In the harvest gold living room, Tequila set Fleming down on the ugly couch, and she winced.
“You’re in pain,” he said.
“I’m used to it.”
Tequila reached into his jeans pocket and removed a lighter and something else.
Sinking onto an armchair next to the fireplace, I raised an eyebrow. Talk about teenage flashbacks. “Is that…?”
“Purple kush. Medical-grade marijuana.” He glanced at Fleming. “Have you ever?”
Fleming rolled her eyes. “Duh. I went to college.”
“It’ll take the edge off the pain, without making you loopy like morphine.” Tequila lit the joint, taking just enough of a hit to get it started. Then he passed it to Fleming.
The sweet smell wafted through the old farmhouse. After the first puff, the tightness in Fleming’s face began to fade. Two puffs after that, and my sister was grinning.
“Damn. It’s gotten a lot stronger since I was in school,” she said.
I frowned. Much as I felt for Fleming, this didn’t seem like an ideal time to get high. We were safe for the time being, but we were out of ammunition, only had Tequila’s .45s and his survival rifle, and we hadn’t even discussed our next move.
“I didn’t picture you as a stoner,” I said to Tequila. “I figured you for one of those health types. My body is my temple, that sort of thing.”
Tequila shrugged. “Tough to sleep sometimes. It helps.”
He held it out for me. I tried to think about the last good night’s sleep I had, but it seemed too long ago to recall.
We seemed to be safe, for the moment, but I wasn’t ready to let my guard down. Hammett wouldn’t give up so easily. We weren’t the only ones who would regroup. She’d come at us again. And the fact that the Instructor was a prisoner at the black site offered up a whole new problem. Did Hammett know he was there? If so, what would she do to him?
I might not be sure whether or not I trusted the Instructor, but I knew I certainly owed him a debt. If we were to spring him, it had to be fast. Whichever clandestine part of our government controlled the black site, they no doubt already knew it had been breached. That meant sending in a cleanup team.
Every minute that passed, our odds at a rescue attempt got worse. And even though I hadn’t discussed it at length with Fleming, I was sure we would be attempting it soon, and I didn’t want to add pot to the mix.
“No thanks,” I told Tequila.
He took a hit himself, letting out a long stream of smoke as Fleming cozied up against his side. He passed the point back to her, and she hit it again.
“Oh my God, you’ve got a body like a stripper,” she said. Even in the low light I could see that the whites of her eyes had become pink. “And thighs like tree trunks.”
She was right. Still in his underwear after donating his jeans and jacket to Fleming, Tequila was all muscle. His legs from boxers to boots looked more sturdy and solid than any man’s I’d ever seen.
“Let me feel your muscles.” Fleming reached for Tequila’s chest, placing her palm on it. “C’mon. Flex for me.”
He shrugged, and his pecs popped under the white T-shirt.
“Oh my God, I want to fuck you so bad right now.”
“I think she’s had enough,” I said. I hated being such a buzz kill, but someone had to be the responsible one, at least until Fleming got back to herself.
Tequila gently took the joint from Fleming and pinched out the burning end between his thumb and index finger.
“Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’ve had enough pot.” Fleming slipped a hand under the hem of Tequila’s shirt and lifted it up to expose an impressive eight-pack. “But not enough of this. Can I see you naked?”
“Ah, Sis?”
Fleming shot me an exasperated, and very high, frown. “Chandler, I thought I was going to die just a few hours ago. I’d like to live a little now, if you don’t mind.”
Of course, I couldn’t mind. She was right. And from the look of Tequila’s boxers, he wasn’t minding much either. “Fine. But take it upstairs, won’t you?”
“Oh, you’re no fun.” Fleming laughed, a sound that soothed even my prickly mood. She looked at Tequila and started easing down the zipper of the Blackhawks jacket to show a little cleavage. “Want your jeans and jacket back?”
Tequila’s eyes glinted. He stood, then scooped her up and headed upstairs.
