“Don’t be obtuse, and don’t toy with me. You know the types of feelings I’m talking about.” Dummy. You couldn’t keep your mouth shut, could you? You just had to tell him. Now deal with it. His heartbeat thumped loudly in his ears in the second that seemed like hours awaiting Timothée’s response.
Timothée’s eyes flashed with a streak of excitement and then clouded. “You’re serious.”
“Look, I get that you didn’t ask for this and that I’m nothing more than a fly-by-night trade. I can… no, I will keep it strictly professional from now onward. I just need you to know that anything I do on your behalf is because I truly care.”
“You’re not rebounding?”
“God, no. I loafed around my apartment in my ratty bathrobe with a bottomless bowl of rocky road for two weeks. That, and eight pounds, was enough to get over him.”
“Good. I’m not rebound material.”
“What you are is taboo.”
“Mm.” Looping his hand behind Ryker’s neck, he hauled him forward until their foreheads touched. “That makes me sound exotic.”
“Only you would say that.”
“Then watch what I can show you.” He leaned forward and pressed his mouth to Ryker’s.
Dammit! Didn’t you seconds ago vow to keep the relationship professional? Already he’s made you out to be a liar.
Upon contact, Ryker opened up for him, and Timothée dipped his tongue into Ryker’s mouth, pressing his torso into the agent until Ryker moaned. With each pass of their tongues across each other, the kiss grew harder, deeper, and hungrier. Timothée’s hand drifted over Ryker’s collarbone and yanked at the loosened tie, exposing his strong neck. At the touch, Ryker’s erection sprang up so swiftly that he’d no opportunity to stave it off, and a flush swam up his face.
So now that he’d given a big middle finger to using caution—and probably common sense, too—how did he expect to maintain perspective and not turn to mush at Timothée’s every whim? One glance into those almond eyes and Ryker couldn’t remember his own name. It terrified him how this man made him feel and want to abandon everything. Fuck!
“Take what you want,” Ryker mumbled. “But not here.” Stumbling to his feet, he clasped Timothée’s hand and led him into the bedroom, their mouths never leaving each other and clothing being discarded in the process. By the time they’d made it into the bedroom, they were both panting and half nude.
“Gimme a second,” Ryker stated, turning to tug the duvet from the bed. He was met with his pants and boxers being shoved to his ankles, his face planted into the mattress, his feet kicked apart, and his ass cheeks being spread. “Oh God. So this is how we’re doing it.”
Ryker’s adrenaline pulsed in response to Timothée’s increased aggressive control. It shouldn’t have surprised him as much as it did since Timothée wasn’t known for patience or docility. And if the truth be told, Ryker didn’t want passivity. Yet, as eager as he was, he’d never raw-dogged it if that was Timothée’s intention. The thought terrified him, and for anyone else, it wouldn’t be a conceivable consideration. But he was willing to allow Timothée. However, instead of penetrating, Timothée shocked him by swatting his ass several times and then rubbing his splayed fingers across the reddened area to soothe the sting before repeating. This was also a first for Ryker, and he wiggled and yelped with each strike, a strange, unexpected excitement and pain jarring him. His cock twitched wildly. A dark thrill and deep-seated hunger of being at Timothée’s mercy made his body wild for more.
“I knew you would enjoy this.” Timothée chuckled, teasing Ryker’s hole with his index finger.
Guilty. If he didn’t, there wasn’t much he could do about it from the awkward position.
“There’s lube and condoms in the nightstand,” he squawked, finding his voice. “For when you’re ready.”
Timothée delivered several more swats before retrieving the items from the nightstand and smearing the cool gel across Ryker’s rear. Ryker sighed at the relief. Using two fingers, Timothée worked the lubricant in with firm and rapid strokes. A tingle built inside Ryker as Timothée’s long fingers teased in a slow rhythm. Then a thunderbolt of pain zoomed through Ryker but quickly dissipated and was followed by a sweet sensation of bliss as his asshole stretched and molded around Timothée. Grunting, he reveled in the pain tangled in pleasure.
“Fuck!” Ryker wailed, biting his lower lip.
