Lear Page 4

  She held out for about thirty seconds—and then she couldn’t help herself. When I slid my two middle fingers into her tight channel and slid them out with a come-here curl, she whimpered. When I suckled her slit and flicked her clit with my tongue, timing the driving of my tongue with the curling of my fingers inside her, she shuddered, gasping breathlessly. Her knees shook, and her thick thighs quivered, and her hands buried in my hair, and I kept at her relentlessly, taking her to the edge and backing her away from it again and again, feeling her quiver and shake and thrust her sex at my mouth. I let her grind against my tongue, let her bring herself to the edge, and then I withdrew my tongue and used my lips around her slit, feeling her shake and hearing her moan in frustrated arousal.

  “Quit fucking around, goddammit!” she snarled.

  “What, and let you come just like that?” I teased. “I don’t think so. How else am I going to make you scream unless I draw it out a little?”

  She snarled again, and took a handful of my hair, roughly shoving her pussy into my mouth. “Finish me, goddammit.”

  She held on to the back of the couch for balance and hooked one thigh over my shoulder, and as my tongue slithered against her, she flexed into my mouth and held on to my face, wantonly taking her pleasure from my tongue.

  Gasp after gasp, as I let her rise to the edge, I slipped my fingers inside her again and used them to bring her to climax, and now she did scream—just a small quick quiet scrape of shrill breath as her core clenched and her pussy tightened, and then she shoved me away so I fell backward onto my ass on the floor.

  Following me forward, Danielle jerked at my underwear, roughly stripping them off me and eagerly palming my cock. “Condom.” Her voice was a snap of authority.

  I grinned lazily, gesturing with a tilt of my jaw toward my jeans. “Back pocket.”

  She snarled wordlessly in impatient frustration, but nevertheless crawled on hands and knees to my jeans, fished the string of condoms out, and brought them back. Letting the string unfold, she displayed the six packets. “Planning on quite the evening, were you?”

  I just smirked, folding my hands under my head. “Yep.”

  She ripped one free, tore it open with her teeth, and rested the rolled-up condom on my belly. “Well, if you’re lucky, I’ll stay around for round two.” A smirk as she fisted my length slowly. “And by lucky, I mean if you’re as good at sex as you are at going down.”

  “Better.”

  “I can’t tell if you’re cocky or confident.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “I made you scream, didn’t I? It’s not cockiness if I know exactly what I’m capable of.”

  “That wasn’t a scream,” she protested, still lazily and slowly fondling my aching erection. “That was just…” A pause, her eyes on my length as it sprouted out of the top of her fist. “Me letting you know you’re doing all right.”

  I chuckled, but the stroking of her hands felt so good it took everything I had to act casually careless. “Just all right, huh? The way you’re still shaking tells me it was more than all right.”

  “Who’s shaking?” she said, slowing the caress of her fingers down my shaft until I was all but arched off the floor in desperation to get more of her hands on my cock.

  And yes, I was shaking.

  I laughed, grinning up at her. “I am. I have no problem admitting that you’re driving me fucking crazy right now.”

  She narrowed her eyes, not liking the turn of the tables. Letting go of me, she rolled the condom on with a fist-over-fist movement that had my hips leaving the floor again.

  Sliding astride me, Danielle hesitated, and then holding me in her fist she nudged me just barely inside of her. Eyes on mine, she lifted her chin and held back an eager grin. “Gonna let me take over?”

  I let my hands slide up her thighs to grip her hips, gently at first. “For now.”

  She bit her lower lip, breathing short and shallow, still hesitating. And then, without warning, she plunged down on me, her beautiful ass slapping loudly against my thighs, breasts shaking as he filled herself with me.

  “Oh fuck,” she gasped. “Jesus, you’re a lot.”

  I gave her a moment to adjust, and then tightened my grip on the crease of her hips. “Ready, Danielle?”

  “For…oh god. For what?” Her eyes fluttered as she rolled her hips on me, taking me deeper and keeping me deep, her voice husky and guttural.