I thought about Lund, pictured the last kiss we’d shared, and the moment was ruined when I remembered he’d gone off with Blondie Cheerleader Cop.
What was wrong with me?
I wasn’t an emotional person. On top of that, I’d been trained to compartmentalize, kill without a thought and sleep like a baby at night. I’d had plenty of one-night stands, enjoyed myself, and walked away without a twinge of longing. And now I was breaking down in the middle of an op over seeing my sister and awash in jealousy over a guy I’d just met?
I had to laugh at how just a day ago, Jack Daniels had labeled me a sociopath. I hadn’t liked the label, but I certainly preferred it to “emotional basket case.”
I heard a loud clunk, and at first thought Tequila might have dropped Fleming. Then their moaning, with a few pleasure-filled yips from my sister, echoed down the stairs.
The yips became squeals. And, ultimately, screaming. Screaming, accompanied by swearing, “God” and “yes” repeated over and over.
I wondered if I sounded like that. I didn’t think so, and pondered if that had to do with some inhibition on my part, or perhaps it was due to my poor judgment in picking partners.
I curled in the armchair, thinking about lighting a fire. After contemplating the effort it would take and the threat of smoke from the chimney conjuring up unwanted curiosity, I abandoned the idea. Staring at the night through the bay window, I willed myself to fall asleep, but even a simple doze seemed beyond reach. It occurred to me that I should at least clean up and dress my wounds, but instead I just sat there.
The past days had turned my life upside down, and all I could think was that my emotions were struggling to catch up, to make sense, to process. It was a choice of that or believing I was losing my mind, and I preferred the first option.
Rest. That’s what I needed. Maybe then I could get my act together.
I wasn’t sure how much time had passed when a stream of headlights split the darkness outside. Armed with only a paring knife from the kitchen drawer, I took position beside the door.
The porch creaked, heavy footfalls thumping up the old wood. The doorknob rattled, and Lund pushed inside.
I had to admit, I was more than relieved.
He carried an assortment of plastic shopping bags and wore a satisfied grin. “Did I miss anything?”
As if in answer, a second full round of thumps and screams started from upstairs.
Lund raised his eyebrows at the sounds. “I knew I should have done something about those termites.”
I laughed, but my attention was torn between the man and something in Lund’s packages that smelled deliciously like rotisserie chicken. I stepped closer, trying to get a peek. “Worried they’ll break through the ceiling?”
“Worried? At least someone is having fun in this house.” He headed for the kitchen, and I followed. “I will admit to being a little surprised. I mean your sister…she was in a pretty bad state, and then the chip…”
I shrugged a shoulder. “The opportunity presented itself.”
“The opportunity?” He set the bags on a countertop and turned to look at me.
“When you might die tomorrow, you take whatever you can get whenever you can get it. Don’t put off until tomorrow what you can do today, that kind of thing.”
He held my gaze, only a few inches between us. “Seems like a good way to live, even if you aren’t planning to die tomorrow.”
“Is that one of those come-on lines you promised?”
“Would you like it to be?”
It didn’t take too much thought to come up with
my answer. I grabbed for the hem of my sweater.
But before I could pull it over my head, he took hold of my wrists. “In a hurry?”
I peered up at him through my lashes. “Yes.”
“Why not take our time?”
Because I felt like I’d been waiting to fuck him since we’d met. Because I’d just spent the past hour listening to my sister and Tequila ripping down the house. Because until a minute ago, I’d thought I’d lost him to his ex.
Because I was more comfortable with sex than with wallowing in emotion.
“Just eager, I guess,” I said.
A slow grin spread over his lips. “Nothing wrong with that. But first, will you let me show you something?”
Always a sucker for letting a guy show me something, I released the sweater and let my gaze wander down to his crotch. “Whatcha got?”
He smiled. Turning to the plastic bags, he pulled out four takeout containers holding one full chicken each. “I thought you might want to eat first.”
If there was anything better than a ready, willing, and handsome lover, it was one who brought me food. “Why, was I eyeing that chicken like a starving fox?”
