Cozen

by Bethany-Kris

  “Good God, woman,” he murmured.

  Cozen smiled, and tipped her head to the side. “Do you like it?”

  Jett came closer. “I knew I would. You may like red, but I like black.”

  “Drink?”

  He was right in front of her now—distracted with eyes glazed, and lust on his mind. She could see his erection straining against his pants as his hand came up to stroke down her naked side.

  “You poured it for me?” he asked.

  Cozen nodded. “You like whiskey, don’t you?”

  “My preference to water,” Jett said, smirking.

  “Drink, then.”

  He took the glass.

  Cozen held her breath.

  Jett’s hand continued to stroke her naked skin as he tipped the glass back, and downed a good half of the whiskey in one go.

  Half should do it.

  Overdo it, even.

  She moved a little closer to Jett. She needed his attention to be focused on her while the powder did its magic, and started to really kick in hard. That was the thing about Quaaludes—though they were illegal in the states, you could get them elsewhere—it didn’t take them very long to kick in, and a person could tell once they did.

  “Come here,” Cozen whispered.

  She cupped Jett’s jaw, and stroked his five o-clock shadow with her thumb. Pulling him in even closer, she kissed him until he was responding back fully. His arm wrapped around her waist to hold her tight, and his hand slid down to palm her ass.

  Cozen moved them—making Jett walk backward toward the bed. A slow walk. Careful and measured with each step. Her gaze never left his, and she kept those sweet whispers going to keep his attention fully on her.

  She felt his first step miss—a stumble just before the bed.

  He landed where he needed to go. She moved over him. She straddled his waist, and put her hands against his bare chest. Beneath her fingertips, she could feel his heart racing.

  Maybe a half of a glass with a half of a baggie of crushed pills was just a little bit too much for Jett. He had been drinking all night.

  Cozen put the thoughts aside.

  His gaze was hazy, now. His mouth was a little slack. His hold on her ass wasn’t as firm as it had been.

  “Jett?” Cozen asked.

  He was watching her, but not there. Seeing her, but not really. Hearing her, but only barely.

  Quaaludes were bad that way.

  “Jett,” Cozen whispered, “the Astors wanted to say hi, and I’m the one they sent to deliver their message.”

  He closed his eyes, then.

  Time to get to work.

  Cozen roamed through the top floor of the wing entirely unconcerned that she was being watched, or that she might unintentionally run into someone. Jett had made it quite clear to his men before they went upstairs that he was not to be interrupted, and the guests were not to leave the downstairs wing.

  She was in the homestretch.

  Almost scot-free.

  Cozen went about halfway down the staircase—never going far enough to be seen—and listened. She could plainly hear the party was still in full swing. She doubted the guests would start to disperse until well into the early morning hours.

  Their noise relaxed her further.

  Spinning on her heel, Cozen headed back up the stairs. She kept a tight hold on the glass of whiskey that she had taken from Jett’s room. She couldn’t afford for her little trick to be found out in the morning, so she opted to take what was left with her and discard it later.

  She flipped open her clutch as she came closer to the room she knew was Jett’s office. Just one door down from his bedroom. She had left him right where he fell on the bed—his eyes closed, and breathing steady.

  Sleep would keep him warm.

  At least until the morning.

  Cozen slammed the door to the office as she pulled out her phone from the clutch. She didn’t even bother to turn on the light as a dimly lit lamp on the large desk gave her enough to work with. Her gaze was glued on the screen of the phone as she started it up, and moved around the desk.

  Sargon’s words rang heavily in her mind. She hadn’t forgotten what he told her—a safe behind the desk, and a ruby ring inside meant for her.

  Of course, Jett might have meant the ring to be hers. It wouldn’t be hers at all. It would never belong to her.

  Cozen reached for the painting, and pulled it outward only to find … the safe behind it was open. Panic swelled in her heart as she shined the phone inside to look around, and found nothing of any importance.

  Sure, there was money.

  Jewelry.

  Papers.

  But not the ring she needed!

  Had he taken—

  “Looking for this, Zen?”

  Cozen’s heart leaped into her throat as she spun on her heel. She’d completely overlooked him sitting there on the leather couch next to the far wall. Sargon peered up at her from his spot, and a deep, sexy grin overtook his features. His roughened expression softened a bit at his smile, and yet her thighs still clenched just like her pussy at the sight.

  This man was dangerous for her.

  Addictive.

  Problematic all the way.

  In his hand, he held out a ruby ring. It glinted under the dim lamp, and he spun it a bit to show off all the angles.

  “Pretty, isn’t it?” Sargon asked.

  “You couldn’t make some damn noise?” she demanded.

  He chuckled—all dark and husky.

  Like a promise of sex.

  The need of sin.

  Christ.

  “I blend in well with the shadows,” he returned.

  “Does it have a cursive A engraved into the bottom of the ruby?” Cozen asked.

  Sargon lifted a single brow before he flipped the ring over, and peered at it. “There is. I’m going to assume it stands for Astor.”

  Cozen swallowed hard. “Like you didn’t already know, Sargon.”

  “You look untouched.”

  She straightened a bit.

