All the while she’d teased him, watching him get harder and harder, smiling inwardly over his clumsy responses, she’d grown aroused, too.
She, Tamara Adams, had a man tied to her chair with his dick standing between his legs. She couldn’t remember the name of the man she’d thought she’d try to seduce that night. His face was forgotten. Quincy James threw shade all over him.
And Quincy appeared willing to let her do anything she wanted. He thought she was pretty. He’d stuttered over his description of what he found attractive about her, and every time he’d named a feature, his gaze had lingered. He wasn’t lying. His dick confirmed the truth. He wanted her.
So…why not?
Would she ever have another chance to do something this decadent? And it wasn’t like he lived in Amity. She didn’t have to worry about running into him when she was at the grocery store and dying of embarrassment. No, she could do this, and after they were rescued, she could kiss him goodbye. Because she knew she couldn’t hold the interest of someone like him. She was hairdresser who worked out of her dad’s old bunker. He was a man with a dangerous profession, who likely traveled a lot and did exciting things all the time. What would he want with her?
Though a disappointing thought, it also emboldened her. She glanced at the chair. It might be a problem. The arms would only give her a very narrow space to straddle him. Her gaze went to the old sofa with its duct-taped seams. Her father had placed it in the bunker twenty years ago. And then he’d used the bunker as his mancave to escape and dream about foreign invaders.
Not for the first time, she knew he was probably rolling in his grave because of what she’d done with his special place.
Well, she was about to commit an even bigger sin.
She turned her head to look at Quincy. His expression was hard to read, but his eyes were wide open windows. There was lust in their moss-colored depths.
“The couch, I think,” she said.
He didn’t have any trouble interpreting her meaning. “Might be easier for me to get there if you untied me.”
She frowned.
He arched a devilish eyebrow. “You’ll want my hands free. I’m not just looking for a way to get free, girl.”
She didn’t know why she liked him calling her that, but she did. Maybe it was the gruffness in his voice. It made her think of other things that might be a little rough about him. She swallowed the saliva pooling in her mouth then moved behind him and quickly untied the knots. The clothesline slithered to the floor, and he shot up from his seat.
But not to run away. Not to grab her. He held his pants while he toed off his hiking boots then shoved down his jeans.
Her head got a little dizzy looking at his hairy, muscled thighs and the full-sleeve tattoo that covered his right arm. Then he drew the tee over his head and tossed it away. When he faced her, he was completely nude, and he held still while her gaze roamed over his body.
“My wallet,” he said. “Unless you have a rubber.”
She moved to her table and picked up his wallet, feeling inside one of the slots for a condom wrapper. Once she handed it to him, she stood still.
“Your turn,” he said, his gaze on her body and jerking his chin to tell her to hurry up.
She pulled off her smock then lifted her tank over her head. She wore a sports bra, not very sexy, but you wouldn’t know it from the way his nostrils flared as she scraped it upward, exposing her breasts. Before it cleared her head, his hands were on them, plumping them up and squeezing them. How had he moved so quickly?
“The rest,” he said, his glance dropping to her jeans. She slipped out of her shoes then worked the button free at her waist and unzipped, jerking it open. Maybe he was impatient, because he bent and shoved her jeans down her legs then waited as she stood on the ends, one at a time to free her feet.
Then he leaned toward her, kissed her belly, and dove between her legs. His thumbs parted her folds, and he stroked his tongue between them, pressing into her, and sliding upward to flick against her clit, sending a jolt of electricity throughout her body.
And he hadn’t even kissed her yet. She cleared her throat and waited for him to look up at her.
“Right,” he said, and stood. The tension in his face honed his cheekbones to sharp blades.
Tamara couldn’t quite catch her breath. Staring at all that well-developed muscle and feral intent made her dizzy with need.
He reached out and caught her hand. Then he turned and tugged her after him as he strode toward the couch. Once there, his expression changed, his eyebrows drawing together as though he was unsure what to do next.
