provide an extra sensation as I withdraw. But the tight heat of her cunt is familiar and inviting.

  I run a hand up and down her spine, marveling at the strength of her shoulders and the elegant structure of her bones. Her flushed face is barely visible, so I sweep aside her hair and lean forward to press kisses along her cheek, her eye, her forehead, her ear. Everywhere my mouth can find skin, I kiss. “My love for you is so great I fear it will detonate in my chest.”

  She laughs breathlessly. “I wouldn’t want that. I need your heart intact.”

  “My heart is yours,” I vow.

  She turns her mouth just enough to meet my lips, and we kiss wildly with no finesse and all unbridled passion. Our teeth knock against each other and our tongues are a tangle, but it
is hotter and more erotic than any experienced woman could conjure.

  The lure of her body is too strong to resist. I rise up and slam into her. The table screeches as the force of my thrusts push the legs against the wood floor. Despite her bound arms, her hands clench the sides of the table and I hear her shouts of encouragement through the fog of desire to come inside her, take her, make her mine.

  My love for her is madness incarnate. She should run far away, but I would only chase her down and capture her. We mate with the force of two lovers who have not held each other in an age. I hear her cry and then feel the flood of her orgasm. I plunge between her legs, bending over her to hold one edge of the table myself. The entire thing clatters and shakes under the force of my thrusts. She rises on her toes and pushes back to meet every powered forward movement until it is I who throws back my head and howls my claiming to the empty night.

  I rest my head on her sweaty back to gather myself.

  “It is a good thing you love me,” I murmur drowsily into her skin. With some effort I push away from her and release her bound arms. Kneeling on the floor, I help to tug off her jeans. Above me I watch as rivulets of my sperm and her release trek down her inner thighs.

  “Why is that?” she asks.

  I don’t answer at first because I am mesmerized by the milky trail snaking its way down her inner leg. Mine, these marks cry.

  “Because if you had no love for me, I would be a madman, chasing you. Wanting you and never being able to have you would be the worst torture.”

  She steps out of her jeans and then reaches for a dishtowel to wipe away the signs of my possession. Disappointment strikes me until I raise my eyes and see the tattoo over her heart. There, I think, there is my mark.

  “Then yeah, it’s a good thing we love each other.”

  She raises her arms above her head, her chest rising with the movement. I feel a stirring in my groin. She gives me a knowing glance. “Again, Nick?”

  “It is your cookies,” I say and then grin at her. Straightening, I pull her against me. “I am utterly yours, Daisy. It is good for the world you have a kind heart. Because if you asked I would burn it down.”

  ***

  “Mr. Anders, mind if I sit?”

  I do not need to look to know it is my professor of Dimensional Painting. I saw him walking toward me a few minutes ago. He’d paused by a trash can and emptied something out of the pocket of his heavy black woolen overcoat. It’s bulky and brushes his calves, but would be good for hiding a long arm. I prefer the shorter coats that allow for more movement. A long arm isn’t well suited for targets in close distance. I prefer—

  I give myself a shake. I have left the world of killing behind me. Now my only targets are paper ones. I have no need of a long arm or handgun in this place. I have one, of course, along with knives in my boots. Though I am no longer in the business of killing people, I would feel naked without a weapon.

  “Please.” I gesture at the space of concrete next to me. “It is more yours than mine.”

  “Given what students pay for an education, I think you can claim ownership to at least one bench.” He smiles kindly and sits beside me.

  I should care about the costs, but I do not. I have plenty of money, and though it was earned in a fashion that would shock and dismay the man next to me and nearly every other person on this large campus, it will provide for my Daisy.

  To fit in, however, I will complain. “Yes, education is very costly.”

  “You need to put more conviction behind that, son. It doesn’t sound believable. Trust fund?” He looks me over carefully. “Or tech billionaire? You look too hard to be a trust fund kind and a little too old.” My surprise must be on display for he chuckles and points to his eyes. “I’m an artist. We are supposed to be observant. It’s what I like about your art. You notice the small details. The tiny cracks in a pitcher or the gilding flaking off the mirror.”

  “The small details are often the most important,” I admit. In my career, the slightest wind change could mean the difference between a successful hit and failure. I do not take my eyes off my targets.

  Inside the building Daisy is speaking to another girl. The girl asks her for something. Daisy looks disappointed but then smiles. She reaches into her bag and pulls out papers and hands them to the girl. The girl then begins copying. A user. This girl is using my Daisy.

  “Do you plan on applying to the fine arts program?” the professor murmurs beside me. I try to pay attention, as a normal student would. “I’ve spoken to your advisor and he confessed that you hadn’t made up your mind. I think you have real promise.”