“Let’s just say, that’s how I want you to look at me. If feeding you first gets me that, I’m willing to wait. Now sit. I’m going to serve you.”
I smiled at him.
“Go,” he ordered.
I crossed the tiny kitchen in two steps and lowered myself into a chair at the Formica table. My stomach approved the decision. My sex drive wasn’t so happy…until Lund brought a chicken and a bag of apples to the table and pulled up his own chair. He rested his hands on my thighs, opened them, and slipped a knee between mine. Then he tore off a chicken leg and brought it to my lips.
I sank my teeth in and flavor filled my mouth, Lund watching me as if absorbed by my every movement and expression. At first I couldn’t stop giggling, then slowly I started to feel fascinating, sexy, erotic, as if I really was the captivating creature he saw.
Eating was a necessity to me, a way to fuel my body for the job I had to do. But as I took bite after bite, it became something else, something ridiculously sensual and overtly sexual. I found myself wanting to strip off my clothes, run chicken over my body, preferably followed by Lund’s tongue.
I finished the leg, and he followed by prying the breast meat free and feeding it to me. I devoured it and licked his fingers clean. He brought me an apple, and I crunched deep. It was so fresh, juice dripped down my chin, and he wiped it off with a rough finger. He offered me another taste, and another. I moved to the edge of my chair and pressed myself against his knee.
He brought more chicken, and we took turns eating, each feeding the other, our eyes devouring one another, me rubbing against him. Finally he crooked a brow. “Ready for dessert?”
“Yes.” It was more a breath than a word.
But even though I’d given the answer, he didn’t move. Instead, he ran his eyes slowly down my body, and I swore that even through my sweater, I could feel his gaze circle my nipples as if it were his tongue.
I let him pull me up from the chair, and he grabbed one of the plastic bags on the counter, then took my hand and led me upstairs. I liked to be in charge, in control at all times, moving at my own pace. But with Lund, it was different. It wasn’t as if he was preventing me from taking over, more like I didn’t want to. I was perfectly happy following, waiting to see what he’d do next.
I assumed we’d take one of the bedrooms, but instead, he turned into the sole bathroom in the house and closed the door behind us. He ducked into the old tub and turned on the spigot, then he pulled my sweater over my head. My jeans came off next, his fingers raising goose bumps over my skin as he skimmed them down my legs. My panties followed. Then he unwound the filthy bandage around my waist. Leaving it all in a pile on the bathroom floor.
He dipped a hand into the bag and brought out a bottle of shampoo. Setting it on the tub, he repeated the procedure, this time emerging with conditioner, then body wash, then one of those shower scrubs in bright purple.
“For me?”
“I hope you like roses. It seemed a bit generic, but it’s all they had.” He caressed my cheek, then slid his fingers up my cheekbone and into my hair.
“I love roses,” I said, not that I’d cared one bit about the flower before this moment.
He switched the spigot to spray, then pulled off his own shirt. His chest was precisely the way I pictured it, muscular, just the right light sprinkle of hair, washboard gut, just like a goddamn romance hero.
“Get into the shower. Wet yourself down.”
The way he said the words made me almost ready to come right there. Instead, I reached for my inner dignity, stepped into the tub, and let the warm, clean water sluice over me while I watching him take off his jeans.
He wore tighty whities, which was so cute, I had to control myself yet again, especially when I saw the bulge stretching that elastic to its limit. He pushed the jeans to his ankles, exposing thighs every bit as muscular as they’d appeared through the denim. By the time he’d stepped one foot free and then the next, I was thoroughly wet and wanted to scream with impatience.
He smiled at me and hooked a thumb in the waistband of his briefs.
“For God’s sake, get naked or I’m going to kill you.”
That conjured a laugh, not exactly what I was hoping for, but then sure enough, he pushed the white cotton down, and for the second time in twenty-four hours, the man made my knees tremble. “Please,” I said.
