by Marata Eros
“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?” Jewell asks.
Wrong. Not in her case, never hers. I see her pain and I feel like a dumb fuck for my assumptions of her. Of the life I assume she’s lived.
As it happens, I don’t know shit.
My fingers travel to her hair, breaking each cross of linked braid until all of it falls around me: through my fingers, wrapping my arms. I use it like rope—wrapping it up tight, I drag her against me. “You’ll wear your hair down when you’re with me, Jess Mackey.”
I charge her with my gaze, holding nothing back. I give her all my intensity, and her lips part in response, her pupils dilating.
“Yes,” she agrees with a soft smile.
Jewel’s not frightened, she’s turned on, and my cock gets hard as I watch who I am ring her bell like a chime.
“Listen to me,” I instruct.
I watch her slender throat convulse once. “Okay.” Hot and soft little breaths caress my neck and gooseflesh rises. I swallow my response, she gets to me that fast.
Jewell’s my kryptonite.
I hold back for the moment. This is about Jewell understanding something critical, something she needs to know.
I was blind before, and now I see. I see all of her.
“You. Are. Perfect,” I say with deliberate enunciation. I look at her, letting her see with my eyes how she looks to me.
I begin at her feet. Beat-up and beautiful. Those delicate little bones hold her up on her toes, propelling the grace that Jewell is across the surface of whatever she dances on.
They curl when I move inside her.
My gaze travels up legs that are lean and strong, lithely muscled from dancing, not from the artificial practice of weight lifting and sparring that I must do to defend myself against the bottom-feeders, but made beautiful through motion. When my eyes hit the soft cleft between her legs, my prick pops to attention. I can’t help that response. My dick’s seen the whole show and it’s happy to remember.
Before I go farther with my perusal, I add words to my gentle scrutiny. “Let me show you how much,” I say and move again to her feet. Each delicate toe wears the marks of dance. They are beautifully fashioned, and when I slide her middle toe into my mouth, she gasps, pleasure where pain usually resides tickling her receptors, confusing them, her eyes surging to mine over the peaks and valleys of her body.
So fucking hot.
I continue my upward journey on the map of her body, sliding my palm up the interior of her leg. Jewell shivers when I grasp her knee and kiss the tip. I release the kiss and flick the tip of my tongue on its peak, and the shiver turns into something more, her eyes meeting mine.
Her heat matching my own.
Suddenly, my semi-erection goes into overdrive, just a half hour from liftoff and I’m ready to go again, and her eyes flick to me and a small smile erupts over her face. Jewell’s pleased that I want her.
She doesn’t know how much. It might scare her if she did.
“You’re perfect here,” I say with a husky catch in my voice as I leave the area where her legs bend and put a hand on each thigh, high and inside, and Jewell’s smile disappears as her expression fades to serious with desire. She begins to pant with just the promise of what she sees on my face.
It sounds like music, breaths that beg.
My face hovers over her, and I can smell us in an intoxicating mix of good sex as the heat of her core rises up to bathe my face from the enjoyment we took from each other. Gave each other.
I don’t think I can get harder or more turned on.
Guess again.
“And here,” I say so softly I wonder if she hears me as I lay a hot kiss with more than a little tongue against the interior hollow of her thigh and her legs quake from the press of my mouth. Jewell may or may not hear. But her body understands.
It knows me.
“And here,” I say with finality, as I drive a single lapping lick up the center of her, spreading her lips with the force of my tongue alone, and her answering shudder tells me all that I need.
I make Jewell believe . . .
She’s perfect to me.
I turn in time to see Jewell put the extra helmet I always keep around on her head. The tail of her braid swings like a dark golden rope as she moves toward me.
Joy infuses my body, its presence as alien as it is natural, a physical reaction that’s as involuntary as breathing. Jewell grins before she slaps the visor down, and I take two strides and grab her, hauling her against me. I duck down, slamming my mouth against hers and taste our deeds and it makes me semihard again, though we’ve gone at it twice already. I deepen the kiss, the awkwardness against the helmet ignored. Possible witnesses dismissed.
