“I did protect Hillary once when she went to Paris. That was more glamorous than most. And I’ve done protective details for many politicians’ wives, but only if there was a clear and present danger, if there had been some threat. I’m not an everyday babysitter. I’m usually there to bring down whoever is threatening the subject, like now.”
“I don’t feel terribly threatened,” Sasha whispered as Rowan moved his circling fingers closer to her quivering pussy. “I’ve only seen The Dickhead once, the day Jane was blown up, and all I have to go on is your word that he’s after me.”
Softly, Rowan asked, “Why else would he be in Bird in Hand, Sasha?”
She shrugged. “Because he’s really after Tony Danza? By any chance did you do a correlation between Tony’s journeys and El Zeub’s? Maybe The Dickhead is just a bit slow on the uptake. He didn’t realize Tony’s been here and gone. Maybe he’s actually stalking Tony.”
Rowan’s fingers stilled, so close to her blooming pussy he could feel the heat emanating. He actually had not thought to trace Danza’s travels. That should be easy enough to do by looking at the celebrity website, TMZ. He doubted, though, that Danza had any pressing business in Cheyenne, Detroit, and then Salt Lake, unless he was on some kind of shoddy, pathetic comedy tour. Was Danza even a comedian? “Maybe he’s stalking me.” He said that to take Sasha’s mind off his nuzzling near her pussy. Her wrists were bound but not cinched to anything, so she leaned back on her forearms, making no motion to stop Rowan from nibbling at the luscious flesh where her thighs touched each other. His fingers tangled in her ash blonde curls, and he took her labia between thumb and forefinger, the better to rub them together.
“Oh!” Sasha grunted. There was a definite tremor in her voice now. “Is this how you treat all of your clients?”
“None of them,” Rowan murmured, and took a few laps at the protruding clitoris.
“Ah!” Sasha was definitely aroused now. “Rowan!”
He withdrew only because it was what he wanted to do anyway—to smile up at her and continue drawing the stockings up to her waist. “Sorry, miss. Got carried away. Your sweet pussy smells like violets.”
“You’re making my ovaries throb, you bastard. I could easily knee you in the chin, make you bite your tongue off. I saw that happen once. I mean, I didn’t see it happen, but I saw the end result.”
Rowan shuddered, and not with lust now. That was another thing they had in common. They both had spent way too many years viewing things like that—or the end result of things like that. Now he slid the high-heeled pumps onto her feet, proud of the way she sat on one thigh, like the pinup girl he’d pictured her as earlier, by the creek. It was time to thread the ribbon between her two wrists through the headboard slats. He had to untie one wrist to bring them together over her head. Now she was bound as though on train tracks in the movies, and it was safe to reveal another pair of furry cuffs from where he’d dropped them on the floor.
“If you’ve never done this,” Sasha pointed out logically, “what are you doing travelling around with so many pairs of handcuffs?”
He tightened one around her ankle. “Good question. Easy answer. Nathan Horowitz has a lot of them lying around.”
Sasha gasped, but now her other ankle was bound to the bedpost, so she couldn’t even kick him with her patent leather shoes. “Nathan? Oh, dear God! You spoke to him about handcuffs?”
Cinching the strap professionally, Rowan stood, uncaring if his massive erection was bulging in the crotch of his jeans. He was proud when her eyes strayed there. “We mercs have to stick together. But I didn’t think you’d like the government-issue metal cuffs we carry.”
“Oh, so very thoughtful of you to line my wrists and ankles with fur. Ever the gentleman. Now my entire family knows you’re tying me up.”
Rowan quickly found the small scissors that were one attachment of his Swiss army knife. He got down on his knees between her thighs, amused at the shadow of doubt that passed over her face. “Hey. Not only does he know, he said Xandra said to be careful with these cuffs. They’re antique. She brought them all the way from Charleston.”
Sasha gasped again, for an entirely different reason. Pinching a bit of the real silk that covered her naked crotch, Rowan drew it away and cut an oval in the fabric. “What are you doing?” was her natural question.
“You want to be able to come real nice, don’t you?”
“Is that a rhetorical question?”