  She had put the dress back on before she left Jett’s room, but little else. Her hair and makeup was still intact, and nothing looked amiss on her body.

  “Did he touch you?” Sargon asked.

  Before she could answer, he pushed up from the couch, and crossed the space between them. He left the ring sitting on the side table. She set her clutch and the glass half full with whiskey on the desk just before he crashed into her senses entirely.

  His body crowded her space, and took away her ability to think or breathe for the moment. Those dark eyes of his looked her over like he was searching for something unseen, and drank her in silently. His fingers drifted over her face—soft and reckless; damning and sweet.

  “You messed me up so much,” she told him.

  Sargon came closer still.

  His lips grazed hers.

  She kept talking.

  “You got in my way—you fucked with my head,” she said.

  Sargon grinned. “Oh?”

  “You’re not supposed to get in my way. No one is supposed to get in my way. I don’t let that happen. I have a job to do, and I do it well.”

  His hands cupped her jaw, and she stumbled when he drew her forward. Not that she really noticed her feet tripping over themselves. She was too caught up in the darkly gorgeous man who had damn near fucked up her entire heist, and at the same time, managed to be her saving grace at the end.

  “Did he touch you?” he asked again.

  Cozen peered up, and Sargon kissed her softly. Not dominating and overwhelming like he usually did. No, sweet and precious. Like she was made of priceless diamonds, and the wrong touch would leave her with irreparable scratches.

  “Did he?”

  “No,” she whispered when he pulled away. “Not enough to make it worth it, anyway.”

  “But enough for you to know.”

  The rumble that accompanied his words only made her more confused. Hotter in h
er body, and weaker in her knees. Wet between her thighs, and breathless in her lungs.

  “Your little gift was more than enough to keep him in line.”

  Sargon sneered. “I hoped you would use it.”

  “How could I not?”

  “I wasn’t sure, Zen.”

  She had never been surer.

  Cozen pulled him in for another kiss, but it was not soft or sweet like the first one. No, it was hard and harsh and oh, so hot. A searing seal of his unspoken promises, and all the things she hadn’t said or told him yet.

  Things she may never say.

  Things she couldn’t say yet.

  Cozen blinked, and she was lifted from the floor before her backside was set down roughly on the desk. Sargon’s hands—warm with calloused fingertips—skipped under the slit of her dress, and grabbed tight to her thighs.

  He didn’t even have to ask.

  He didn’t have to make her.

  She opened up for him.

  She wanted him.

  Those teasing, skilled fingers of his slipped beneath the thin scrap of lace covering her sex, and stroked her pussy. He knew her body too well—played it like an instrument that belonged to only him.

  In no time at all, with only his fingertips toying with her clit, and teasing the slit of her pussy, she was wet, hot, and begging for him.

  God, she needed him.

  Never once had their kiss broken until that moment. And he only pulled away just long enough to kiss her jaw, and then where her pulse raced at her throat. He shoved his pants down, and she was the one who grabbed his already rock-hard length out of his slacks.

  One stroke.

  Two.

  On the third, he grunted into her kiss, and his hips came forward. Those fingertips of his dug tighter into her thighs.

  Replacing someone else’s touch.

  Remarking her.

  Making it better again.

  Cozen didn’t even bother to slip her panties off. She just hiked up the skirt of her evening gown, shoved the gusset of her thong aside, and finally got Sargon where she wanted him. Where he always needed to be.

  Fucking her.

  Deep in her.

  Always with her.

  That first thrust sent her to heaven. The second sent her sprawling back on the desk as she tried to catch her breath. He didn’t give her time to react properly before he was pounding into her relentlessly. The smell of sex was already clinging heavily to the air, and the slap of skin against skin mingled in with their harsh breaths, and quiet murmurs.

  A fast, ruthless rhythm that had her cries of his name coming out broken and breathless within seconds. The man could fuck.

  Jesus, could he fuck.

  Sargon’s hand pushed firmly into her stomach, keeping her down on the desk while his other grabbed firmly to her outer thigh so he could yank her into every thrust. Her legs hooked around his hips, and she met him for every brutal flex of his hips. She needed him to be rough with her—needed him to control, and pin her down.

  She liked that the very best.

  So hard.

  So deep.

  He stretched her damn good, and filled her like no one else ever could. She hadn’t looked fucked before, but she certainly would now.

  “Christ, you look so good taking my cock,” she heard him say. “You take me so fucking well, Zen.”

  “Only you.”

  Her hand dipped between her thighs to feel him filling her. Every beat of his heart pulsed in the veins of his dick, and against her fingertips. He was slicked up with her wetness, and thick between her fingers. He’d pull out all the way to the tip, and then fill her up just as fast all over again. Feeling him fucking her was the next best thing to watching him fuck her.

  She was convinced of it.

  “Play—I want to see you play, sweetheart.”

  Cozen did with fast, tight circles over her clit aided in his thrusts. Seeing the way he watched her play with her pussy while he fucked her was an intoxicating sight. His muscles tightened and flexed beneath the silk shirt he wore, and his teeth bared when she started to shudder.

  “Right there,” she breathed.

  Fuck yeah.

