Harris Read online

  "Fuck yes, I'm desperate. Quit teasing me, and let me come. Or let me make you come. Something, anything! Please!"

  I pulled out, let her fall forward, brushed her lips with the tip of my cock. Teased her with it until her mouth was open and hunting for it, seeking it. I played keep away, never letting her get her mouth on me. It was almost funny, actually. Would have been, if I weren't going a little crazy from my own game. Teasing her was teasing myself.

  Only, I was the one in control; Layla hated being helpless, hated not being in control.

  "You want it?" I asked.

  "Yeah, I fucking want it."

  "What are you going to do if I let you have it?"

  "Suck you so hard you'll come for a week." She stared up at me, and the look on her face was so fierce with crazed need I nearly lost it right then, just from the erotic, seductive look she was giving me. "I'll make love to your beautiful cock with my mouth. Fuck you with my mouth until you can't take it anymore."

  "Show me," I told her.

  And holy hell, did she ever.

  She did exactly what she promised, and did it without the use of her hands. Honestly, I think not having her hands available made her all the more talented and inventive with her mouth. The things she did to my cock with her mouth over the next few minutes were...probably the most unbearably erotic moments of my life. Watching her very literally make love to me with nothing but her lips and tongue was almost too much to handle. I held back, wanting to enjoy this for as long as I could, never wanting it to end.

  But it had to.

  When I was at the point of having to exert effort to hold back, I pulled away.

  "Goddammit!" Layla seemed almost near tears, now.

  "Will you promise me something?"

  "Yes, Nick, goddammit, yes, I'll fucking stay back!" She shouted. "I'll fucking do as I'm told."

  "Swear?"

  A groan escaped her. "Yes. Fucking fine. I promise."

  I knelt between her thighs. "Then let me hear you scream."

  I plunged my face against her slit and went to work, and this time it only took her a few seconds to reach the peak. No toying around, now. I let her fall over, let her break apart on my mouth, screaming for all she was worth. At the crest of her climax, I slid up her body, wedged my hips in the V of her thighs, plunged myself home inside her.

  No games here anymore, either. I came almost instantly, exploding inside her in a matter of half a dozen hard thrusts.

  When we were both done, and I was capable of motion, I pulled away. I snatched a handful of tissues from the box on Michelle's desk and returned to kneel between Layla's thighs once more, this time cleaning her, carefully, gently, and reverently. She watched me do this with an unhappy expression on her face.

  I rocked back on my heels when she was clean and shot her a look. "What? What's that look for?"

  She planted a heel in my chest and kicked me backward, forcefully but not with the intent of hurting me. "I'm pissed off at you, that's what."

  "Because I turned the tables on you?" I stood up. "You were planning on seducing an agreement out of me, were you not?"

  "Yeah, I'm ticked about that too, but that's not why I'm mad."

  I scrutinized her face; she wasn't just mildly irritated about being bested at her own game, she was genuinely angry with me. "Then what?"

  "You don't trust me. You don't want me in the field with you."

  I paced away, jerking my hand through my hair. "Goddammit, Layla, that's not--"

  My phone rang at that moment. I dug it out of my pants and answered it. "Talk to me, Puck."

  "I think between Lear and me, we've got a lead. And plugging it in to the intel Thresh and Duke came back with, it's not looking good, Boss."

  "What's that mean?"

  "It means we need to meet up. Should we all head to the office?"

  "Did you get everything you could from the scene?"

  "There wasn't much, but yeah, we did."

  "Don't come to the office. Meet me at the airfield."

  "Gotcha."

  I hung up, sent Anselm a text updating him, pocketed the phone, and returned my attention to Layla. "Look, I've gotta go. We've got to follow up on this lead while it's hot."

  "Whatever."

  I jerked my pants on, stuffed my feet back into my shoes. Buttoned and zipped and tucked. Moved to kneel in front of Layla, withdrawing my knife from my pocket. Snicked the blade across the zip-ties, freeing her. As soon as she was free, she pushed past me and started dressing.

  "Thought you had to go?" she asked, when I didn't immediately leave.

  "It's not that I don't trust you, Layla. I do, its--"

  "I thought we were partners, Nick. I thought that's why you taught me how to shoot. I thought--" she shook her head. "You know what? It doesn't matter. Guess I was wrong."