Time becomes moot.
I move down her neck with hot intent and catch her head in my hand, the smooth hardness of the helmet against my palm. “Did I make it good for you?” I ask, my lips at her throat. I straighten, running a finger where the heat of my mouth just was, and Jewell gives a responding shiver, sliding the visor back over her eyes, banking them in shadow.
I flick that long braid and frown. I have a thing for her hair down and all around me. I slowly smile again, thinking of the silk of it against me.
“Very,” she answers coyly, and my smile turns into a grin. “I didn’t want it to stop,” she adds, and I smile, thinking we’re in perfect agreement on that one.
I suddenly remember her asking me something earlier. “What were you asking me before?” I ask, playing with the tail of her braid, standing so close I can still feel the heat between us.
A ribbon of flesh appears between her brows, the vagueness of the shape even through the visor looks like a frown. She lifts the visor, her face smooshed and kissable. “Oh . . . it seems irrelevant now, but I think of you about half the time as Castile in my head instead of Devin,” she says, moving her hand back and forth.
I give a chuckle. I’ll be damned, what the hell? I can give her a grain of truth. My delayed response causes her frown to deepen.
Can’t have that. “Actually, funny you mention it, I go by Cas to my friends.”
Her head pulls back in surprise, and I admit I’m a little surprised myself. It’s damn uncanny for her to randomly stumble on it.
“Really?” she asks as her brows rise.
I nod.
“Cas,” she says, and that unraveling in my chest gets looser. I didn’t know how great it would feel to have some truth between us. Any truth. Eventually, I’ll have to tell her who I really am . . . how I feel . . . my connection to Faith. But right now, my real name, albeit nickname . . . well, it eases me to have her say it.
I pull her closer and whisper against the opening of the helmet and her face, the wisps of hair beside her temple tickling my lips, “Why don’t you try using it when I’m buried inside you, Jess . . .”
Pink spreads across her cheekbones at my words and what they evoke. Her gaze moves to my mouth, her blush deepening.
I know she’s thinking about where it’s been, and I grin as I tap a finger under her chin and cup her ass with my other hand. “Mine,” I say with a voice that means business. I’m not fucking around here and slap her ass to punctuate my point, and something on her face changes.
Heat climbs farther, deepening the blush.
And desire.
It gives me pause, my erection going from semi to full in the instant I see that look on her face. The look of consent . . . of want.
My body throbs for her, for that exotic turn I see in her expression. “Maybe not so vanilla after all,” I remark slowly.
Jewell gives a tiny smile and turns, walking toward the bike.
I watch the gliding sway of her small hips as she straddles the big bike, avoiding my gaze.
Jewell’s laid down the gauntlet.
Would I accept?
Absofuckingluetly.
I’m so accepting whatever challenge I see there.
I twist at the torso and scoop Jewell off
my bike. She removes the helmet and it catches all the hair that’s come loose from the single braid she made with her fingers, and I can’t stop my smile. So shoot me. Like most other men, I like a woman’s hair long and loose. It just flat out does it for me.
“What?” Jewell asks, fingers running through the mess, and I laugh from my gut, crossing my ankles and folding my arms across my chest as I stare at her. “Leave it,” I say, my eyes catching hers, and those restless fingers still. I swing the kickstand out with a practiced swivel of the blunt tip of my boot and step off at the same moment. I extend my palm and she slides her small hand into mine. The instant our hands touch, I feel better, calmer, more . . . whatever. Just more.
Jewell turns into my body and fits against the line of me perfectly. Like a puzzle piece finding its way home. I wrap my arm around her and kiss the top of her head. It smells like home, and I close my eyes, trying to bring the reality of who I am to the front of my brain again.
Because, God knows, I didn’t spend a lick of the last four hours thinking about anything but making her mine.