  Her orgasm came on quick—like ice water pooling down her spine and freezing her in place while heat shot through every other one of her nerve endings. A strange, yet beautiful, burst of colors behind her clenched eyelids.

  “Oh, my God,” Cozen mumbled.

  “Fuck,” she heard him snarl.

  She opened her eyes back up at his harsh grunt. He brought her in hard against his dick—all the way to the hilt—as the last of her orgasm slipped through her veins, and emptied himself as deep into her pussy as he could get. She reached for him then as he pulled from her body—his loss was palpable. Pulling him in close, she found his lips with her own.

  Another searing kiss.

  A goodbye of sorts, this time.

  For now.

  “You messed me up so bad this time,” she said, repeating her earlier sentiment.

  She needed him to know.

  To understand.

  Sargon nodded. “And I would do it again if it meant finding you, and having you, Zen. Do I, though?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Have you?”

  She reached for the glass of whiskey on the desk instead of answering him. She shouldn’t need to answer.

  He should know.

  “Drink,” she told him.

  Sargon eyed the glass. “Zen—”

  “You won’t have a drink with me? This is almost over.”

  He blinked.

  Still hard against her thighs, and his come leaking out of her.

  He only blinked.

  “Drink,” she whispered. “Toast something for me, Sargon. Celebrate with me.”

  “Since when do you drink whiskey?”

  His question accompanied him taking the glass from her before he lifted it to his lips to down the alcohol mixed with a drug to knock him out. It was a good way to get rid of the rest of the mixture, anyway.

  Sargon was far too trusting—despite knowing she was here to steal from the man he was supposed to protect, he still trusted her. She thought he even loved her.

  “I don’t drink whiskey,” she said.

  “I know,” he replied.

  It was too late.

  He’d already finished the glass. And her time here was nearly over. She only had a few things left to do—the clean-up, so to speak.

  Every good thief needed to make it out clean.

  Sargon’s eyelids felt glued together. No matter how hard he tried to open his eyes, his body just wouldn’t cooperate, it seemed. His body ached—limbs heavy and sore, and his mind sluggish and cloudy. His mouth felt like cotton when he smacked his lips, and the taste that accompanied it was disgusting.

  He struggled to remember … well, anything. He didn’t know where he was, or why the softness under his back was not the firm mattress he preferred. He tried to pull anything from his memories to tell him how he ended up like this, and yet a giant black hole was the only thing he found in his mind.

  This was bad.

  Bad, bad, bad.

  Come on, he urged his body and mind. Wake up; get the fuck up.

  Still, he got nothing.

  Sargon rolled over to his side, and managed to crack his eyes open just enough to see the faintest flicker of morning sunlight filtering into an unfamiliar bedroom. It was no more than a small ray about an inch wide—full of dancing dust, and bright colors.

  Yellows.

  Whites.

  Purples.

  Reds.

  Red like that dress—the slit up the thigh. Every single time she walked, he felt like ripping someone’s throat out for trying to get a peek at what that goddamn slit was showing off. Red was her color, though. She looked like every inch a fucking queen.

  Red.

  Red like the ruby ring spinning between his fingertips as he pulled the item out of its black velvet box, and
removed it from the safe. It sparkled because of the way its angles had been cut. It caught light, and reflected back. A beautiful ring—shame about the cursive A carved into the bottom on the gem, though.

  That really removed its value.

  Red.

  Red like Cozen’s lipstick print on his throat. He’d caught sight of it in a hallway mirror as she led him from the office, all confused and dazed.

  “It’s okay,” she kept telling him, “it’ll be okay.”

  “Why?”

  “You got too close. You know you got too close.”

  Sargon’s eyes finally peeled all the way open, and he stared at that stream of light filtering into the unfamiliar bedroom as those memories came in hard again. They were fragmented—only bits and pieces; shards of memories for him to put together what had happened, and why he couldn’t remember all of it.

  Sitting up in the unfamiliar bed only made his head begin to pound. A deep, throbbing bass in his temples and at the very base of his skull. If he didn’t know any better, he might think his brain was bleeding—no hangover he knew felt like this.

  Being straight up also didn’t help with the sudden swell of vertigo he experienced. Like the fucking bed was tilting sideways, and the floor was swimming underneath him. He tried to squeeze his eyes shut just to make it stop, but it really didn’t help.

  What was happening?

  “Jesus Christ,” Sargon muttered.

  He put his hands against his temples, and pressed hard. The pressure did little to relieve the headache, but it allowed him to at least open his eyes and stare at a fairly normal room. Not one that was swimming and moving in front of his gaze.

  Deep breaths.

  Take deep breaths.

  He glanced down to find his silk shirt was wrinkled like he had been sleeping in it—clearly he had—and his slacks were undone. The button left open, and the fly down. He reached down to fix his pants, but a memory swelled in his mind instead.

  He blinked.

  He’d fucked her on that desk.

  In that office.

  Tasted her mouth, and her throat.

  He got all of her sounds, and heard her whispers in his ear. She was hot satin—tight and silky smooth. Wet as a fucking lake, and never looking better than she did spread out on her back while he pounded into her pretty pussy.

  Sargon blinked again.