  "I'm not saying never, Layla, I'm just saying not this one. Puck just said that this isn't looking good, and you know Puck's not given to worrying. You can shoot, yeah, but there's more to it than that. I'll train you, I promise. I'll bring you on more ops. But this one? This one isn't a game, Layla. There's a three-year-old girl's life at stake."

  "But you can take the time to tie me to the chair and fuck me?"

  Ouch.

  "Without a lead, it's a non-starter. Now that we have a lead, we have to move on it." We were both dressed, now. I gestured at the door. "Let's go. I'm putting you on a flight back to Colorado."

  I led the way out of the office, Layla trailing behind me, looking morose.

  The drive to the airfield was silent.

  I had a bad taste in my mouth. Despite knowing I was doing the right thing by keeping Layla out of this one, I still hated the way things were shaking out.

  "Layla--"

  "Save it...Harris."

  Shit.

  I hated this. Telling her no, and being frozen out for it, despite it being the safest thing for her. Most of all I hated being put in this position.

  I parked beside my private jet, and I wasn't even out of the driver's seat when Lear came jogging down the stairs and trotted over to me.

  "Bad news, Harris. Timetable got bumped up. They found out Jon called you in." Lear had an iPad Mini in his hands, turned it to face me, and touched the screen to start a video message.

  A camera jiggled, showing a ceiling, part of a couch, and a window, and then pivoted and settled to frame a large man dressed in basic black BDUs. A strap crossed his chest, and while whatever was attached to the strap was out of frame, I would have bet my 1917 Albatross D.III that it was an assault rifle of some kind. He was broad-shouldered, had a bit of a belly, and sharp brown eyes visible behind a tactical balaclava which hid his identity. An adorable little girl with straight, long black hair stood in front of him, and the man had a long, wicked, serrated knife held to her throat. The little girl, obviously, was Cleo, and I was impressed by her composure given the circumstances. She wasn't fighting or sobbing, but rather was just standing there, hands at her sides, tears running down her face, although she clearly was trying to be brave.

  "Nicholas Harris." The man, his voice muffled by the balaclava, spoke with a thick accent, Eastern European, maybe. "I hear that our mutual friend Mister Lonigan has hired you to retrieve his little girl."

  The edge of the knife wasn't quite touching the skin of Cleo's throat, but was only a hair's-breadth away. With exquisite control, the man lifted the knife and deftly sliced free a lock of her hair, caught it as it fluttered free, and held it up for the camera. "I am a patient man. I told Lonigan one week, but now that you are involved, I have revised our timetable. Anyone else, and this little girl would already be fish-bait. But me? I am willing to forgive stupid decisions. I have given him twelve hours to arrange for the money. I know you, Nicholas Harris. I have sent Lonigan another email with the details of the transfer, where to bring the cash so he may get his daughter back. And you, Harris, will do the transfer. Not Lonigan, not his wife, not his assistant, not any of your hired guns
. You, and only you. My men are at the location already, and they will know if you try anything. One wrong move, and this pretty little thing here--" he paused, looked down, flicked the point of the knife against the shell of Cleo's ear, drawing a single welling drop of blood. He returned his gaze to the camera. "I think you get the point. Twelve hours." The message ended.

  I turned to Lear, who had been joined by Puck and the others by then. "Do we know who this guy is, yet?"

  Lear shook his head from side to side, saying softly "I think it's Cain."

  I tilted my head to one side. "Cain? Rings a bell, but I can't place him."

  "Not much is known about him. Your average, nefarious underworld scum. Comes from somewhere in Europe, specializes in the most evil shit you can imagine. Human trafficking. Prostitution. Drugs. Murder, by which I mean assassinations, as well as good old fashioned he just-likes-to-kill-people murder."

  "He said he knows me. I've never met a Cain."

  Lear frowned at me. "Dude, think--of course his name isn't actually Cain." He peered at me, as if I'd grown a second head. "Got your head in the game, boss?"

  After taking a long breath in and letting it out slowly, I shot a look at Layla. "On the plane--now."

  She frowned at me. "Excuse me? You want to rephrase that?"

  "No. Get your ass on the plane, Layla."

  "But I thought--"

  I gestured at the iPad. "This changes the plan. You're involved, like it or not. Now...GET. ON. THE. PLANE."

