He was able to watch as she slid her hand down the flat, toned expanse of her abdomen before she went lower.
What he asked her to do wasn’t foreign to her, but she had never had an audience before, and Synek wasn’t one to shy away. He wasn’t shy about staring, nor did he make it a secret what he wanted to do with her as soon as he got the chance.
And that thought was as thrilling as it was terrifying.
Tentatively, she reached down, drawing in a breath before she rubbed a slow, tight circle over her clit.
She felt them roll to a stop and figured they were at another red light, but just as she was sure his gaze was on her, tracking over every exposed inch of her, she didn’t open her eyes.
She wanted to stay grounded in this, this endless moment that stretched between them.
The high—she’d begun to crave it. Crave him.
She didn’t know who was more of the slave to what she was doing—her because she was feeling it, experiencing it, or him because he looked as if her masturbating right beside him was a special kind of torture he couldn’t get enough of.
The way his fingers tightened around the steering wheel until his knuckles blanched, or how he shifted restlessly in the driver’s seat, and she could make out every thick, hard inch of his cock through his trousers.
“Stop,” he said, and her fingers obeyed before her brain could even process what he had said.
The crest that had been right there dissipated, the ache lingering. Her need still great, but she knew as soon as she opened her eyes and looked at him why he hadn’t let her come.
The first one was always his.
The sound of the tires skidding to a quick stop alerted her to the fact they were finally home.
“Inside,” he said and snapped off his seat belt, seeming unable to formulate more than a one-word response.
Iris walked, heels in hand, up the stairs and got the door open before Synek even made it around the car.
She could feel his eyes tracking her across the room before she ever turned to face him, but the visual was far better than her imagination. He yanked at the knot in his tie until the fabric loosened.
Maybe it was the champagne she’d downed at the fundraiser, or what had happened in the car after, or both, but whatever it was made her heart feel as if it was seconds from beating right out of her chest, and the ache he’d sparked earlier was flaring hotter.
It was one thing to see Synek in a suit—all dark vibes and tattoos—but it was something else entirely to watch him come out of one.
He took his time, watching her watch him, removing his weapons next, and then finally his shirt.
When he got to that last knife strapped to his forearm—his favorite knife, he’d said—he didn’t drop it with the others.
Instead, he walked toward her, holding it loosely in one hand.
Any rational person would have been rightfully afraid if Synek was approaching them with a knife in his hand, but too much excitement filled Iris for her to feel anything else.
She didn’t realize she had been backing away until her back hit the cool panes of the glass doors, and Synek was suddenly there. So close that she could smell the intoxicating scent of him surrounding her.
He turned the blade around in his hand, ever careful, never nicking himself even once, and she knew how sharp that knife was. But he knew how to handle them with expert precision, and he wanted her to know that.
His smile was a little dark, lips hiked up on one side as his gaze drifted over her face. “Do you trust me?”
“Yes.”
No hesitation tonight.
No further thought.
She trusted him more than she had ever trusted another person in her life.
Her answer seemed to please him, but he didn’t respond right away. His intentions were unclear for as long as it took for him to reach out and touch her, her head falling back against the glass as he traced the pad of his thumb down the hollow of her throat and lower still, tracing a line ...
It only took her a moment longer to realize why he still held his knife and why he’d asked if she trusted him.
And as he saw the moment she realized his intentions, he smiled wider. “Breathe,” he said before he rested the gleaming tip of his knife against the ties on the front of her dress.
It didn’t matter that she knew he was good with a knife or that she had just watched him use it. She still couldn’t help the sharp intake of breath, but to keep her nerves, she whispered, “You bought it.”
He smirked.
Faster than she could process, he slipped the blade between the ties and jerked his arm back, the knife cutting seamlessly through the fabric and splitting it down the middle.
He tossed the knife away without another thought before his mouth was on hers, kissing the breath out of her. She could feel his need in every stroke of his tongue, the way his fingers dug into her hair before making a fist—the way she could feel his hard length through his trousers.
It all sparked a blissful agony in the pit of her stomach, spiraling outward until the only thing she wanted—the only thing she could even think about—was undressing him.
She wanted to feel the smoothness of his skin. Trace the scars that made him distinct from anyone she had ever been with.
One of his arms skimmed down to hook around her waist, lifting her with ridiculous ease until her legs wrapped around his waist. Her back hit the glass with enough force to tell her he was losing control, but she liked it all the more for it.
She liked that little bite of aggression he got when his patience ran out and the only thing on his mind was getting inside her.
He growled guttural words against her lips, the meaning lost on her, but she could guess what he was saying by the way he ground himself against her a moment before yanking at his trousers until he got them unbuttoned and unzipped.
His fingers dug into the flesh of her hips as his other fisted his cock. The first brush of the head against her damp, swollen folds making a cry spill out of her. This wasn’t their first time, the second, or even the fifteenth, but it all still felt so brand new that every feeling was acute and consuming.