  You have real promise, Nikolai. Your marksmanship is acute. Don’t think too hard about the target. Think about your weapon. Think about yourself as merely an extension of the weapon. You and the metal are one being.

  What are we doing here, Daisy and I? We do not belong with this mass of people. She is too sweet and I am too mean and hard.

  “I do not know yet what I will do.” I stand. “I like art for art’s sake, not for what art can do for me.”

  “Yes,” the professor breathes reverently. He grabs for me and I jerk away, my hand slipping inside my coat before I can stop myself. His eyes widen and his hands raise in a defensive gesture. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  I force myself to relax. “Nyet, it is I who apologizes.” I dip my head. “I’m unused to these friendly American ways.”

  He chuckles nervously. “I did wonder about your accent. Russian?”

  I bite my tongue to refrain from correcting him. “Da, Russian by way of New York City.” It is my cover story now. Daisy and I met in New York City while she was on vacation. I fell in love and followed her here. My family was wealthy and I inherited the money when both my parents died in a tragic Russian highway accident. Anyone who watches a video of Russian driving on the Internet would not doubt the story for an instant.

  The tattoos are hard to explain but I do not want to remove them. I may despise what they stand for, but they are my past. I will not erase it. So I do not correct this man who assumes I am Russian even though I am from Ukraine. It is one and the same for most Americans and even for some Ukrainians.

  For me, I was raised in Russia by a mafiya prince, a warrior who trained foot soldiers for a powerful Russian crime syndicate. Perhaps I am Russian then. Perhaps I am Ukrainian. Perhaps I was nothing before I met Daisy, before I had a chance to rebuild myself.

  The professor’s nervousness melts like the snow. He smiles, friendly and open once again. “I hope you think about it. You have a unique point of view. Our department could use a fresh perspective.”

  “Thank you, I will.”

  “You will what?” Daisy is at my side. I turn at her touch, bending down to brush my lips across her forehead. She’s warm from the indoors. I draw her hood tighter around her neck so the chill of the wind does not penetrate and steal away her heat.

  “Is this your girlfriend?” The professor’s eyes gleam as they rove over my Daisy. She is beautiful—an artist’s dream even through the thick layers of her coat. Her skin is luminescent, as if the sun shines from within. The snow is beginning to fall and stick to her eyelashes, making them sparkle. She’s the perfect winter beauty in her tall boots and fur-lined, hooded coat. My urge to bundle her away grows strong.

  I manage a nod. “Yes, this is Daisy. Daisy, this is Professor Hare. He is my teacher for Dimensional Drawing.”

  They shake each other’s gloved hands.

  “This is Christine.” Daisy pulls a shadow from behind her. The pale-haired, thin girl gives us a faint, weak approximation of a smile, and then gazes at the ground. There is an ominous air about the girl—she refuses to look us in the eyes. She stands half behind Daisy as if Daisy is her shield. I do not like it. “We’re friends,” Daisy announces with delight and pride.

  My sweet Daisy is an easy mark. Worried she is too different, she exposes her beautiful heart to those who will
not hesitate to abuse her if it suits their purposes. But that is why I am here, I think, to protect her—to stand between her and those who would do her harm, so that she can go on and spread her kindness and joy without reservation.

  “Then I am pleased to meet you, Christine,” I offer. “I know why you are friends with Daisy. How can you not be drawn to her kindness and generosity?”

  The girl flinches.

  “Nick,” Daisy replies with a slight note of reproof.

  I smile guilelessly in response.

  Professor Hare coughs. “Well, I should be going. Daisy, it was nice to meet you. I’ve been telling your Nick that he should apply to the fine arts program. He’d be an asset.” Hare claps me on the back. Fortunately for all of us, I anticipate this action and do not react by whirling around, grabbing his hand, and throwing him to the snow-covered concrete.

  Daisy suppresses a smile as if she knows what I’m envisioning.

  “I will think on this,” I promise Hare, and I will. Perhaps I will like it. Daisy can help me decide.

  “Why don’t we get lunch?” Daisy proposes. “I invited Christine.”

  “Very good,” I nod. This will allow me to interrogate the girl and see if she is worthy to be a friend to Daisy. Christine raises her eyes to Daisy and in them I see both uncertainty and hunger. She is hungry as evidenced by the way she unconsciously licks her lips but she is wary of something . . . or someone. Whatever it is, my instincts tell me she presents a danger. “Come,” I command. “We will go to the Village Bean.” It is one of my favorite campus places because of the deep roast they serve and the unpretentious atmosphere. Although, around the campus, most places are unpretentious. The University is not a place that is teeming with wealthy people anxious to spend hundreds of dollars on one meal.

  The girl’s hunger wins out over her unstated concern, and we move toward the cafe. I maneuver Daisy under one arm and turn to Christine, but I find that she’s walked around and to Daisy’s side.