But she knew. She reached for his face then stood on her tiptoes and leaned her breasts against his chest as she kissed him.
His mouth opened, and his tongue thrust between her lips, not a tentative move at all. He dove in, cupping her head to hold her still as he took her mouth.
When he pulled away, his eyelids were half-closed, his nostrils flared. His green eyes were nearly all black with desire. He gripped her waist and turned her, gentle pressure guiding her down to the brown leather couch where she sat while he knelt on the blue handmade rag rug in front of her. Sensory details to savor for later.
Then he leaned over her and kissed her mouth again, hard and quick. His hands cupped her shoulders then smoothed over her breasts.
She drew a deep breath and arched, pushing her tits into his palms. He took the hint and lowered his mouth to one beaded crest and sucked on it, drawing gently, and then with more fervor, until she dug her fingernails into his hair to hold him there. He let go of the tip with a loud pop then moved across to the other breast, this time circling his head as he teased her nipple, flicking the tip, then chewing on it, until she parted her legs and raised them to his hips.
But he moved downward, kissing her belly, rimming her bellybutton, before finally arriving at her mound. He anchored her thighs on his shoulders and bent over her sex.
Tamara closed her eyes at the first sweep of his tongue. She felt the release of moisture, heard his groan, and couldn’t help but move her hips, grinding against his mouth as he thrust inside her. His thumbs held apart her folds as he lavished her with long slides and pointed thrusts. When he flicked the tip of his tongue against her clit, she cried out and pulled his hair, wanting him to come over her. She needed something more substantial filling up her empty space.
When he drew back, she watched as he cloaked himself and gave his cock a single up and down glide. His gaze locked with hers, and he pulled her down over his lap, so that she straddled his thighs. When she settled with her knees on either side of him, he urged her up and placed his big “knob” at her entrance. Then holding apart her folds, he said, “Now, work your way down, babe.”
With a strained laugh, she clutched his shoulders and circled her hips as she drove downward. The pressure had her groaning as she sank, at last taking his head inside her, and taking him deeper as she rose and fell, again and again, her excitement already spiraling. She felt hot all over—her skin flushing with heat, sweat beading on her upper lip, her tender inner tissues tingling with a delightful friction.
When at last their groins met, she rested, leaning her cheek on his shoulder as he petted her hair and smoothed a hand down her back.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice graveled.
“Amazing…” she breathed.
“Think you’re ready to move?”
There was a hint of amusement in his voice; she leaned back to give him a smile. “I’m savoring the feel of you.”
“I’m okay with that,” he said with a wicked smile of his own.
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to do all the work,” she said, her chest rising and falling faster, because she felt the tightening in her core, the beginning of the end.
“I’m up for it,” he murmured.
“Yes, you are,” she said, tracing a finger along his cheek and gathering sweat.
“Baby, hold on.”
T
hat was all the warning he gave her as he rose and turned, pushing her onto the couch, his cock still deeply embedded. When she tightened her legs around his waist, he braced himself on his arms above her. “It’s going to get rough.”
Then he began to move, pulling out, pushing forward, his movements slow and steady at first, and then gradually quickening.
She thought she was ready, but he took her breath away. Each hard stroke caused her to gasp. Her head turned side to side, and she began to chant, “Yes, yes, yes—oh fuck me, yes!”
She exploded, her arms falling to her sides, her back arching from the couch as wave after wave of pleasure swept outward from her pussy.
Vaguely, she heard his shout, felt him move more quickly, then hold still inside her as he filled the condom that protected them both.
When she opened her eyes, she realized her legs were splayed wide and dangling—off the side of the couch and over the back. And he was grinning down at her.
She frowned, embarrassed by the way she’d lost control. Her jaw had probably been sagging the entire time. Had he counted her fillings?
Quincy swooped down and gave her another kiss. This one sweet. No tongue. “Too rough?”