Another laugh, but he climbed into the tub. I reached for his cock, but just as when I tried to strip down in the living room, he took hold of my wrist. “What’s the hurry?”
“I need it.”
“I have more planned.” He held up the bottle of rose-scented shampoo.
“Maybe you need a reminder, but I can kick your ass.”
He smiled. “That might be fun, but first the roses.”
I shook my head, but he proceeded anyway. Taking the bottle of shampoo, he squeezed out a generous amount and started massaging it into my hair.
His fingers felt amazing on my skull, both soothing and rough. He swirled lather around my temples and caressed the nape of my neck. I could feel tension falling away, the pain of my injuries falling away, reality falling away, leaving only him and me, warm water and the scent of roses.
He guided me under the water and rinsed the shampoo clear, followed it with conditioner, then reached for the shower wash and purple scrub.
Teasing the cleanser into a thick foam, he then moved it over my skin. My back first, then over my buttocks and down the back of my thighs to my heels. Then he came back up, on the insides of my thighs this time. I spread my legs, giving him space. But instead of going for the money, he scrubbed my butt again, then turned me around and washed my arms.
The rough texture raised shivers over my skin. He was gentle in the scraped places, firm in the unmarked ones. Skimming over bruises and massaging what screamed to be massaged. He brought the scrub to my shoulders, my clavicle, then swirled it around my breasts.
I brought my hand again to his cock, reveling in the weight of his testicles, but again he pushed me away.
“Enjoy,” he said. “And then I promise I’ll fuck your brains out. OK?”
I made a sound in my throat, something akin to a purr, as he skimmed the rough scrub down my belly and nestled it between my legs, moving in gentle circles.
Tremors seized me, shook me, and I gripped the soap dish built into the tiled wall to keep my footing. He concentrated on that spot for a while, until my cries subsided, then finished the trek down my legs.
Before he came back up, I grabbed the bottle of shower gel and filled my palm. Once he straightened, running the scrub back up my belly and over my breasts, I cupped his balls in my gel-filled hand and started washing.
He brought his lips to mine, and his mouth claimed me, demanding, delving deep. His whole body moved with his kiss, his che
st crushing to my breasts, his cock surging in my hand. I never knew a kiss to be so erotic, and even though he wasn’t touching me at that moment, I could feel the wave building in me again and crashing to shore.
I cried out into his mouth, and he swallowed it, kissing me harder, accepting everything I was.
The spray washed us both clean, and I reached for more of the rose gel, wanting to feel him reach the spot I had, wanting to hear him call out in passion. Again the hand encircled my wrist, but before I could protest, he was kissing his way down my neck, stopping at my breasts, licking and lightly tugging on my nipples with his teeth while his fingers worked lower.
I came, my whole body shuddering, and Lund dropped to his knees and kissed me there like he kissed my mouth, his tongue exploring, probing, moving slowly and then picking up speed. He seemed to know my body better than I did, drawing out every slow lick, every swirl, pulling away as I leaned against him, teasing me beyond endurance.
“Please. Oh please.”
Then he clenched my bottom, pressing his face hard against me, giving me what I’d asked for—more than I’d asked for—until I was reduced to pure sensation and could only clutch his hair and scream and swear and repeat “God” and “yes” over and over until my legs buckled.
Then Lund was picking me up off my feet, leaning my back against the tile, and entering.
I screamed again, louder this time, not from aggression or anger, but from sheer mindlessness.
He thrust into me, filling me up, making me whole, giving me everything I’d searched for, and some things I’d never known I wanted. And when another wave of ecstasy crashed over me and carried him along, I understood I had been swept too far off course, and that now nothing could ever be the same.
Hammett
“Anyone can be your enemy,” the Instructor said. “Some day, I might be.”
Hammett sat in the empty security office, in the black site underneath Badger Ammo, staring at a bank of television screens.
She was horny as hell.
Flee, Spree, Three (Codename: Chandler Trilogy - Three Complete Novels) Page 50