Now was when that confident little smirk would appear on his face right as he made her beg and plead for his cock until she was mindless to everything else but the sensations he invoked.
But tonight, Synek looked as desperate as she felt.
He wasn’t interested in waiting and dragging this moment out.
He wanted to fuck.
With one punch of his hips, he was inside her, so deep so quickly that her nails dug into his back. And the groan that left him made her pelvic muscles flutter and tighten, her need ratcheting up by the second.
“Tell me how it feels,” he said against her lips, that dark smile playing at the edges of his mouth. “Tell me how good it feels, and I’ll fuck you the way you want.”
Gradually, he pulled out of her, making her moan, but it was only when he shoved back in a little too fast and a little too harsh that she gave him what he wanted.
The words exploded out of her. “It’s so good.”
“Tell me again,” he repeated, this time in her ear, another powerful thrust making her dig her nails in deeper.
The more she spoke, the faster he thrust. The filthier his words became, the more he gave her just that.
When she told him how much she loved his cock, he fisted her hair and dragged her head back until he could sink his teeth into her throat, sucking there until she was trembling and whispering incoherently.
When she begged for more, her name fell like a curse out of his mouth as he pounded into her.
And when she screamed that she was coming, his eyes closed in blissful surrender before he came too.
Waking up four hours later, Iris reached across the bed to where Synek should be lying but found cool sheets.
She turned again to glance at the clock, blinking to clear her blurry vision until the illuminated red numbers came
into focus.
3:58 a.m.
She didn’t remember what time they’d gotten in the night before, or how long they’d spent together before finally passing out, but she knew it was much too early for Synek to be awake.
And if she had to guess, he was probably working.
Lately, that was all he did. Not that she blamed him much.
She had spent many nights in her old apartment working until she passed out, only to wake up and not remember where she was. And twenty minutes later, she’d be right back to working again.
Sitting up, Iris slipped out of bed and pulled on the shirt Synek had left on the floor, buttoning it up the front.
She walked barefoot out of the bedroom, following the trail of lights that led to the living room where she found Synek in the middle of the floor surrounded by chaos.
Over the weeks they had been living together, she had grown used to his late hours and his restless nature—it was all a part of who he was—but even when he was going after the Wraiths and making it his mission to end Rosalie, she didn’t think she had seen him as obsessive as he was now.
Something about this job was different for him.
Now, it felt like he had more to lose.
Which only made her wonder if he was working so hard because of her or the man he was still looking for. The last thing she wanted was to compound his stress.
Synek sat shirtless on the floor, his back to her, though she could just see the bite mark she’d left on the side of his neck—twin to the ones he’d left on her thighs. She took a moment to appreciate the sight of him like that, unable to help herself, before she crossed the floor to better see what held his attention.
From what she could see, boxes upon boxes of files were arranged in an order that made little sense to her, though Synek seemed to be organized just fine.
Synek didn’t react to her presence until she was nearly beside him and had picked up a file he’d tossed onto the couch he was sitting back against.
Flipping it around, she read the label, finding a name she didn’t recognize scrawled across the top.
“Who’s Zachariah?”
Synek exhaled in frustration, scrubbing both hands down his face before he looked over at her. “We called him Z. He was one of the handlers for the Den. Some of us, like Red, for example, reported to him directly.”
“What happened to him?” she asked, not missing his use of past tense when he referred to the man.
“Dead, as far as I know,” he responded, though something about his tone made her wonder about how the man had ended up that way.
“Dead, dead? Or is he missing the way Grimm is?”
He scratched the spot just above his brow. “As far as I know, he’s in the ground. At least that’s what the Kingmaker told us.”
Iris sunk onto the couch cushions beside him, her knee brushing his shoulder. “Okay, so what are you looking for?”
Especially this late at night. Whatever it was had to be important, and if it was important to him, the least she could do was try to help him find it. And from the looks of things, he hadn’t been particularly successful in his hunt for information.
The box closest to his right was the only one that was open. Its contents spilled out all around him, including a mixture of documents, black and white photographs, and what looked like kill diagrams.
“There’s nothing here,” Synek said with another sigh, his gaze dropping to the pages in his lap, though from the expression on his face, it too wasn’t providing any answers. “At this point, I’d take anything.”
He was frustrated. Iris knew the feeling well, but she also knew that he would only be half as productive if he let himself get defeated.
“This has something to do with Grimm, right? You think something in these files will help you find him?”
“I don’t know, but at this point, this is the only thing we have to go on.”
For now, he didn’t say.
“Okay, maybe I can help you find something,” she suggested, plucking the folder from his lap to place with the other she was already holding. “What have you gotten so far?”
“Fuck all. Z might have kept meticulous notes, but he hardly kept anything for that last job he sent Grimm on.”