Yes. But not for the reasons he would assume if she said it out loud. “I should probably clean up,” she whispered.
His expression shuttered. Quietly, he withdrew and stood to the side of the couch. He held out his hand to help her up.
Help she needed because her knees felt weak. She gave him a small smile, hurried to her station to grab her clothes from the floor, then walked straight toward the bathroom without giving him another glance. Once inside, she turned on the light and glanced at herself in the mirror. She’d thought this was just for fun. Just because she hadn’t had sex in a long time, and this would be harmless. One time only. She’d understood the rules. They were strangers really.
So, why did she feel like crying?
Tamara closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. She’d probably left him very confused. He didn’t deserve that. Pull your big girl panties up.
She took care of business then cleaned up with a washcloth and dressed. When she let herself out of the bathroom, she glanced around the room. He was seated on her station chair again. Dressed as well. Disappointment flooded her. She’d really enjoyed ogling the man.
Pasting on a smile she knew didn’t reach her eyes, she moved toward him. “Sorry about that,” she said, trying to sound breezy.
He studied her face. “Did I do something wrong?”
She shook her head. Maybe too quickly. His brows drew together. “No, really. It’s me. I’m not used to that.” Her gaze went to her feet. “I really enjoyed myself. I guess it scared me a bit how much I liked it.”
A finger entered her vision, and he tilted up her face. “Do you think now I’ve had you that this is over?”
She raised her eyebrows. “Isn’t it?”
Before he could answer, a pounding sounded a second before the door at the top of the stairs swung open. And even though she didn’t know who had opened the door, she rushed toward the stairs. “Don’t let that door close!”
Quincy stood to the side as Reaper and Hook asked Tamara questions about Clay Horner’s time with her. He could feel the occasional accusatory glances aimed his way from his two fellow bounty hunters. But he didn’t give a rat’s ass what they thought about the fact he’d lost Horner’s trail and hadn’t already gotten a description of Tamara’s car and plate number.
He was sure the men knew exactly what had happened during the time he’d been trapped inside the bunker with the pretty beautician. He figured he’d get his ass reamed over the incident, but again, he didn’t give a shit.
His buddies had interrupted their conversation, just when he’d gotten to the bottom of what was bothering Tamara. He was pissed. At them. At her. Did she really think he fucked anything with a pussy? He liked her.
Then another thought slithered through his mind. Maybe she didn’t want anything more than what they’d already shared.
“We’re finished here,” Reaper said, his tone a little loud.
That pulled Quincy out of his funk.
“You ready to hit the road?” Reaper asked, giving him a frown.
Quincy nodded. “I’ll just a need a minute.”
Hook coughed. “We’ll be outside. Just to make sure you don’t have any problems with that door again.”
Quincy gave him a glare, not looking at Tamara again until the two men exited the bunker. Then he gave her a glare. “I need your business card.”
She snorted. “Why? You decide you need a haircut?” She reached out for a card from her table then held it out to him.
His arm shot out and snagged her waist. He pulled her against his chest.
Breathless, she glanced up at him, her eyes wide.
Slowly, he lowered his head. He kissed her, giving her a silent promise she might not be ready to hear. Wait for me. I’ll be back.
And then he pocketed her card and moved toward the exit. When he reached the door, he wedged the cinder block securely against it, promising himself he’d bring back the parts to replace her old hardware.
Then he glanced across at her. She was touching her lips and staring right back at him.
Whistling to himself, he walked away.
Put It in a Book
By Michal Scott
Aziza, if you want to hide something from Black folk, put it in a book.
If her father had said this once, he’d said it a hundred times. As the daughter of a freed slave, Aziza Williams had resolved with every book she’d read, with every bit of content she’d memorized, no one would hide anything in a book from her.
How ironic the adage was being used against her now that she lived in the Free and Independent Republic of Liberia. Only someone as evil as Dulee Morlu could leave her stranded in a book.
