Wicked Intentions(12)

She arches her back and grasps my biceps as I fuck her relentlessly, giving her exactly what she needs.

A sheen of sweat glistens on her chest. Her breasts bounce with every thrust. Her lips are parted, her eyes are closed, and she’s so beautiful, it’s like a dagger to my heart.

“Please,” she begs in a ragged whisper. I know she’s asking permission to come.

But I’m not in a generous mood. I’ve let the beast loose, and he says she can come when he’s good and fucking ready.

I fall still, and she moans in frustration.

“One more sound outta you, and your ass’ll be bright red and burning.”

She bites her full bottom lip. Her eyes drift open. She stares at me from under lowered lids with a look like she wants to slit my throat.

“I know,” I mutter. “You hate me.” I reach between us and slide my thumb over the wet, engorged nub of her clit. She gasps, which makes me smile in victory. “Only you don’t hate me, Angel. You don’t hate me at all.”

She flexes her hips, trying to move against my cock. I lightly slap her thigh in warning. She sends me a look of nuclear rage, and I throw my head back and laugh.

Then I drop down on top of her, bending her in half. With her calves resting on my shoulders, I slide deep inside her heat, until I’m so deep, she’s gasping.

Staring down at her, I give her an order. “Take every inch of my cock, and don’t you dare come until I say you can. Your orgasm is mine, and if you go off before I say you can, you’ll regret it.”

She loves every word coming out of my mouth, but still she has to grit her teeth and glower. She demanded it rough, but she fights against being made to submit. She wants it, but only on her terms.

Which I understand completely. She’s a lioness. She needs a lion, but that doesn’t mean her lion won’t get clawed and bitten.

I pull out slightly, thrust into her, do it again. And again. And again, until she’s pleading.

“You better not!” I roar, feeling her clench around my cock. She cries out in frustration, pounding her fists on my shoulders. I laugh.

She rakes her fingernails down my chest and shouts, “Laugh again and it’ll be the last sound you make, you smug son of a bitch!”

The sting of my broken skin is nothing compared to the euphoria erupting in my chest. I can tell she doesn’t like the shit-eating grin on my face because she slaps me.

Hard.

I laugh so loud, they can probably hear it downstairs in the lobby.

She tries to get out from beneath me, struggling and cursing, but it’s all part of the game. As soon as I give her my full weight and take her face in my hands, she stills, panting, glaring at me with killer intent in her eyes.

“Wrap your legs around my back,” I say, panting, “and tell me how much you hate me while I make you come.”

Her thighs become a vise around my waist. Her eyes burn. “I do hate you.”

I flex my hips, and her lashes flutter. “I do,” she whispers.

Her breasts are smashed against my chest. Our skin is slick with sweat. We’re both breathing hard. Our hearts are pounding in tandem, and the electricity between us is gathering into a crackling, dangerous whirlwind, like the vortex of a tornado just before it touches the ground and destroys everything in its path.

I kiss her, biting her lips. Then I taste blood. Desperate for release, she sobs against my mouth. I know she can’t hold back any longer.

“Yes, Angel,” I whisper. “Now.”

Her back bows. Her neck arches. Her fingers claw into my ass.

Then, with a groan and a tremor that racks her entire body, she’s over the edge, taking me with her as her pussy throbs rhythmically around my cock.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I’m aware that I’m grunting the word repeatedly, but my thoughts are incoherent. A white-hot ball of energy gathers at the base of my spine, pulsing, getting hotter and more unstable with every breath. The pleasure is almost unbearable. It’s the most exquisite sort of pain.

Then she screams my name, and I lose it. I bite her on the shoulder and come so hard, the room dims.

I collapse on top of her, take a moment to get my bearings, then strip off my pants, shoes, and the gun strapped to my ankle, and start all over again.



* * *

Rain falls steadily outside in the humid night. Crickets sing. Frogs croak. Somewhere off in the distance, a dog barks. We listen to the symphony of nature in silence as sweat cools on our skin.

“You okay?” I murmur into her hair.

Angeline is lying on top of me, using my body as a pillow, her head tucked into my neck. She sighs in contentment, nods, and burrows closer.

