Julie screamed and thrashed, trying to get free and finish the job.
“Julie, that’s enough,” the old man said. “Stop this right now, or I kill Chandler.”
“Chandler?”
She stopped fighting, and shivers spread over Julie’s skin. Maybe there was hope. Maybe it wasn’t all over.
“Chandler is alive?”
Fleming
“If used properly, sex can be the most powerful weapon in your arsenal,” The Instructor said. “If used improperly, it can destroy you.”
Fleming stared, slack-jawed, at the open padlock. She couldn’t believe it.
Bradley had escaped.
She didn’t understand how she could have read him so wrong. Fleming had been sure that he liked her and wanted to help, that the promise of sex was enough to keep him rooted and working diligently. Could he have been lying? Playing her somehow? Had he gone to get the authorities? Or maybe he hadn’t done this alone. Maybe that cowboy had gotten here first, and now Bradley was—
“Oh, hi, Ian.”
Fleming’s head snapped to the rear of the store, and she saw Bradley standing there, grinning. What the hell?
“Hey, you got Sasha! Come here, girl!”
The vixen jumped out of Fleming’s lap and bounded into Bradley’s arms.
“I hope she wasn’t any trouble.”
“You took off the padlock,” she said, incredulous.
“Yeah. It kept bumping against my ankle. I can put it back on if you want me to.”
Fleming rolled closer. “How?”
“I’m a robotics engineer, Ian. Machines are my thing. I can pick a lock with a paper clip.”
“So why didn’t you…”
“Leave? And miss the chance to kiss you again?”
He smiled shyly, and Fleming felt a blush creep up her face and her pulse begin a foxtrot.
Bradley stroked Sasha, who was yipping in a way that sounded a lot like giggling. “I made a lot of progress on the project. I need your circuit board, but the servo for the wheel works great.”
“Come here,” she said, her voice husky.
He set down the fox and came over, eyebrows furrowing. “Is everything OK? If I did something wrong, I…”
She felt as if she’d tumbled out of a Jerry Bruckheimer action movie and somehow wound up in a John Hughes film. A boy had stuck around to help her, at great risk to himself, simply because he wanted another kiss. Did it get any better than that?
“Kiss me,” Fleming said.
Bradley bent down, tentative. Fleming grabbed his collar and pulled him roughly to her, pressing her lips to his. He tasted like black coffee, and moaned slightly when their tongues met. She moved her hands to his chest, feeling his corded muscles through his shirt, and he cradled the back of her head, running his long fingers through her hair, stroking her scalp. Fleming took his other hand, placed it on her side.
“Bra,” she said.
He skimmed his hand around to her back and fumbled with the clasp, taking too long.
“Rip it.”
And then there was a quick tug and her bra clasp released, her breasts free. Fleming moved the fabric to the side and directed his hands to her nipples. His touch made them stiffen, and she shivered, reaching for his belt and his fly.
“Oh God, Ian…”
She unzipped his jeans and he sprang free, and when Fleming wrapped her hand around him, she found he was shivering.
“Stand up straight,” she told him.
Bradley leaned away from her wheelchair, eyes wide, and she took him into her mouth. The gasp it elicited made her smile.
She ran her tongue over him, firm, strong licks from his base to his head, cupping his balls with one hand. She took him full into her throat, then pulled back and teased him, running the tip of her tongue around his ridge, eliciting loud groans that resonated as both pleasure and relief. Holding him between her lips, she glanced up and smiled. He had the most adorable look on his face: a cross between ecstasy and disbelief. She flicked and kissed and teased some more.
His breathing became rapid, his eyes glazed. Deciding that she wanted him to finish in her mouth, she moved back down, scooping up his length with her tongue. Still working his balls, she began to rapidly stroke with her other hand, alternating between pumping and twisting her fist around his width, all the while continuing to draw him deep into her throat.
It didn’t take long for his hips to spasm, and for him to lose control and cry out, and she kept sucking until he was done.
“Ian…that was…it was…”
She stared up at him, drinking in his expression while he continued to stroke her hair.