Each time he removed The Story of Aziza from its shelf in his library, he’d badger, cajole, even plead with anyone present to read it.
“This book will change your life,” he’d say in a tone, always enticing, sometimes seductive, but never serious enough for anyone to take him up on the offer.
When they’d gone, he’d pressed his mouth to her image on the flyleaf. “No one will ever read your story,” he whispered with snake-like malice. His laugh bruised her heart each time he congratulated himself on his ingenuity. “You will remain hidden in these pages until you give yourself to me.”
Never had been her answer when he’d propositioned her a week after she’d arrived in Liberia. Never was her answer when he’d caught her pleasuring herself by the river’s edge after her morning swim. Never remained her answer from the day she’d awakened entombed within the pages of her own story to this.
How often had hope flared at the possibility of someone opening these pages and setting her free?
Too often.
How many times had Morlu’s possessive grip caressed her prison’s spine, his wet thumb sliding down the edges of its pages?
Too many.
“Everyone I’ve imprisoned yielded within a day. You’ve resisted for thirty,” he exclaimed. “I must dedicate a chapter to your resilience.”
He splayed his fingers across her prison’s pages, too accurately mimicking the spreading of her thighs. Her captive limbs shuddered. His calloused finger slid along the book’s gutter. Her inert hands tensed, unable to shield herself from the erotic—albeit vicarious—chafing his touch provoked.
“Your opposition makes your eventual capitulation that much sweeter.” He slid his finger faster, deeper between the pages. “And make no mistake…you will surrender.”
Each time he placed her back on the shelf, he planted a cold kiss on the book’s spine. Aziza quivered against the chill, unable to staunch the revulsion roiling in her throat—or at least, where she imagined her throat might still be.
“Until then,” he whispered.
Her spirit cringed at those words. She’d escaped fro
m plantation owners eager to punish her for secretly teaching slaves to read. Her spirit had remained unbowed after fourteen harrowing weeks crossing the Atlantic. Even the hardships that had killed more than three-quarters of all who had emigrated to Liberia hadn’t vanquished her. If neither threats to her life nor dangers at sea nor the high mortality rate could defeat her, she’d be damned if this self-serving sorcerer would.
Still…
Her imprisonment seemed an unending stream of consciousness, punctuated only by Morlu’s uninvited intrusions. Thirty days. This sudden awareness of time weighed on her spirit and threatened to undo her.
How much longer could she hold out?
Opportunity called siren-like to the thief at the heart of Sekou Caine’s soul. He’d taken a job as a menial in Dibia Dulee Morlu’s stately home so he could inventory what would be worth stealing. Only one room escaped his scrutiny: the library.
Morlu had invited him inside once and tried to get him to read a slender volume about some woman. Treasure beyond measure lay within its pages the old man had teased. Sekou’s risk-taking side enjoyed the dibia’s attempts to bait him, but his level-headed side knew better than to bite. Morlu’s wealth did not reside in some thin pamphlet but elsewhere in the library. If not, why was it the only room in the house he always kept locked? Tonight presented Sekou’s best chance to find out.
On the last day of each month, the village held a feast in Morlu’s honor. Why, was beyond Sekou. A true dibia was a humble shaman who healed and helped whenever possible. Morlu acted only when, and if, he pleased. He did nothing to heal or help without a demand for payment or a threat of retribution if the payment didn’t satisfy.
The celebration would last until dawn. Sekou would have the privacy he needed to uncover Morlu’s treasure. Tonight’s fete would give him more than enough time to flee to the coast and beyond.
Perhaps Sekou would sail to England where slavery had been abolished in 1833, almost fifteen years ago. He reflected often on the land of Robin Hood, the thief upon whom he patterned himself. Rumors were rampant that Sekou was responsible for the thefts experienced by the American émigrés and the anonymous gifts bestowed upon villagers, fishermen, and herdsmen.
Stranded (Boys Behaving Badly Book 4) Page 11