Jewell doesn’t know it yet, but she is mine, it feels like she’s always been. It happens even though I don’t want it to. I can fight against it all I want, but it’s like gravity—it flattens your ass even as you try to stand.
We approach the dorm entrance and her fingers move over a keypad combination I know by memory, and I latch on to the huge handle and swing the heavy door for her to pass through.
She does and I’m ready when Jewell turns, sweeping her body against my body, my heart speeding with her proximity, as if I just finished a workout. I move my mouth over hers, grabbing her ass as Jewell’s arms wind around my neck, her feet barely grabbing the concrete underneath her.
I pull away first, my body growing cold without hers, and the withdrawal feels like a small death.
I’m in so much fucking trouble here, I note with a sort of grim resignation.
A small hand covers her swollen mouth, and I know I wouldn’t take back one kiss I gave her, any of the kisses, strokes, and licks I laid on her body, branding her with . . .
I can’t think it. Not yet. If I admit it to myself, it’s all over.
Instead I allow my gaze to travel back to her mouth, my eyes raking over her body, the soft curves the complement to every bit of hardness my body possesses, and I blink slowly.
“I’ll text, Jess,” I say because that’s all I can manage. If I don’t go now, I’ll put everything at risk.
I’m supposed to look interested. Not obsessed.
I’m royally fucking that up.
Jewell watches me go, and I literally feel when her eyes are off me.
Too soon. Too goddamned soon.
I turn, walking backward, knowing what lies behind me: my Harley and empty apartment, with sheets that smell like Jewell, our time imprinted on them.
I watch her until she’s out of sight, long after the inner door has shut, and think about going after her.
I stand there, indecisive. Dust motes float, time slows, ambient light pierces the gloom of the late afternoon.
My foot moves a step in the direction of the dorm.
My mike chirps, shattering that surreal time warp.
It wakes me as if from a dream, my senses on autopilot, only one directive in sight: Jewell.
“Steel,” I answer. One word, terse, abrupt.
“Negative, Steel . . . walk away,” I hear Luke command for my own good.
My heart stutters.
What the fuck is this?
Jewell—is she safe?
“Don’t melt down. I’m back on primary. I don’t need you here. Besides, our girl is occupado, mi amigo.”
Anger surges in a hot, slick wave from the center of me, making my fingertips tingle. I stride to my bike, each step I take away from the dorm a torture. “What?” I bark into the mike, snapping on the ignition as the bike rumbles to life.
“Mitch Maverick, Cas. He’s keeping her busy . . .”
I breathe slowly in and out, my hands itching to crush Maverick’s windpipe. Our time together is too new, too raw. I can’t deal with Maverick with Jewell.
Suddenly, a grin breaks out across my face as an idea occurs to me.
“Cas, do you copy?”
“Roger that,” I speak, giving a short bray of laughter.
Silence. Then, “You sound—”
“It’s fine. I’ll debrief you later on . . . things,” I respond.
If Maverick gets within two feet of her, he’ll smell sex all over her.
It beats peeing in corners, I think, as another sharp beat of laughter erupts from me.
It isn’t a kind thought, but I think it’s the quickest way for another male to understand who the top dog is.
And it isn’t Maverick.
Maybe I’ll fund that background check myself, I think.
I lament that I don’t get the idea soon enough.
12
Thaddeus MacLeod Thad narrows his eyes on the big Harley cruiser as it exits the parking garage, his state-of-the-art binoculars showcasing the metallic overcoat that probably set the feds back three grand to get applied.
He smiles, his perfectly straight and white teeth a flash of ivory even at the height of the day. An outsider would have had the uneasy image of a shark out of water.
Very accurate, as descriptors go.
Thad waits for Ben. Others might underestimate his patience. It’s actually a gift. Not his native intelligence, though he has been tested and is a member of Mensa, the most famed of the high IQ clubs. It’s patience that’s responsible for every good thing he’s ever achieved. For without that one critical element, you can be the second coming of Christ and nothing will help you if you act without planning.