The stockings were ruined now, but who cared? Closing up the knife, Rowan shoved it in his pocket and took a nibble of bare flesh near her labia. He made sure to snort hot breath against her quivering clit. Judging by how strongly she had come when just his fingers had diddled her to her second orgasm in ten minutes, he knew she would simply explode once his mouth started working on her.
“Oh! Rowan! You’re so nasty!” Since she couldn’t grab him, she made do with shuddering and shimmying her hips into the air, giving him better access to her pussy. At first he merely nibbled at her flesh. Her clitoris elongated and reddened, emerging from between her labia, standing up eagerly for attention. Rowan slid his shoulders beneath her ass to lift her, and his tongue tip tickled her perineum. Now he was faced with the little shell of her pussy, and he teased her with the tiniest of licks to the outside of her slit.
“Rowan!” she roared. “If I had hands I’d be punching the daylights out of you! Go, man, go! Stop taking your time! You’re driving me absolutely out of my frigging mind!”
Rowan lifted his head and looked down at her. Her shoulders were pressed to the mattress, the bracelets holding them taut between the bed posts. Her eyes bulged from her skull. She looked genuinely angry, so he soothed her. “It’s called S&M for a reason, my dear girl. There’s the sadist part. That would be me. That leaves only you to be the masochist. Part of our play involves pleasurable torture. You love this form of torture, don’t you?”
“Yes!” she roared. “No! I mean, I don’t know!”
“You don’t know? Let’s find out.” Rowan lowered his head and dove right in, lapping at the bulb of her clit and coaxing groans that were loud as hell for such a petite—and conservative—gal. Ah, this one is sweet. I’m going to pleasure her so thoroughly she won’t be able to think about that adorable Gomer of a game warden. He knew that when he moaned against her clit, the vibrations would carry through to her uterus, making it shudder.
She keened now like a coyote. She had very little wiggle room, and Rowan heard her yanking on the arm restraints. All she could do was thrust her hips at him and wail. “Rowannnn…Don’t stop! Don’t stop! Don’t stop!”
Someone knocked at her front door now, so he had to speed up the procedure. His tongue must have been a blur as he worked the clit, and he knew when Sasha suddenly fell silent, she was teetering on that cliff right before orgasm inexorably shoved one over. A tremor ran through her entire body. She nearly levitated, her point of balance somewhere in her left shoulder, everything else entirely off the mattress.
“Bastard!” she spat all at once, and her stiff body convulsed like a seismometer. He would have loved to have seen her face—all the amusing contortions women went through while orgasming—but he had to continue his lapping. He knew it was very important to maintain the correct rhythm, to rapidly stroke every last electric spasm of the wrenching orgasm while he could, then slowly let her down from the plateau. It was a tricky game, and all women were different.
And this orgasm was absolutely shattering. Her hips shuddered violently, involuntarily, and he heard her choke as she swallowed her wails. When she began shrieking, “No! No! No!” that was his sign to back off. But slowly. One didn’t just abandon a coming woman at the bottom of a ravine like this. One had to slowly pump her full of air again, let her breathe and squirm.
At last he could sit on his heels and look down on her. “Coming!” he hollered to the asshole who pounded on Sasha’s door. Then he grinned at the floppy, exhausted woman who was all tied up, ready for
his command. She could have easily been a lingerie model like her sister Brooke had been, but instead she became a highly respected doctor. Wow. I just licked a doctor to orgasm. Rowan had never done that before, to his knowledge.
“So?” he asked. He palmed her mons veneris and very lightly rubbed the outer lips with his thumb. “How do you feel, a victim of forced orgasm?”
Sasha was practically cross-eyed when she tried to open her eyes. “Is that what it’s called? I’ll give you a forced orgasm, you out-and-out bastard.” A smile curled the edges of her mouth, but she was too weak to struggle against her bonds.
Reluctantly, Rowan stood. “I’ll go see who is pounding down your door. Maybe put some music on. Is there a CD player?”
Sasha sighed weakly. “Yes, in the living room next to the fireplace.”
“Coming!” he hollered at the asshole, pausing to look through the three CDs Sasha had next to the stereo. His choices were either Elton John, Al Jarreau, or The Smashing Pumpkins. Sliding the Jarreau disc in, he went to yank open the door.