“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.” Timothée pulled back, rubbing all the outer nerve-rich areas, but didn’t withdraw completely. “I’m going to ride your ass hard like it’s never been ridden. Then I’m going to spank you again.” He thrust, the motion rough but stimulating. Rushing his hands up Ryker’s torso, he pinched Ryker’s erect nipples and then gripped his shoulders to secure them together before thrusting again, his hips coiling and writhing as his speed increased.
With one of his hands, despite the balancing issues it posed, Ryker pressed back, urging Timothée to take more while stroking his own dick.
Dammit. There. Right there. Yes. Timothée had hit that magic spot. Each stroke produced a sizzle beneath Ryker’s flesh. His grunting rose to a crescendo with his toes curling, and the honeyed bliss of his orgasm exploded seconds later, coursing throughout his body. His eyes glossed as ecstasy diffused across his face.
Thwack! As promised, Timothée delivered additional blows in an even tempo as he continued mercilessly plunging in and out of Ryker until the agent was reduced to whimpers. Ryker had never allowed a man to control him this way, and there was an edge of fear in it.
Just when he thought he couldn’t take any more, another wave thrilled through him, and his cock leaked like a fountain onto the duvet. So much for avoiding a trip to the dry cleaners.
From behind, Timothée stiffened and withdrew. Seconds later, Ryker heard the pop of latex, and Timothée’s warm seed splashed up his spine.
Tears gathered and bunched in Ryker’s eyes. There was no chance he’d walk away without a broken heart.
23
Timothée
The last thing he’d expected to happen when he accepted Ryker’s invitation to come up for a sandwich was to get laid. Oh, he wasn’t complaining, but he hadn’t anticipated it. He’d just buried his mother, for goodness’ sake. All the swirling emotions that left in him, all he’d wanted to feel was numb. Yet Ryker made him feel so much—desired, comforted, connected, safe. He wanted so much to open up, to allow Ryker in. But the fear that resonated so deeply in him and that he never discussed with anyone had prevented him… until now. He felt ready, like maybe he could.
He watched Ryker nestle between the sheets. He’d fallen asleep earlier, but the night was still early, and now he stirred with a waking shrug. Timothée could get used to that, having Ryker wake up by his side.
I should say something, tell him how I feel. The opportunity had presented itself. Ryker had said the words and then watched him, silently waiting. Yet Timothée couldn’t bring himself to express any kind of emotions. What a jerk. However, now maybe he could find the words.
Ryker’s heavy-lidded eyes fluttered open and focused on Timothée munching on a macadamia cookie. “Didn’t anyone tell you that you shouldn’t eat in bed? You’ll spill crumbs on the sheets.”
Timothée grunted. “So? That’s nothing compared to what you spilled on them.”
With a satisfied grin, Ryker scooted closer, swung his arm across Timothée’s waist, and cuddled. “That was totally your fault.”
There was a pause. “Lots of things are my fault,” he replied somberly, swallowing the last bit of cookie.
Ryker, fully awake now, remained silent and waited for Timothée to continue.
Now. Say something. Stand ten toes to the ground.
Lifting a small paper bag from the nightstand, Timothée peered at the contents. “These are stale.” Chickenshit.
“That’s because I bought them two days ago from the deli. And why are you eating them if they’re stale?”
“I had a taste for something sweet.”
Ryker grinned. “Other than me, you mean.”
Discarding the bag, Timothée ran his other hand through Ryker’s hair. “You’re pretty saucy, but….” He shrugged. “I reckon you’re sweet, too. How’d you get that way?”
“Well, having nothing but older sisters is humbling. They used to dress me up as their baby doll and all sorts of crap. Imagine going to pike swim practice and then coming home to having a bonnet slapped on your head.”
Timothée bellowed a genuine laugh, his shoulders shaking for several minutes. “I’d loved to have seen that.”
“Well, drop by for Sunday dinner sometime. I’m sure my mom would be more than thrilled to show you the family album.”
Timothée’s smile diminished. “We don’t have a family album. We,” he whispered. “I don’t have one. I don’t have a family.”