  I held her in place and slammed up into her, once, hard, and she gasped. Again, and she whimpered. A third time, a fourth, and then she bit down hard on her lip, head hanging between her shoulders as she struggled to hold back the screams. Slow, steady, each thrust hard and deliberate, I pounded into the sweet slick wetness of her tight spasming channel, and felt her clench around me and all the while I watched the delicious jounce of her tits as I fucked into her.

  She screamed, finally, a loud hoarse sound ripped out of her as I used two fingers on her clit while slamming into her, harder and faster as her hips began to flutter. Faster, and faster. And her hoarse, reluctant scream shredded unwillingly into a full-throated howl of climax, her hot center clamping around me forcefully, her ass slapping against my thighs.

  I pulled her tits to my face and latched on with my lips, one and then the other, meeting her slapping thrust for thrust, letting my own orgasm build and build—I wasn’t about to hold back, not now that she’d come at least once while I was inside her. I felt her rising to a second, felt her clenching and spasming, felt the rhythmic slapping of her ass onto me stutter and falter. And then I exploded, my brain went haywire, my sight blurred and went dark as my orgasm shattered me into a million pieces, and she was there with me, coming with me—our eyes met through it all and neither of us dared look away. Our bodies shook and quaked in unison, and Danielle fell forward, her mouth clashing against mine; I kissed her, then, and she let me…but only for a moment, a spastic, shivering second of lips on lips, and then she sat up on her shins and rode me, breasts bouncing as she arched her back and tilted her face to the ceiling and gasped another shrill breathless scream through the last of her climax. I was empty, then, and helplessly moving into her through the final groaning seconds of my own furious orgasm.

  Dizzy, delirious, shaken by the unmatched intensity of what we’d just shared, I closed my eyes for a moment. A brief second to savor the way she’d felt, the way our bodies had joined so perfectly. I relished the warmth and silk of her skin, the beauty of her curves, the pleased spark in her dark eyes, the ache of post-orgasm bliss. It all lasted a split second.

  And then she wrenched herself off me.

  As I flopped free of her slit to slap wetly against my stomach, she stood up on still-shaky legs, not looking at me as she shoved one leg into her jeans, and then the other, stomping barefoot into her boots and she tied the laces into a sloppy knot, shrugged into her leather jacket and zipped it up over her naked chest.

  Hair wild, still obviously shaken and quaking with the aftershocks of our mutual orgasm, Danielle all but ran from my hotel room, leaving behind her bra, underwear, and shirt…

  And I lay back on the floor, completely baffled.

  Chapter Three

  Predator Becomes the Prey

  Work, damn you—I growled this out loud to my legs, which seemed to be deliberately ignoring me. It was, possibly, the fact that my pussy still ached from the pounding I’d just taken, or the fact that I was still shaking from two monstrously powerful orgasms.

  He’d really done it—he’d actually made me scream. And more than once, too.

  Good god. That had been, hands down, the best sex of my entire life, and I’d eagerly have stayed for seconds—and thirds, and fourths, and shit, probably have stayed to use all six condoms…if it hadn’t been for the eye contact.

  If it hadn’t been for the fact that I’d kissed him.

  If it hadn’t been for the fact that I was, improbably, feeling choked up and misty-eyed from the potency of that mutual orgasm. From the onslaught of his eyes
, which seemed to shift between shades of jade, emerald, seafoam, and forest green.

  My breasts ached, heavy and full, the hypersensitive nipples peaked and scraped painfully against the leather of my jacket. My core was tender against the zipper of my jeans, forcing me to slow down and walk more carefully.

  I was outside the hotel, in the relative cool of the night. Walking as fast as my shaky legs and tender sex would allow, willing myself to stop thinking about Lear and the fantastic fucking he’d just given me.

  I shoved Danielle back into her little box, and summoned Cuddy. She could handle this. She could push the emotions away, subsume them beneath the frost and the ice.

  But Danielle wouldn’t go all the way into her cage, and Cuddy wouldn’t come all the way out.

  They were tangling.

  “FUCK!” I snarled.

