Baddest Bad Boys (7 page)

She drifted into a near-waking state, smelled mothballs and mold, woodsmoke and pine resin. And that feeling between her legs. Oh, boy.

It flooded back. Her eyes popped open, and the source of that urgent pull at her mind was abruptly revealed.

Jon was sitting next to the bed in a straight-backed chair. He wore only jeans and a small gold medallion that dangled at his throat. His chest was breathtaking. Thick slabs of muscle, dark hair arrowing down towards his groin. His feet were bare, his dark hair spiked out every which way. His eyes bored into hers. A shiver racked her at the fierce intensity of his eyes. No smiles. On the contrary. He looked tense.

Robin sat up. “Jon? Are you OK?”

He shook his head.

Robin studied him. She ached to reach out to him, but she still smarted from all his previous rejections. And yet, he seemed to be coming around. Not in any sort of playful way, that was for sure. But he looked like he needed something. She did too.

Though she had a feeling that what she got wasn’t going to be anything like her girlish fantasies. But whatever. She was flexible.

She slid her legs out of the bed, unzipped the bag completely, smoothing so that it covered the entire, red-striped sofabed mattress. Then she padded to the armchair where she’d dumped her tote, and rummaged til she found the bag with the condoms. She pried it open, pulled one out and marched back, waggling it. She was prepared.

He didn’t say a word. His expression did not change.

She dragged in as deep a breath as she could manage, and laid it on the bed next to the pillow. She’d just take that flat silence as a resounding yes. God knows, she’d heard what a no sounded like.

She pulled off the sweatshirt. His gaze fastened onto her naked breasts. He didn’t tell her to stop. Encouraged, she tugged off jeans, panties and ankle socks. And just stood there. Come and get me.

He was not behaving the way her girlfriends had given her to understand that men did. What did she have to do to get him to make a move? Hold a gun to his head? She took a step closer. A muscle twitched in his jaw. His penis poked out of his waistband. There was a smear of precome on the dark hair arrowing to his groin.

She sank to her knees in front of him, and pressed her mouth to his glans, lashing her tongue across it. Licking salty drops on his belly.

He gasped, jerked. “Jesus, Robin.” The chair teetered on its legs.

She looked up. “Well? You’re just sitting there, like a freaking rock.” She ran her finger around the flare of the glans. “What does it take to get you going? Do I have to light a bomb under your chair?”

“Oh, God,” he muttered, but he didn’t protest when she wrenched his belt open and tugged him to his feet. She pushed his jeans down.

His penis sproinged up, and she gripped it, caressing the broad shaft. Jon seized her beneath the armpits and hauled her to her feet.

“Once I get started, I’m not stopping,” he warned.

She snorted. “I should hope not. You’ve been such a shrinking violet. You’d think you were the one who’d never done it before.”

“Shrinking violet? Huh.” He laughed, which made her happy, and slid his hand between her legs, which made her gasp.

Oh, he was so good. Better than she was herself. He fluttered his fingers against her labia until her breath was all stuck in her throat, hitching in ineffectual gasps, and then he insinuated his finger inside, slid it tenderly around the slick folds and crevices.

She whimpered and gasped as he found her clit, fondled it.

He thrust deeper. Two fingers, stretching. It hurt, but it felt so achingly good. His body burned her, all that scorching skin. He smelled so good. She clutched his shoulders, hiding her face against his chest.

“Squeeze your pussy around my hand. Come for me again.”

She lifted her head, confused. “But I thought we—I thought—”

“I will. But the more times I get you off first, the better it’ll be.”

The sensations built with every delving stroke, every sliding thrust. The tension built, aching and swelling until something snapped, and wild rapture throbbed through her. Huge, sweet waves of it.

He held her up on wobbling knees when she drifted back. He jerked his chin toward the bed, eyes gleaming with fierce purpose.

She stumbled back, sat down. Scrambled back on the mattress until she lay on her back. She felt so vulnerable, naked with that big man looming over her. To say nothing of that enormous thing of his, bobbing and swaying before him. She grabbed the pillow, propped it behind her head, and watched him open the condom, smooth it on. He stroked his erection with a rough hand as he stared down at her.