  She caught the tone in my voice, the one that says I'm no longer tolerating her bullshit. When she was aboard, I took another deep breath, and then refocused on my men.

  "Lear. We know the location?"

  He shook his head. "Lonigan is freaking out, obviously. Not answering his phone. He's probably at the bank getting the money."

  I turned to Puck. "Get him. Callie too. They don't leave your sight again. No cell phones, no purses, no wallets. Stop on the way here and get them new outfits from head to toe, skin out. Assume these guys are watching our every move. Assume they've got Jon and Callie tracked somehow."

  I turned back to Lear. "Get into Jon's email and get those coordinates. If you can wrangle some aerial or satellite on the location, that would be a bonus. At the very least, I need to know what I'm walking into."

  "You're going through with this?" Duke asked, skeptical.

  I nodded. "Yes. We're giving him the money, I'm going in alone and unarmed, and you all are staying well back. That's the plan. Getting Cleo back unharmed is our only goal."

  Thresh spoke up, his voice rumbling up from somewhere just above the center of the earth. "If he says he knows you, and wants you alone, it's a trap."

  "No shit, man." I gestured at the stairs up to the jet. "Everyone, get on board. Puck, get Jon and Callie. Make sure they're clean. Drive north, we'll meet up somewhere. Sacramento, maybe."

  "Got it." Puck turned away.

  "And Puck? Haul ass."

  He just waved a hand as he slid behind the wheel of an H2. A screech of tires, and then he was across the tarmac and gone. Everyone else was on the jet. Layla was in the very back, buckled in already, earbuds plugged into her ears, staring out the window with a petulant expression on her face. She felt me board the aircraft, swiveled her head to glare at me balefully. I jerked my head at the cockpit once, sharply, and then took my place at the controls.

  After a minute, she joined me, closing the cockpit door behind her. She'd tied her hair into a tight bun at the back of her head, as she always did before flying. I'd taught her to fly a while we were still traipsing the world with Roth and Kyrie, but in the year since moving to Colorado, I'd spent even more time honing her skills, personally supervising her official flying lessons. A few more official hours and she'd have her certification, even though she already had enough unofficial hours to qualify. I'd even shown her the basics of piloting a chopper, although it would be a while before I was ready to let her attempt a take off or landing on her own.

  A basic Learjet, though? No problem. We went through preflight together, working as seamlessly as ever, despite the crackling tension between us. Preflight done, I let Layla radio the tower for permission to take off. When it was granted, she glanced askance at me, and I nodded my permission; she taxied us to the runway, spent a moment breathing, focusing, and then, squaring her shoulders and stiffening her spine, she feathered the throttle to get us moving. Slowly, gradually, she increased power until we were hurtling down the runway at speed. Softly she tugged the yoke toward herself, and then we were airborne, angled high into the broad blue of the sky. I called out the heading I wanted her to put us on, and once she'd done so I took over the process of bringing us to cruising altitude.

  Finally, I muted the radio input and keyed the mic so she'd hear me in her headset. "Layla, we need to talk."

  "The fuck we do," she snapped. "Nothing to talk about."

  "Yes there is. Look at me, please."

  She shook her head, staring ahead, arms crossed. "Nothing to say, nothing I want to hear."

  "Too fucking bad." I put it on autopilot and turned to face her. "You know I love you. You know I respect your strength and independence."

  "Sure as fuck didn't feel that way a little bit ago."

  "Which part are you angry about, babe? Being tied to the chair? Or being told no?"

  "Neither, you idiot." She finally swiveled to look at me, and I saw a tear sliding down her cheek. "I liked being tied up. It was hot. But that scene in your office? That hurt."

  "You use sex to get your way all the time, Layla, so don't--"

  "Yeah, but I never undermine you or us in the process. I use sex to get you to take me flying or shooting, or let me go with you guys on cute little security jobs. What you did? It was--you manipulated me. You fucked me, and you used me. You fucked compliance out of me, and then you were going to just send me home like your little booty call."

  "Now hold on just a goddamn second, that's not fair."

  "I'm a slut, Nick. I always have been. I own it. I like men. I like sex. I like dick. I've never been above using sex to get what I want from guys. I had no problem being some guy's booty call. I had no problem with some dude being my sugar daddy. But no sugar daddy ever paid my bills. I never lived with them. I let them buy me luxury shit, things I'd never spend my own money on."