  Where was I even going? I had valeted my Ferrari. I found the claim ticket in my back pocket and turned around, and then had to stop, realizing I’d walked quite a ways without realizing it. And without paying attention to where I was going.

  I stopped; I felt the back of my neck prickle. And that particular sensation instantly zapped me clean of any lingering arousal—the back of my neck prickling was a warning sign I’d learned to never, ever ignore. Someone was watching me. They were close. And they meant me harm.

  I put my hands in the pockets of my jacket. I wondered if Lear had felt the hard lumps sewn into the bottom edge of the jacket, on either side of the zipper. I casually turned back the way I’d come, as if just realizing I’d gone the wrong way. I glanced this way and that, trying to look as natural as possible, just another girl out late at night, alone. In the pockets, I found the secret openings in the liner and wiggled free the thin carbon handles of the hidden knives—each was no more than three inches long handle included, with double-edged blades weighted for throwing. Custom made and carefully hidden, you’d never know they were there even if you knew what to look for.

  I never went anywhere totally unarmed.

  I left the blades sheathed but kept a grip on the handles, ready to draw in a split-second.

  I heard something then, as I neared an alley opening I’d passed a minute before—the shuffle of boots on concrete, a quiet male murmur. The telltale click of a slide being racked to firing position.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  Had I left any enemies alive? I didn’t think so. The last several ops had been clean—insert, neutralize the target, exfil, extract. No witnesses, no evidence, no enemies.

  Yet still, as I slowed my steps, I replayed in my mind the message from Johnny—watch your six. Had he known something? He’d called me Little Trouble in the message too, and at the time it hadn’t registered, but he hadn’t used that nickname for me since he stepped back from active ops to oversight and planning.

  I held the knives in my fists, hammer style, with the blades protruding from the bottom of my fists. Drawing them from the pockets, I could hide the blades along the base of my wrists, tucked in under the cuffs of my jacket.

  Look innocent.

  Just a girl on a walk of shame. Channeling embarrassment I didn’t feel, I endeavored to project the just a girl persona as I moved past the alley mouth. A quick glance told me everything—six men in a U formation, the opening of the U facing the alley mouth. Dressed in gray-and-blue urban camo, tactical vests, helmets, balaclavas, and shooter’s gloves, each one wielded an HK submachine gun, straps looped tight around shoulders, butts tucked against bodies.

  They were less than four feet away, and behind them was a nondescript white box truck. The other end of the alley opened onto the road running parallel to this one, so the truck’s back end was facing this road—which was a quiet, deserted side street; I had clearly managed to walk myself right into a neat little ambush. Inside was another squad, at the center of which was an operator wielding an M249 Light Machine Gun, known to most as a SAW—Squad Automatic Weapon.

  Fuck.

  I stepped into the opening of the alley and time slowed. The six men moved forward toward me, as if through sludge. Silent, without verbal orders. They saw me, and they sprang into motion.

  I strained forward, pushed my body into a leap and, at the same time, I hurled one knife, saw it whirl end over end toward the center-most combatant, but that was all I saw. I then hit the ground, rolled forward—no suppressors, here. Six HK’s ripped to deafening life, spitting death, overlapping tacka-tacka-tacka-tacka-tacka-tack reports.

  Something sharp glanced against my jacket near my elbow, stung my shoulder, bit into the heel of my boot, and then I was rolling over my shoulder past the alley mouth, driving my feet in a dead sprint. I could run the hundred-meter dash in twelve seconds, which is damn near Olympic time—if I’d been timed, I think I would have broken my personal best on that sprint from the alley. I made it to the intersection and saw, another hundred yards down the street, the lights of the club I’d started the evening at and, across the road, the hotel I’d just left; automatic weapons fire had sent people running, screaming, adding to the chaos.

  Too far to run. Too many civilians.

  I juked right at the intersection, saw the overhang of a bank entrance and ducked backward into it. I threw myself up against the wall and held my one remaining knife in a death grip. I heard the roar of an engine, and guessed it to be the box truck leaving the alley, followed by the sound of heavy boots. Screams and shouts in the distance. Sirens, also distant. I heard voices speaking low in murmurs over walkie-talkies—close by. Not English—some kind of Eastern European language. Czech, maybe, or Ukranian, or a dialect from one of the countries once owned by Russia along its southwestern border.