Predictably, it was that attractive nature boy, Perry Donovan. He rushed on past Rowan as though there were a fire, pivoting about on a foot, looking for something. “Where is she? What’d you do with her, O’Shea?”
Rowan held out calming hands. The smooth stylings of Al Jarreau backed him up on this. “Calm down, you fucker. She’s safe and snug like a bug. All trussed up in the bedroom.”
“What?” Perry whispered.
Rowan was proud. “The sounds you probably just heard were the rutting sounds of me forcing a fierce orgasm on her.”
“What?” Perry whispered again.
Rowan frowned. It wasn’t much fun gloating in front of Perry if he was just going to whisper “What?” So Rowan said, “Listen, let me pour you a drink. She must have booze around here somewhere.”
Perry shook off Rowan’s imaginary hand. “I don’t want a drink, you arrogant douche! And who the hell died and made you her master? Has she even been given a chance to make a choice between the two of us? You just whipped her off to her bedroom and held her captive, forced an orgasm upon her?”
“It wasn’t all so terrible,” Sasha called from the bedroom. “Rowan, can you untie my arms?”
Rowan had to honor a request like this. It was like a safe word—one did not ignore it. He headed back to the bedroom, Perry hot on his heels. “Did you hear that, asswipe? Her arms are sore. What have you done with her?”
But once Perry cleared the bedroom doorway, he stopped, frozen at the sight of Sasha.
And he gripped Rowan’s arm, just as Rowan was reaching to loosen the restraints.
“Wait,” said Perry.
Rowan looked at the conservation officer, and he liked the sly smile that began to spread over Perry’s face.
Chapter Nine
Sasha was an exhausted bowl of Jell-O after Rowan was done with her.
Colin had very rarely even put his face “down there,” much less expertly guided her to the pinnacle of shattering orgasm with his damned tongue. In fact, she couldn’t recall any prior boyfriends being so gung ho about performing oral sex—about pleasuring her at all, actually. She had assumed they were inexperienced. That Olympic skier in particular had just been a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am sort of fellow. She had always felt oddly unfulfilled, but she’d assumed that was the way of heterosexual intercourse. If a woman didn’t please a man first and foremost, what reason did he have for continuing to return?
She lay there weakly, awash in conflicting feelings. Rowan O’Shea was a Sinn Féin mercenary—the sort she was accustomed to cleaning up after. Charleston was a surprising hotbed of guerilla intrigue, and she had had to piece together more than one smashed, fragmented body, victims of homemade IED explosions.
On the other hand, he was no longer Sinn Féin. He no longer worked beyond the pale for shadowy organizations—wait a minute. Isn’t that sort of what he continued to do? Well, it was no matter. They would catch this fluffy Tony Danza stalker, attend Brooke’s wedding, and they’d be on their separate ways. Sasha sighed, gazing foggily out the window at the warm orange glow of the Utah sky. Rowan doesn’t even have to attend Brooke’s wedding. He could be gone before this Saturday if he finds The Dickhead.
That thought made her want to strive harder to win him. How ridiculous, “winning” this black ops commando! She was a highly respected medical examiner. She couldn’t have commandos in bulletproof vests storming her hallways—wait. Isn’t that exactly the sort of man who routinely clomped into her autopsy room, demanding results? Yes. She worked with these gruff, no-nonsense men all the time. That was part of the explanation for her soothing demeanor. She was constantly having to tell a burly, hopped-up man that his partner didn’t have a heart attack—some treacherous person had put a black widow spider inside his Tyvek suit.
Who is he talking to out there? Someone had been pounding on her front door, it had sounded like. Sasha sighed heavily, not really caring who it was. Suddenly she felt incredibly light of body as well as mood. Then she realized what Rowan was doing, whether intentionally or unintentionally. He was proficient at giving her huge endorphin rushes, training her to become dependent on him like one of Pavlov’s dogs!
She giggled. “Oh, well,” she whispered. “Who the hell cares?” She was having the time of her life. And she could always do the same to Rowan. She was a trained doctor, after all.