“Just the beginning. Take me to the mattress.”
Bradley blinked, then scooped her up out of the chair, his strong arms wrapping around her and carrying her as if she weighed nothing. He placed her down on the air mattress as if she were a fragile, delicate thing.
The way he touched her…the way he looked at her…
“My shirt,” she told him, wanting to be completely naked, his eyes all over her, that little smile of wonder warming every inch of her skin.
With trembling hands, he removed the already loose shirt and bra, staring at her naked breasts with an expression of wonder and lust. Without prompting, he bent down to take a nipple in his mouth, and Fleming sighed as he captured it lightly in his teeth and licked. He gave its partner equal attention, and didn’t have to be told to remove her skirt and leggings.
When they were off, Fleming had that moment of dread when a new lover saw her ruined, scarred legs for the first time. But she needn’t have worried with Bradley, because his eyes locked onto her pussy as if it was the only thing in the world that existed. His hands moved down, caressing her, so softly it was almost maddening.
“Harder.”
He began to rub, sending a shock of pleasure rippling up Fleming’s spine, and then he was working his fingers in and out of her, churning them at the same time, and she forgot all about how inexperienced he was and gave herself over to him, arching her hips and moaning.
Maybe he’d picked it up from all the porn he indulged in, but somehow once Bradley had warmed up, he seemed to know exactly what he was doing. When to be firmer. When to be softer. He read every shift of her body, hanging on each movement, each moan, each clue she gave him, completely focused on her words.
Fleming felt the pressure building, and building, and she bit her lower lip and closed her eyes and groaned deep in her chest and then, all at once, his magical fingers were gone.
Her eyes flipped open, and she wondered what was wrong. Had he finally seen her legs and gotten turned off? Had her passion scared him somehow? Was it plain old virgin insecurity?
She was about to ask, to help him if she could, when he suddenly pinned her to the mattress, his arms around her legs, his tongue and lips devouring her.
Bradley needed no help. No direction. He was as good as the best she’d ever had, knowing when to lick, when to pull away, coaxing the moans, and eventually the screams, out of her, bringing her to a mind-blowing climax that went on and on, leaving Fleming feeling like she’d been deflated.
But even though she stopped her gyrations, he didn’t stop his oral assault, somehow knowing she was sensitive after her orgasm, using his fingers again, forcing her arousal, coaxing her to meet his passion once more before again pressing his mouth to her and making her come once more.
And he still didn’t stop.
She tried to pull away, to convey he’d done enough, but he started with his fingers again, playing her like a virtuoso on a familiar violin. Fleming felt herself lifted, and then she was on her shoulders, her legs up around his neck, and for a third time his mouth took her.
Fleming reached blindly for him, and found him wickedly aroused, and as he devoured her she managed to find her voice and say, “Fuck me…Bradley…please…”
He lowered her to the bed, his cheeks glistening, eyes wide, and she guided him into her
and he began to pump like a jackrabbit, a starving man given a sandwich, and though Fleming normally preferred the slower approach, his intensity and need overwhelmed her, and she began to climax almost immediately, her arms around his neck as his hands found her nipples, and soon his cries were matching hers, and thirty seconds later, Bradley Milton was no longer a virgin.
They lay there, entwined, sweating and gasping for breath, Fleming luxuriating at his weight on top of her, his stubble against her cheek, the smell of his sweat. Then he began to tremble and she thought, “Oh God, is he crying?”
“That was AWESOME!” he said, and he stared at her with a huge smile on his face, and she realized he’d been giggling, giddy with happiness. She joined him, a polite laugh that quickly became infectious, and he rolled next to her, both of them staring at the ceiling, guffawing until Fleming’s diaphragm began to hurt.
When they got ahold of themselves again, Bradley gave her the sweetest kiss on the cheek and said, “Thank you, Ian.”
“Fleming,” she said. “Call me Fleming. That’s what those who are close to me call me.”
“Fleming. I like it.”
“You sure you never did this before?”