  I sucked in a breath and waited. Tensed, coiled like a cobra ready to strike. The first body passed in a crouching jog, HK leading. A second. Third, and fourth. If I’d hit my target, there’d be one more. Sure enough, a fifth body slunk past my spot. I gambled that my aim had been true, that the sixth man was dead. I struck, hard and fast. My forearm wrapped around his neck, cutting off his air supply and his voice box. My knife, still held blade down, jabbed into his thigh, severing his femoral artery. I held tight, keeping his airflow choked off, and yanked him back into my hiding spot. His boots scrabbled against the sidewalk, and I unclipped his HK from his tactical vest and looped the strap over my head, all one-handed. Letting the submachine gun dangle from the strap, I dug a spare magazine out of his vest and shoved it into my back pocket, saying a silent thank-you that my jeans were stretchy. His scrabbling was slowing, now, and I let him down to the sidewalk into the pool of his blood.

  By this time, his team had noticed his absence.

  I stepped over the still-moving almost-corpse and brought the HK up. I twisted out of the bank entrance, and let loose with a three-round burst—tacka-tacka-tack.

  The rounds slammed into the rear-most tango, and he spun, toppled sideways, and fell. The first round had hit his vest, but the rest had taken him between vest and helmet in a spray of blood. I ducked back, cursing under my breath at the noise of an approaching engine—a loud diesel. I went back the way I’d come. Away from the club, and the innocent partiers, and away, as well, from the approaching sirens.

  Except, the engine sound was coming from that way. Meaning, I was trapped.

  I heard a second sound—the mountain lion snarl of a high cc sport bike engine revving at peak RPMs. Tires squealed, and I peeked out around the corner to see a black crotch rocket zip past, squeal in a hard-braking J-turn, rear tire swinging around to point the nose back the way it had come. A pistol in one hand, the rider, in a full helmet, wearing familiar dark blue jeans and a black T-shirt—and this time, a black backpack—sat up, legs braced wide, and popped off four shots—BANGBANGBANGBANG. Each round hit precisely—between the vest and helmet. He holstered the pistol at his shoulder in a smooth, practiced movement. Lear twisted the throttle and the bike jolted forward, popping to a stop in front of me on the sidewalk.

  I wasted no time jumping on behind him, t
ossing the HK around to one side and grabbing his hard chest. “GO!” I shouted. “There’s more coming.”

  He brought the tail around in a squeal of rubber, gunned it again, and we slewed forward with the rear end squirreling side to side. I held on for dear life as the bike picked up speed, the engine howling. Blacktop zipped under my feet and buildings whizzed past—I looked around his shoulder at the instrument cluster; the speedometer hit 75 and kept climbing. An intersection approached, and I felt him let the speed slacken just a bit, and then he squeezed the brakes ever so slightly before leaning us way over and hauling the bike through a sudden wide left turn. Headlights flashed and a horn blared, but the offended vehicle was already two blocks behind us. I peeked at the speedometer—75 again, and then 80, and then 95…

  He was heading for the freeway, I realized. I tapped him. “I need gear.”

  He shook his head. “No go!”

  He took the entrance ramp at 65 mph, curling around the cloverleaf leaning as hard as he dared with me on the back, the rear tire skidding and bouncing. When we hit the freeway, he opened the throttle, and I heard the engine reach peak howl, RPMs gone mad; we screamed down the freeway at over a hundred, the speedometer climbing steadily to 115, 120, 130. My heart was in my throat, the thrill of this eclipsed by fear. I wasn’t wearing a helmet, and even though my jeans and jacket would probably do okay to protect my skin if we crashed, it wasn’t enough—not at 130mph.

  But when I glanced back, I knew why he was keeping the throttle open: a quartet of blacked-out Range Rovers blasted down the entrance ramp and I heard massive supercharged engines roar to full snarl. They may not be able to catch up to us, but they could keep pace.