And there it was—the tears, the pain. Erupting like a volcano, the hurt gushed out.
Ryker raised in the bed and wrapped both arms around Timothée in a tight embrace. Timothée’s body slacked, and he slumped in surrender against Ryker’s chest.
“The hard part is supposed to be over. She’s gone. She’s in her tomb. But every time I close my eyes, I see her. She’s at rest, but dammit, I’m not. I’m not. I could have saved her, but she wouldn’t allow me. Instead, she left me. My mama left me here alone.” Timothée dissolved into sobs.
Rubbing his palm in long strokes on Timothée’s bicep, Ryker made a shushing sound. “You’re not alone.”
“He killed her.”
“Who?”
“Michael Darbonne.”
Ryker’s jaw dropped. “The owner of the Saint Anne Civets? Wh-What?” he stuttered. “Why?”
“Money.”
“That doesn’t make sense. Michael Darbonne is a millionaire.”
“On paper. He’s been embezzling from the club for years and laundering the money through the Croneau Foundation.”
“But from everything I read, your mother loved the foundation. Why would she do anything to jeopardize it?”
“Not her. Luca. He’d been mixed up with shady creatures since before the beginning of time. He had a gambling problem, loads of debts. My mother always bailed him out. Until about twelve years ago. She found out he’d been dipping into the foundation funds and cut him off. She even threatened to divorce him, but he sweet-talked her out of it. He promised to pay back the money by working for the foundation. I assumed his old ways had returned and he’d showed up at the game to borrow money. But now I’m not so sure. Maybe he was trying to warn me. It’s hard to believe he’d do anything decent. The instant I saw him, whatever show playing in my head was interrupted by a word from the sponsor, triggered, and I blew him off. Now I’ll never know.”
“How did Javahn get involved?”
Timothée sighed. “Javahn. We were friends. That’s how Luca and Michael met, at one of our hockey training camps. Luca needed money. Michael needed to hide some. The talk is Michael is connected to the mob.”
Ryker sucked in a deep breath. “These are strong allegations. Are you certain?”
Timothée nodded. “Javahn told me. It’s why he came.”
“How does Javahn know?”
“A couple months ago, he wanted to buy a house. He decided to cash in some investments and use the money for the down payment. The account was several hundred thousand short of what it should have been.”
“I’m still not following exactly.”
“Javahn used Capital Mastermind Investments—a suggestion of Michael Darbonne, his uncle—as his investment firm. Javahn wanted answers to his MIA funds and started snooping. He learned that Capital Mastermind Investments is a holding of Whittle, Darbonne, & Shaw Corporation, the company Michael is a partner in. Michael pulls the money out of the corporation subsidiaries through Capital Mastermind Investments based out of Las Vegas and floats it over to the Croneau Foundation, never to be seen again. The Securities and Exchange Commission has had them on their radar for years but apparently can’t get the goods to bust them. It’s also the reason I didn’t want to be associated with the foundation.”
“Oh,” Ryker exclaimed in horror, clutching his chest. “I’m so sorry. You tried to tell me, and I put the statement out that you’d oversee it.”
“No, you were right to do it. I should. It’s my name, my responsibility. I’ll be held accountable whether I’m at the helm or not. I may as well know what’s happening.”
“You have to go the police. Detective Doyle needs to know this. Javahn can corroborate your story.”
“Javahn’s dead.”
Ryker choked, the color draining from his face. “What?”
“A couple hours after we left port, a group of masked mercenaries stormed Javahn’s yacht. I heard Javahn yell, and then I got knocked down some steps. The next thing I know I was waking up on my bathroom floor, and one of my shotguns was missing. I can’t tell you the last time I spent a night in that house before then. But right before the mercenaries came aboard, I received a text message from a number I didn’t recognize. It warned me to get somewhere safe. The message was in French and signed ‘Leena.’ That’s the name my grandfather called my mother when she was a little girl. Nobody knew that. It was her code to me. I haven’t heard a thing from anyone who was on that boat since, and there’s no documentation of the yacht returning to the marina. If Javahn isn’t dead, he’s hiding, and I’m not going to be the person who flushes him out.”