“Open up. Show me everything,” he said.

She struggled onto her elbows, and parted her legs. Her face was red, her breath quick. She felt weepy and strange. Like she might cry. God forbid. If anything could put him off, it would be that.

“Wider,” he said.

She forced her trembling thighs as wide as they would go. Jon climbed onto the bed. The springs bowed under his weight. The breath was zapped out of her body at the contact of his body to hers.

He fitted himself against her. Robin braced her hands against his chest, letting her nails dig in lest he think she was pushing him away. She craved the play of powerful muscles beneath her fingers, the rasp of coarse hair, the tang of sweat. He slid the tip of himself up and down her cleft, then stared into her eyes and began to force his way inside.

She caught her breath, nails digging deeper. Oh. Whoa.

He paused, his mouth set in a fierce line. “I told you,” he said savagely. “I warned you, goddammit.”

“Did you hear me complaining?” she snapped back. “Did I tell you to stop? No! So shut up, and do your job!”

He vibrated with amusement, and kept on pushing. The pressure mounted. She reached down, sliding her hands greedily over the contours of his back, the slabbed, bumpy ridges of muscle and bone. She sank her nails into his tight ass and dragged him deeper. Ouch.

It was his turn to gasp. “Take it easy, for fuck’s sake!”

“Just making sure you don’t chicken out on me.”

“Not a chance,” he promised. “Too late.”

She wiggled, seeking relief from that immense, dull pressure. She was immobilized by his huge body. He gasped again at her writhing. “For God’s sake,” he complained. “Be still. Let me take this slow.”

“I thought the whole act was a little more dynamic,” she snapped.

“Not yet.” He rolled to the side, and that helped. He searched out her clitoris and played with it, barely moving inside her as he swirled his thumb around the taut nub. His lips found her nipple, sucked it deep, and her body slowly began to make sense of the invasion.

Her chest shivered, softened. It still hurt, but it glowed too, pulsing. A strange urgency was building up, and she wiggled madly to explore the throb, the tender strokes. He rolled back on top of her again, and began to move, wedging impossibly deeper.

“Good God, aren’t you all the way inside yet?” she asked.

“We’re getting there.”

“Who knew there was so far to go?” she said testily.

That feral wolf smile appeared on his face, and his hips shoved hard against hers. “You have no idea how far we’re going to go.”

She stared into his face. His thrusts deepened. The feeling was so strong. She felt helpless, every nerve in thrall. Her heart was about to explode, but he didn’t want her to love him, and what the hell was she going to do about that?

She wanted to pierce through the armor of his self-command. She wrapped her arms around his neck, jerked his head down and kissed him. His eyes popped open, startled, and after a second, he kissed her back, demanding more. As if she hadn’t given him everything.

Even the parts he did not want. Like her heart.

She pushed that thought away. This was for pleasure, for opening herself up to all the possibilities in her life. This was a gift to herself, and she would damn well enjoy it without getting all wound up with it.

The kiss opened up nameless depths inside her, a wilderness of unknown, terrifying sensations. She drew him deeper, bathed his phallus with slick warmth to make the glide easier, and it was so good, so sweet, so fine. All pain was forgotten in the swelling surge of bliss.

 

She almost dragged him along with her, but Jon clenched his teeth and breathed it down, forcing himself to wait while she exploded.

He wanted to feel it. The bright wash of her pleasure shooting up, her pussy clenching hard, pumping him. He could blow his own wad later. This was special. He’d never been with a woman so responsive.

After her orgasm eased down to a shimmer, her eyes opened, heavy-lidded and dazed. Her pink tongue darted out to moisten her lips.

“Sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sort of…um…on a hair trigger.”

“You’re apologizing?” he asked, incredulous. “There’s nothing in the world better than making a woman come with your cock inside her.”

The generic statement was not what she wanted to hear, but he was too far gone for self-censorship or delicacy. In fact, he was about to explode from the strain of holding back. “I’m not done,” he said.

She arched beneath him, moving her hips in a gesture of sweet, sensual surrender. It made his chest ache. “Do it,” she said. “Anything.”