She heard Perry whispering heatedly in the living room, so she called out for Rowan to come and untie her. When he came whisking into the bedroom like a shirtless Irish pugilist, what little determination she had against him melted clean away. She knew the overwhelming feelings of love she had for him were merely lust, the result of the endorphin surges of orgasm. But right now, even the ridiculous grim reaper tattoo on his toned abdomen was the most adorable sight in the world.
“Right away, love.” Rowan sat on the edge of the mattress to unzip the Velcro of first one wrist, then the other.
She knew he only called her “love” out of some British Isles affectation, but the first thing she did when her arm was free was run her palm up his beautiful chest, over the tat of the pirate lady. “What does Perry want?”
Rowan’s tone was light and cheery. “Oh, he’s just grousing because I raised you to rapture without him. He’ll come around.”
“Why does he care?”
Rowan flashed her a devilish look before sliding down to untie her ankles. “He’s got a bone on for you, woman, don’t you see that? He’s like a teenager with a crush on his teacher. He thinks he can play with the big dogs of the tanyard. He knows he can’t hold a candle to me.”
Of course, Sasha was flattered that the youthful ranger had a puppy-dog crush on her. “Yes, he told me he wanted to ‘date’ me.” The heat of Rowan’s chest against her instep was arousing her again.
Rowan grinned. “I presume that was a euphemism.”
Sasha looked mildly to the bedroom door. She couldn’t make out Perry’s features against the backlighting of the living room, but he was obviously undecided about what his goal was. He would take three steps into the bedroom, then three steps back out. At last he stayed within the perimeter of the bedroom and pointed at Rowan. “I can do more than hold a candle to you, you perverted old tool bag!”
A twinge of irritation knifed through Sasha as she climbed gratefully into Rowan’s lap, wrapping her forearms around his neck. Her pussy was so drenched she discovered that with a little sashaying action she could capture the bursting head of Rowan’s cock against her pussy’s very opening. Rotating her hips salaciously jammed her cunt down more firmly against his member, and she loved the sheen of lust that clouded his eyes, like a curtain being pulled. She knew she would leave a wet spot on his jeans, and she didn’t care. Already Rowan has trained me well. I am grateful for being bound and then released.
Without taking her eyes from Rowan’s, she called, “Be careful with your words, you young whippersnapper. This old tool bag has got a lot of tr
icks up his sleeve.”
Rowan’s eyes seemed to brim with adoration at her protectiveness. “Ah, my love,” he whispered, and kissed her.
They kissed slowly, heatedly, twining their tongues together. How am I ever going to give this man up? They fit so well together. They literally had great chemistry. She had known that ever since their first meeting at Winterhawk. His pheromones turned her on. She had never experienced such a distinct, clear-cut example of this. Her prior men, even “the love of her life,” Colin, had never affected her this thoroughly. Rowan O’Shea was a virile, pompous thug, and Sasha knew she could never let him go.
“I’ll show you!” cried Perry, and soon he crashed around in the master bathroom, slamming cupboards and the medicine cabinet door.
Sasha squirmed like a bait worm, mashing her soaked pussy over his pulsing cock. Even the burn of his five-o’clock-the-next-day bristle against her delicate face aroused her.
Giving one last regretful lick to Rowan’s shapely mouth, Sasha pulled back far enough to look at him blurrily. Rowan was such a vigorous, dashing man. He was so handsome it hurt. She knew she was hooked—a goner.
“What the devil is Perry getting up to in there?” Rowan asked with irritation.
Sasha didn’t want him to be distracted. “Rowan,” she said, touching the tip of her nose to his. “When we met at Winterhawk, you said you wouldn’t mind a nice little house with chickens in the yard. What did you mean by that?” She couldn’t resist darting her tongue out to lick his lower lip, but she also wanted him to answer. It was important.
“Just what I said, nothing mysterious,” Rowan said quietly. “I’d like to have a family some day. My flat in DC looks like a storehouse for gym equipment. Just the sort of place you’d expect a man like me to live.”
Sasha stroked Rowan’s temple. He really was diabolically handsome. “I don’t really have any expectations of a man like you since I’ve never met one. You seem to be one of a kind. So you want a wife, a child, and…chickens?”
The Grass Is Greener [McQueen Was My Valley 3] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) Page 9