“No. But I’ve been practicing a lot on my own. Was I OK?”
Fleming giggled, then trailed a finger over the hair on his chest. “You were great.”
“So were you. God, you’re so beautiful.”
The warmth that was in his eyes infused his voice, and Fleming soaked it in.
“You’re amazing, Bradley.”
“Me? You’re the amazing one. I still can’t believe I got so lucky.”
Less than an hour ago, Fleming had been running for her life. Twenty minutes ago, her head had been filled with dire scenarios and paralyzing self-doubt. But Bradley’s simple act of kindness, of trust, of wide-eyed delight, somehow had restored Fleming’s faith in humanity, and in herself, in a way that made her feel young and fresh and naive.
She wanted to stay cuddled up just like this. Unfortunately, that wasn’t possible.
“We need to get some work done,” she said. “But I’m famished. Why don’t we get something to eat first, then—”
“I know just what I want to eat.”
And then his head was between her legs again.
Fleming thought about protesting, but instead she just shook her head and let the sensations envelop her. At least for a little while longer.
Virgins. Who could have known?
Hammett
“There is never room for doubt,” The Instructor said. “Save the introspection for after the mission, or the mission will end with your death.”
Hammett glanced over at Chandler in the driver’s seat and frowned. Her sister basically had a nervous breakdown in that alley, sobbing and refusing to defend herself, and that was unacceptable. Hammett had seriously considered killing her, and leaving the body where it could be easily discovered. That would take the immediate heat off Hammett, but the problem of The Instructor still remained. As long as that asshole was still alive, Hammett would always be hunted. Maybe not as a presidential assassin, but as a loose end that needed to be snipped.
So crybaby Chandler had gotten a stay of execution.
Once they nailed The Instructor, however, all bets were off. Chandler, and Fleming, would have to be taken out.
Strangely, Hammett had lost much of her desire to do so. Forty-eight hours ago, her sisters were the enemy. Now that they were on the same side, Hammett was warming to them both.
Not that it would matter when the time came. Over the years, Hammett had killed plenty of people she’d liked.
“You could try the disassociation route.”
Chandler stopped at a red light and said, “Hmm?”
“You know. Pretend the pain is happening to someone else, not you. Worked for me for years.”
“I’m not you.”
Hammett winced as she wiggled her broken pinkie. “OK, now this hurts. Watch.”
Chandler glanced at her while Hammett closed her eyes and concentrated on her finger, transferring the pain somewhere else rather than feeling it herself. She’d long ago given up her imaginary sister, Rebecca, but still retained the ability to separate herself from the signals that were happening in her body.
After a few seconds of focusing, Hammett jammed her broken finger into the dashboard.
There was a cracking sound, bones grinding together, but Hammett kept her face neutral and didn’t make a sound. She felt the pain, but in a detached way.
“You’re out of your goddamn mind,” Chandler said.
Hammett opened her eyes, still maintaining her concentration. “Life is shit, Chandler. But if we can reduce how we react to the shitty stuff, it’s bearable.”
She grasped her pinkie and shoved it back into place.
“That’s never going to heal.”
“We both have lots of wounds that will never heal, Chandler. So we either learn to live with them or fall apart.”
The light turned green. Chandler hit the gas. They were both silent for a few blocks. Hammett eased herself back into the moment, the pain returning, but she was able to detach herself just enough to keep it manageable. That was the trick. If you turn off sensation, you turn off reaction. Fine if someone is hurting you. But not so good in a fight, because you’re so focused on yourself you aren’t fighting back.
“So how do you do it?” Chandler finally asked.
Hammett allowed herself a small grin. “Pain, pleasure, all sensations—even thoughts—are chemical and electrical. They take pathways through your body. These pathways can be very short, like a neurotransmitter in your brain hopping from synapse to synapse, or longer, like your nervous system announcing you have a broken finger. If you concentrate, you can imagine the route of the pain and derail it somewhere else. Like forcing a car on a highway to take a detour so it doesn’t reach its intended destination.”
“Sounds like new age bullshit.”