He scooped her legs up, draping them over his elbows. Her smile was so sweet, he could hardly bear to look at it. Something swelled inside him, strained, then snapped. He took her at her word, going at her harder than he’d meant to, but once started, he was helpless to stop. No way out but straight through to the pounding finish, and he hoped to God those sounds were wails of pleasure—

His climax thundered down. He spurted out his very soul.

They lay there for a sweat-drenched, panting eternity. He would have been horrified at himself, if it had not so obviously worked for her.

Wild and raw. When he really let go, which was rare, it all came roaring out. Too much for some women. “You OK?”

She hid her face against his shoulder. “OK is not the first word that comes to mind.”

“Did you like it?” He felt like an idiot for persisting, but whatever.

She peeked up at him. “You mean, you didn’t notice?”

“Oh yeah. You coming like crazy.” He grinned. “It was hard to miss.”

He rolled onto his side, and eased out of her. Slick and wet as she was, she still tugged him with a tender parting clutch as he withdrew.

He reached down to keep the condom in place, and saw blood on his fingers. It sent a jolt through him. Not a lot, just a pinkish smear, but still. It shook him. She’d been so trusting. He’d been…rough.

“Got to get rid of the condom,” he said, getting up. He fled to the bathroom, splashed his belly and his dauntless dick, which would not calm down. He washed until the water swirling down the drain was no longer pinkish and stared into the mirror, realizing with wonder that he could breathe. No soured, dead feeling. No cramp. The air went in and it came out. Smooth, natural. Just as it should. Ah.

He met Robin on his way out. Her cheeks were pink, eyes downcast. “My turn,” she murmured, disappearing into the bathroom.

She was in there for a long time, and he spent the whole interval staring at the reddish smears on the sleeping bag. He had to buy a new one tomorrow. His chest felt so strange. Hot and soft. Shaky.

He retrieved the other sleeping bag, unzipped it, and tossed it over the bed for a blanket. When she came out, she was startled to see him in the bed. He lifted up the sleeping bag in silent invitation.

Something inside him loosened as her face lit up.

She fitted herself to him. Cool, smooth, silky soft. He rolled her on top of him so the feeling could penetrate his whole body. Hell, who knew? Maybe he could even sleep. If his dick would settle down.

Catastrophe. Doom. Apocalypse, said the frantic chorus in his head.

Fuck you all, he said to them silently. He hadn’t felt this good in longer than he could remember. Hell with the chorus, the rules, Danny.

He wanted to breathe, to sleep. To feel that warm, soft feeling, after being clenched like a fist for so long. He wanted this.

It had been freely offered to him, and he was damn well taking it.

 

Julia parked down the street from Amendola’s duplex, trying hard to calm down. She vibrated with excitement. It was going so smoothly, so quickly. Amendola’s colleague had innocently revealed that he was on vacation. She’d ferreted his address out of a public database, and driven all night to get to this shabby North Portland neighborhood.

She didn’t have a plan yet, but that didn’t worry her. She had William himself, inside her head. Way better than a plan.

It hadn’t taken long to prepare. Her suitcase was full of designer clothes, by necessity high-necked and long-sleeved to cover William’s body art. She drove one of the vans, in case she had a chance to use the surveillance equipment, which she could install like a professional.

And behind the driver’s seat was the special case: the ebony chest filled with implements that they had used for their liberation rituals.

Julia had always had the honor of cleaning and polishing each blade, scissor, drill, hook, pincer and pick to a glowing sheen, lovingly laying each one in its nest of blood red velvet when they were done.

On the seat next to her was the final detail, tucked into a box she had carved herself out of styrofoam. The last of her most recent clutch of robin’s eggs. Delicate and beautiful. She pictured putting it into the slack, bloodied mouth of Amendola’s woman. A knife to his gut. Yes.

She got out, and walked up the cracked sidewalk like she had every right to be there. Fortunately, the door was not parallel to the street, but to the side, facing the other half of the duplex, and shielded by a shaggy, overgrown rhododendron. That slob Amendola was clearly not a talented gardener or landscape artist.