Just from what she read on the top sheet of handwritten notes, there were names and dates, as well as a summary of where this particular mercenary had gone to complete the job. If this was everything he had just on this one particular assignment, she could only imagine what all there was, considering the years the Den had been in operation.
“So you need info on his last job?”
She expected him to agree and give her instruction on what she needed to be looking for, but instead, he sighed and leaned his head back. “It’s late, dove. You shouldn’t be out of bed.”
“And leave you up alone? Not a chance. Just tell me what I need to look for.”
“Probably best if I don’t tell you what to look for. Go in blind and all. See what pops out.”
That way, she wouldn’t have any preconceived notions about what she might find. There would be less for her to ignore if she didn’t rule anything out.
Looking back at the contents in her lap, she started reading.
Z’s notes were meticulous.
Every detail perfectly written out, so it wasn’t hard for her to follow the case file even though she didn’t know any of the names involved. She tried to imagine how long this would have taken him, not just from the mercenary recounting the job, but the time and effort the man had put in to researching the mark.
That would only make her job easier.
Not sure how much time had passed while engrossed in the file, Iris glanced over at Synek, surprised to find him fast asleep. A soft smile crossed her face before she stood and walked over to grab one of the throw blankets bundled in the basket next to the couch.
Stretching it out over him, she then carefully put one of the throw pillows behind his head before grabbing the folders he’d already searched through and carrying them back into the bedroom.
On the tapes her father had recorded in the days leading to his incarceration, he said the answers she sought would be found in the details.
At fourteen, she hadn’t known what that meant, nor did she have the first idea where to look to find any such “details.”
At sixteen, the details included a low-level drug dealer’s obsession with a prostitute named Amanda Smith, a woman who also liked to spend time with a then up-and-coming politician named Michael Spader.
At eighteen, she learned Amanda Smith had mysteriously disappeared.
With one little connection, Iris had inevitably put together pieces that hadn’t made sense until she had them all laid out—or rather put up—on her wall with red yarn to connect one to the next.
She could do the same with this.
A few minutes passed as she cleared the bed off, stacking the pillows neatly on the floor and folding the comforter into an oversized square next to them. Once the bed was nothing more than a blank canvas of white, she started.
The thing about this kind of research was that it was easy to form an idea of who a person was, or at least who they had been, by the information left in the documents.
Spader had been a man of wealth and means who used his advantages to destroy the lives of others with little care as to how it affected anyone else, but as Iris went through each file, she wasn’t just learning about the inner musings of Z, whose detailed notes also provided a look at the man himself, but she learned about Grimm as well.
Special ops, his file—the first one ever recorded on him—said. Calm and collected. Efficient and quiet.
The perfect soldier, Z had written in pen alongside typed notes, though if Iris remembered some of her father’s musings, a Marine was a Marine and didn’t like to be called a soldier.
She set that file to one side of the bed, if only because it was the start of it all. Then she hunted through the rest of the files until she f
ound the one dated most recently.
Everything in the middle was what would matter.
She just had to find the details.
Sleep was coming more readily to Synek, and though he had the occasional nightmare—that woke him on a silent scream with reflexes ready to defend himself—he now could go a few hours without being startled awake by his own conscience.
He blinked his eyes open, briefly bewildered by where he was before sitting up, the blanket covering him sliding down to pool in his lap.
When in the hell had he grabbed that?
Iris.
The answer came immediately as his sluggish brain caught up with the rest of him. He glanced to his left, then his right, expecting to find her nearby, whether working or finally back asleep, but if she was either, he didn’t know because she was no longer in the room. Nor were the files he’d been sorting through for hours after he’d woken up earlier.
Scrubbing a hand down his face, he stood and stretched his tight muscles to ease some of the tension. Too many late nights and not enough sleep were catching up with him, but he didn’t have time to let himself crash for too long.
Their unspoken deadline loomed over him, lingering in the back of his mind even when he tried not to think about it.
After a quick trip to the bathroom to clean himself up, he headed to the kitchen and put a kettle on before going to look for Iris. Yawning behind his fist, he entered the bedroom on this floor and then promptly stopped in the middle of the floor.
The first thing he saw was Iris fast asleep on the floor, one arm tucked beneath her head as a pillow. It was obvious she had crashed while working, considering the number of open folders around her and the sheer chaos that was the bed.
He wasn’t sure how long she had been working while he’d slept, but from the looks of it, she’d been going for hours.
The mercenary in him wanted to see what she had found and try to understand the puzzle she’d left behind from the way the files and documents were arranged on the bed, but instead, he merely spared it a single glance before making his way across the floor to her.
Careful not to jostle her too much, he lifted her and carried her out of the room, almost smiling when she wrapped her arms around his neck, though she had yet to waken.
Iris. (Den of Mercenaries Book 7) Page 9