For the past ten minutes, I’ve been combing my fingers through her hair, stroking my hands over her skin, memorizing every curve and plane of her body that’s within reach. She’s a delicious weight: warm, soft, and feminine. I’d like to keep her like this forever.

“Who knew Mr. Happy would be such an amazing hate fuck?” she says sleepily.

I pull a face. “Mr. Happy?” I repeat in disgust.

“Yeah. Because you’re such a shiny, perfect golden boy. Always smiling like you don’t have a care in the world.”

She makes me sound like a golden retriever. I don’t know whether to be amused or insulted. “Excuse me, Angel, Mr. Happy is what some guys name their dick. And secondly, that wasn’t a hate fuck. That was…”

Before I can come up with something that can accurately describe the sexual gymnastics we just engaged in, Angeline interrupts me. “Guys have names for their dicks?”

“Of course. You don’t think we’d leave our most cherished body part anonymous, do you?”

She lifts her head and gazes at me. Her eyes are soft. “That must be an American thing,” she says, kissing my chin. “You’ve all seen too many Arnold Schwarzenegger movies.”

I stroke a lock of hair away from her cheek. “On behalf of Arnold Schwarzenegger, I’m insulted. Not once has he ever named his dick in a movie.”

“So you’ve obviously seen them all.”

“I fail to understand the correlation between the two.”

She smiles. “That’s because you’re a man.”

“Wait. You’re telling me women don’t have names for their unmentionables?”

She laughs, shaking us and the bed. “Unmentionables? Been reading one too many Victorian romances, have we?”

I purse my lips, assuming a prim librarian’s expression. “I also enjoy needlepoint and decoupage, dearie.”

“Sure you do,” she says. “In between target practice and shopping for hotel room security devices.”

“Thought we weren’t gonna talk about work, Angel,” I murmur. When she heaves a sigh that sounds almost regretful, I add, “Unless you’re ready to tell me what you really do for a living.”

“Mon Dieu,” she mutters. “Could you please stop being so observant?”

I chuckle. “So don’t be sweet, and don’t be observant. You want a clueless asshole, that it?”

“They’re generally a lot easier to handle,” she grouses.

“But much more boring.”

“And far less dangerous.”

That gives me pause. When I speak, my voice comes out husky. “You’re not in danger from me in any way.”

She turns her face to my neck. “Silly man,” she whispers. “You’re the most dangerous thing I’ve run across in years. Maybe ever.”

Pressure swells inside my chest. A sensation of warmth spreads through my limbs. I close my eyes and smell her hair because I can, because she’s lying naked in my arms, probably more naked than she allows herself to be with anyone else.

I feel privileged. And I want more.

“So when I visit you in Paris—”

She laughs softly. “You’re unbelievably stubborn.”

“As I was saying, when I visit you in Paris, the first place I wanna take you is this bistro on Rue Vertbois that has decaying nineteenth-century décor, incredibly snobby waiters, and the most indecently huge portions that they don’t allow you to share.”

“L’Ami Louis,” says Angeline, nodding. “I love that place. The confit de canard can make you cry.”

I smile at the ceiling. For the same reasons I don’t believe she’s a writer, I don’t believe she lives in Paris, but only someone who’s spent a lot of time in the city could nail that description. And her Parisian accent, which only rarely slips.

Most notably when crying out my name when she comes.

When my dick stirs at that thought, she laughs. “Have you eaten a large quantity of oysters lately?”

“Hmm?” I’m distracted, smoothing my hands down her back. Her skin is smooth as glass.

“Never mind.” She abruptly changes the subject. “I’m curious about the girl who was with you at the pool. Juanita.”

I tilt my head on the pillow but can’t see the expression on her face. “What about her?”

After a long silence, she replies. “She reminds me of someone I used to know.”

I wait but she remains quiet, so I decide I have nothing to lose by telling her Juanita’s story. And judging by the odd tone in Angeline’s voice, I might have some valuable information to gain.

“She’s Tabby’s neighbor. The youngest of seven kids who all still live at home. Mother always working, no dad in the picture. Tabby sort of took her under her wing. Believe it or not, they have a lot in common.”