Yes, he and Ben have been waiting a long time to realize the dream of dismembering Jewell.
Ultimately, that is all that matters.
He sits on a stump five hundred yards from the dorm and watches the surveillance by the other fed, the one who must die before they make their move for Jewell. He studies the other FBI agent closely and finds he’s even more disturbing than the cocksuck who has just banged his little dancing sister, Devin Castile, or whatever his actual name is.
But for now, it’s Brad the fed who’s as good as dead. His smile turns into a grin at his poetic turn of words. Thad doesn’t need others to affirm him, he’s his own fan club. It keeps things pure for him. He answers to no one, is accountable to no one.
Ben approaches him from behind, quiet so as not to disturb his surveillance.
Thad rolls his eyes to Ben, surveying him as he draws nearer. “Brother,” Thad greets Ben.
Ben’s face is thunder contained, and Thad’s smile grows wider. “Tell me,” he commands, knowing Ben has just left from a surprise repartee with Jewell.
Thad’s bastard half brother growls his response. “The whore smells like she rolled in him. Forget fucking”—he spits, his face flaming—“he had her six different ways to Sunday.”
Thad plants his hands on his hips, throwing his head back in a bray of laughter. It is so fucking rich.
Suddenly Ben is there, his fists in Thad’s shirt. Thad’s chin dips as they regard each other, eye to eye. “I can’t fucking take it anymore . . .”
Thad unwraps his brother’s stiff fingers from his shirt, shrugging him off. “Not much longer, she needs to get even more complacent. Patience—”
“I wanted to do her right then,” Ben interrupts, his body a stiff plank of tension.
Thad nods, he understands. He wants that too. But it can only end one way. And it is so final that once it is begun, there will be no stopping that wheel in motion.
“Soon,” he soothes to someone for whom the lesson of patience is lost.
Ben locks eyes with his brother, his fists by his sides. “I can’t wait to break her.” Ben’s eyes flash in the shadows of the cloud that passes over the sun.
Thad smiles his understanding. It will be their grand fi
nale. The perfect sweet exit he plans before their escape, somewhere where their secrets will be more easily buried.
Like their victims.
Cas “She’s a player,” Clearwater says and ducks as I swing at him, my strike more like a jab as it parts that long hair of his and he grins, lunging at me.
“Don’t say it, Dec,” I say, grabbing his legs and slamming him down on that mat.
The echo of his body sings in the contained acoustics of the room that we spar in.
“Hell . . . Cas, did you have to break vertebrae?” Clearwater groans and rolls to his side, gingerly working his way to standing.
“You wanna go again?” I ask, jabbing in the air, my feet dancing on the mat.
“Hell no, ya dick,” Dec says in disgust, beginning to limp out.
Then in a move almost too fast to track, he sweeps my legs with what I like to affectionately think of as Indian ninja. I land on my back, the wind gone from my body, and he leans down, his breath hot on my face. “Get out of your head with her, Steel. You’re fucking our assignment with your emotional bullshit.”
The air climbs and burns in my chest, bursting out as I take a great swooping breath. Clearwater holds out a hand and I take it while he jerks me to my feet. I lean over, palms on my knees, chest heaving.
“Prick,” I gasp out.
Clearwater smiles, taking a little bow. “At your service.”
I finally catch my breath, giving a furtive glance in his direction, and he pokes his index and middle fingers toward his eyes then turns them on me: I’m watching you. The corners of my mouth twitch.
“Gotta keep your eye on this injun,” he says, putting a thumb to his chest.
I bark out a laugh. “Isn’t that sort of . . . I don’t know, demeaning to your race?”
Clearwater nods solemnly. “Yeah, but I’m Native American so I can say what I wish.”
I cross my arms, cocking a brow. “Indeed.”
We laugh and he claps me on the back.
The silence stretches as we wipe off with towels.