“Beegeezus!” Ryker smacked his lips. “You can’t keep this bottled up. You at least have to confide in Mace.”
“I’m sure Maxwell Weymouth already told him the majority. He’s an expert on keeping the dirty Croneau family secrets buried. He and Mace work for the same firm, just out of two different buildings. Max is civil slash corporate, and Mace is criminal. Who do you think recommended Mace to me?”
Ryker chewed the inside of his jaw. “What about justice?”
“I can’t prove Michael Darbonne is responsible for this, and neither could Javahn. He was searching for hard evidence. I don’t know what the endgame is. What I do know is my mother dedicated her entire life to preserving the family name, and a large portion of that is tied to the foundation. If it comes out that the foundation has been laundering money, every transaction it ever made will be suspect. Social programs that depend heavily on foundation funding will be forced to close. My mother’s entire life’s work will have been in vain. She’d have rather died than go to the police and have the Croneau legacy dragged through the sewer.”
“I get that, but—”
“There are no buts. The mob doesn’t like witnesses or loose ends. My gun is missing, and everyone knows I didn’t have a functional relationship with my mother or Luca. If I utter one word to the cops, that gun mysteriously pops up somewhere with my prints and later proves to be the murder weapon. It buys my silence and allows for the continuation of laundering money through the foundation. It’s the only reason I haven’t developed a mysterious case of suicide. Either they think I don’t know, or I do and know not to open my trap. It’s like my mother once said to me: ‘It’s better to be a live chicken than a dead hero.’” His top lip quivered.
“You’re no chicken.”
“You can’t say anything, Ryker. Swear it to me.”
“Timothée—”
“Swear.” The insistence in his voice did not waver.
Reluctantly, Ryker nodded. “I swear. You can trust me.”
Swiping at his tears, Timothée glanced at the ceiling. “I should have done something.”
“Like what? You didn’t know.”
“I knew enough. Ever since I started playing hockey, my mother demanded after practice or a game, I use the side door to enter.” His lips curled in a small, tight smile. “She said my dirty hockey gear left a smell trail and stunk up the entire house that lingered for days no matter how much air freshener was sprayed. It became a running joke. Wh
en I was eight, my hockey team was in a tournament. We got eliminated second round, and I returned home two days early. I walked up the side path as normal and heard noises, like cats fighting. I peeked through the hedges and saw Luca and Michael by the hot tub hand-jobbing each other. That bastard Luca saw me. He had the audacity to grin at me, like he knew I couldn’t do anything. Later that night, he came to my room and threatened me, said no one would ever believe me. Then my mother….” His voice trembled. “She had an accident. It’s how her hip got broken. She was hurt because of me.”
“That’s not your fault.”
“I was so angry with her for staying with him. And anytime I would mention she should leave, she’d push me away further. He’s why we didn’t speak. I should have….” He shook his head.
“Timothée, your mother was an adult. She made her own decisions. Sometimes, people make bad decisions. When they do, that’s never anyone’s fault but their own.”
And in this episode of “what the actual fuck have I done having a factory reset meltdown—two, actually—in front of Ryker,” Timothée, oddly enough, felt relief from no longer concealing secrets from Ryker. However, the other half of his heart lurched in terror for the same reason. An internal battle between repose and distress wrestled for emotional dominance. This wasn’t Ryker’s burden to carry, and now his life could be in danger, too. But how could Timothée not confide in him when Ryker had been forthcoming with everything Timothée had asked of him? Of course, Ryker didn’t have mobster lunatics in his life, either. However, not once had Ryker voiced any concern for his own safety—only a well-established and consistent concern for Timothée’s well-being. That was why…
Fuck! Timothée had caught feelings, too.
Sniffing hard one last time, Timothée straightened but remained in Ryker’s embrace. He raised his bleak eyes to meet the agent’s, his face drawn as he reeled in his jangled nerves. For several moments, they sat in silence, allowing a calmness to settle. Finally, Timothée took a couple cleansing breaths and cleared his throat. “I didn’t mean to saddle you with all this bullshit.”
Penalty Kill Page 17