It had been so long . . . too damn long. The strings on her violin were drawing tight too quickly. Her hips lifted from the bed and she shattered.
Literal stars shot as her orgasm ran over her.
Hunter didn’t ease away, he shifted, his boxers found the rest of the clothing on the floor, and Gabi heard the tearing of a wrapper.
She captured his hand as he rolled the condom on, smiled. The impressive anatomy with his clothing on was just as extraordinary without it.
She opened herself up to him. Wrapped her arms around his neck. The feel of him nudging her had her smiling.
“Last chance, Gabi.”
“I thought we passed turning back,” she said with a grin.
He growled, tilted her hips, and offered a sample. “You’re right.” He gave her everything. “We did.”
Yes.
He filled her, every empty space was now branded with his scent, his touch.
Hunter pulled her into his arms, his lips once again took possession of hers, and he slowly started to move. Gabi’s buildup was slower this time. And Hunter didn’t rush.
He muttered about her beauty, said more than once he didn’t deserve her, told her how amazing she felt.
Their pace sped up until kissing wasn’t possible and all their attention was on the spot they were so intimately joined.
Her nails pulled him closer, the edge of completion only a hair out of reach. Just when she thought she was going to lose it, Hunter whispered, “Come for me.”
She did. And the feeling rolled and rolled, then shot past both of them.
Hunter soon followed with a growl she was all too familiar with.
Remington hadn’t slept on the plane, and the sun in Rome was entirely too bright.
He exited the airport and found his way to the taxi station, grateful to be out of Colombia. The place had eyes, and he couldn’t help but wonder who, exactly, had been watching him. Other than the kids lifting his phone, he hadn’t been mugged or even propositioned.
The only promising lead on the Picano accounts was the two so-called bankers. After he left them, Remington’s information dried up.
Once he was settled in a cheap motel . . . or what would be equivalent to an American dive, Remington dialed Blackwell. It was the middle of the night in the States, so when voice mail picked up, he relayed the important details. “Ahhh, Rome. Such a big city. Colombia was a bust. If I knew better, I’d swear whoever had their hands in that account had a reach far outside those boarders. Lips were closed up tighter than my first wife. Anyway, my cell is back on, same number. If you tried to call earlier . . . sucks to be you. Damn kids,” he muttered. “I’m posing as your hot tamale’s personal agent. Vouch for me. These Italians aren’t as quick to talk, which leaves me wondering how far I’m going to get. I might need to pull in another set of ears . . . or someone who speaks the damn language.” Remington caught a yawn and kicked off his shoes. “Don’t bother calling for at least six hours. I won’t answer.”
He pushed from the bed and closed the blinds. “Have I told you how much I love traveling on your dime?”
He hung up.
He would be up by dusk and ready to find the contact he’d made before he boarded the plane. Then, after a decent night’s sleep, he’d be at the bank in the morning.
As the city around him woke, Remington did his best to drown out the noise and the light. He hit the bed and instantly felt his body sinking. His last thought before he fell asleep was, I need to have something tomorrow or Blackwell’s wallet is going to shut.
Sleep first . . . information later.
Hunter woke with a start. His head swiveled to the side.
Gabi was still there. Her hair splayed on the pillow, her eyes closed, and her lips slightly parted as she slept.
They’d just complicated everything.
He couldn’t bring himself to care. It was still dark, the clock on the table said it was after three in the morning.
Gabi shifted in her sleep, and Hunter reached around her waist and moved closer. Only when his head rested on the same pillow as hers and her floral scent met his nose did he let himself relax.
He’d heard people talk about mind-blowing sex . . . rock-the-universe orgasms . . . and yeah, he’d had his share of encounters that he thought were defined in those terms.
He’d been wrong.
Maybe it was the conquest itself. The reality that the woman sleeping in his arms had told him that under no terms would she let him touch her.
Maybe it was Gabi.
Maybe unadulterated lust poisoned his brain.
He started to doze and Gabi wiggled one of her legs between his.
His body responded to her slight touch. Hunter considered taking her . . . again . . . then decided a wide-awake lover would prove better than one half-asleep. The sun would rise in a few hours.