  "Layla--"

  "No, you shut the fuck up and listen to me." She paused after that outburst, sucked in a breath, blinked the tears away. "You've always had this way of making me feel...I don't know--like none of that mattered anymore. Like I wasn't that girl anymore. Like I was worth--more. As hot as it was, that sex in your office--and I do not deny enjoying every second of that, being teased and edged and fucked the way only you can, I loved that-- you used it to put me in my place. You got what you wanted--me agreeing to go home like a good little wifey--and then you were done. Back to the important shit, to manly man stuff, saving the world. No girls allowed in this macho club."

  "That is not what this is about, Layla."

  "No?" The expression on her face cut me to the bone. "I think it is."

  "How do you figure?"

  "I know I'm not as badass as the rest of your guys. I don't have years of combat experience. I don't have mad hacker skills or a forensics degree or--any of that shit. But I thought you saw something in me. I thought, after Brazil, I thought that we'd be a team. That eventually I'd come to be more than just a glorified secretary for you. That's all I am, you know. I sit around, sort through paperwork and intel, collate it, and pass it on to you and your guys. That's cool, it's work I don't mind doing. It's fun, actually. And more challenging and mentally stimulating than waitressing or answering phones or whatever other bullshit jobs I used to work, and it's certainly better than going to fucking college. I'm not cut out for any of that shit. I don't mind what you've got me doing, Nick, I really don't. But I want more. And I thought you were going to give me more. I thought that's why you were teaching me to fly and to sho
ot and all that. Turns out you were just humoring your little girlfriend. You don't trust me."

  I groaned, slid back in the pilot's chair, scrubbing my face. "Fuck. Fucking goddammit, Layla." I sat up and leaned across the space between the pilot and copilot chairs. I took her hands. "I told you when we agreed that this thing between us was a real relationship, which was a first for both of us, I told you I was going to have a hard time with it. I don't do relationships. I never have. I never judged you on your past because I was never any better. I don't know how to trust you, Layla, but I'm trying. And the thing you have to understand about me is that I'm one thing, and one thing only: a mercenary. A soldier. That's all I've ever known. And all the guys on my team, all those guys back there, that's what they are too, except Lear, really. And even he gets the basic tenet that makes the team work: I'm in fucking charge. I started this company. I own it. I pay the checks. I make the calls. They all do what I tell them because they trust me to make the right calls, and I trust them to speak up if they have a legitimate concern with a decision. We're all ex-military. We've all learned the importance of trusting your C-O, of obeying orders, when those orders are thoughtfully, rationally, and intelligently issued."

  "I may not have been in the army or whatever, but I get that, too. I can follow orders."

  "No, Layla, you can't!" I shouted this, a little more loudly than I should have. Her eyes widened--I rarely raised my voice. "You never do what you're told. You say this yourself all the time. It's part of who you are, and I get that. And in private life, it's cool. It's fine. It's cute and endearing and utterly maddening. But professionally, it's not cool or cute or endearing. It's dangerous. On a security job, escorting some highfalutin A-lister to a red carpet event? Fine. There's not likely to be any real danger. Bringing you along, letting you sit in the command center and be part of things, it's fine, then. But situations like this? We're dealing with someone very much like Vitaly. Smart, vicious, and deadly. Playing for keeps. In a combat situation, when lives are on the line, Layla, I have to be able to trust, on an instinctive, blood-and-guts level, that the people around me will number one, follow orders, number two, not panic or freeze, and number three, react calmly, efficiently, and intelligently to the circumstances. I have to trust the people around me. And yes, Layla, I trust you. I trust you in my life, I trust you with my heart. But do I trust you with an assault rifle when the bullets are flying at us? I--I can't say that I do. Not yet, anyway. And that's not because you're not capable of it, but because it takes training and experience to get to that point. And me trusting you aside, I don't want to ever put you in that kind of scenario ever again. I love you. I couldn't handle it if something happened to you. Thresh, Duke, Puck--they all understand the danger, and they've signed up eyes wide, head up, knowing what they're signing up for, because they've each been there. Lear is different, but even he's not a vanilla civilian who's never seen combat."