“Pull over someplace. I’ll show you.”
“We’re meeting Harry.”
“Not for another hour. Find a spot.”
Chandler turned onto Michigan Avenue, heading south down the Magnificent Mile. She took a ramp down to Grant Park North underground parking, pulled the automated ticket from the machine, and when the gate rose they spent five minutes weaving through the thousands of parked cars before finding an open spot. They exited the vehicle, keeping their heads down so their faces weren’t caught on the security cameras, and located stairs to take them up into Millennium Park, Chicago’s newest civic center and tourist attraction.
They walked past the McCormick Ice Rink, which wasn’t yet open, and up to AT&T Plaza, a large concrete surface that was packed with people, all snapping pictures of a gigantic stainless steel sculpture called the Cloud Gate, nicknamed the Bean by locals because of its shape.
Hammett shook her head, marveling at the waste of taxpayer dollars. A half-billion bucks for some trees and grass, an outdoor theater, and a kitschy hunk of art that reminded her of a bedpan. How many dogs could have been rescued for that amount of money? The mind reeled.
Chandler led them through the crowds, down a path, and into a garden where acres of shrubs and flowers and grasses seemed out of place against a backdrop of skyscrapers. They found a secluded spot, and Chandler put her hands on her hips, waiting.
“Close your eyes and give me your finger,” Hammett told her.
“I don’t want you breaking it.”
“I’m not going to,” she said, taking out her Buck Knife. “I’m just going to stick a blade under your fingernail.”
“Like hell.”
“I said I can teach you to disassociate pain. But I can’t teach you to stop being a pussy.”
Chandler pursed her lips, then extended her hand.
“Now close your eyes and concentrate on your index finger.”
Hammett gripped Chandler’s knuckle and placed the tip of the blade under the nail. Chandler refl
exively tried to pull her hand back.
“You want to learn this or not?”
“I’m asking myself the same thing.”
“Just relax.”
“Relax. Sure. It’s like being on vacation. All that’s missing is a beach.”
Hammett sighed, annoyed. “Do your breathing exercise. The kind where you’re doing body inventory. Except stop the inventory when you focus on your index finger.”
Chandler remained still. Hammett noted her breathing had slowed.
“Are you focusing on your finger?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Stay loose. Don’t flinch. The pain will be sharp, but I’m not causing any serious damage. Now hold very, very still.”
Hammett pressed the blade up under Chandler’s fingernail. Chandler didn’t flinch, but her breathing rate increased.
“OK, you feel the pain. Now concentrate on it. Focus on it completely.”
Hammett gave Chandler thirty seconds to follow instructions. Her breathing was still faster than normal.
“You sense the pain in your fingernail. It hurts. But for it to hurt, your nerves have to report the damage to your brain. That means the pain travels up your arm, to your spine, to your brain. Or, more specifically, nociceptors are firing in your finger, sending signals to the dorsal horn in your spine, which tells the thalamus in your brain that you are hurt. Imagine the path these signals are taking. It happens fast, but not instantaneously. You can control your heart rate and breathing. With practice, you can control this as well.”
Hammett let Chandler absorb that. In the meantime, her own senses were subconsciously analyzing their surroundings, scanning for threats. Hammett smelled at least six kinds of flowers, mixed in with car exhaust and fertilizer. She heard vehicles going past on Monroe and Columbus, the honk of a bus. A faint easterly breeze coming from Lake Michigan tickled Hammett’s ears. There were six people around her other than Chandler: two men walking ahead, a family of four to the north, none out of the ordinary.
“Slow it down,” Hammett said. “Imagine the signal traveling up your arm like a wave. You can’t stop the wave. But you’re not going to try. Instead, you’re going to deflect it somewhere else. Instead of the wave going to your spine, it’s going to go up to your arm, then out your elbow. Picture your elbow shooting out the wave of pain. It doesn’t get to your head. It just runs through your body without you feeling it.”
Flee, Spree, Three (Codename: Chandler Trilogy - Three Complete Novels) Page 77