by Pam Godwin
She’d never been this close to anyone, physically or emotionally, and she felt forever bound to him. Not by handcuffs or threats or the cock inside her. This connection ran deeper, beyond anything she could touch with her hands or see with her eyes.
They were joined on an inexplicable level, and it scared the hell out of her. Because nothing was more terrifying than the beautiful, dangerous threat beneath her and his total and utter possession of her senses.
Pressing closer, she ate his mouth with all the confusion and passion burning inside her. Her hips moved with abandon, chasing the release they both needed.
Tongues moving in tandem, hands kneading and clinging, they groaned together and came up for air.
A pained sound pushed past his lips. The muscles in his face pulled taut, all those gorgeous, masculine angles unable to conceal his discomfort.
“What’s wrong?” She froze. “Did I hurt you?”
“Trying not to come.” He captured her hand and pressed it between her legs. “Touch yourself.”
That she could do.
Sitting up, she circled her fingers around her clit and quickly found the right pace and pressure. Swift, consistent movements, in sync with the snap and twist of her hips.
His gaze smoldered, bouncing between her eyes and her touch, back and forth. He licked his lips, bit down on the bottom one, and his legs began to tremble.
He was fighting it, trying to hold back his orgasm, waiting for her.
Watching his groaning, shaking effort was enough to send her over. The climax tore through her in dizzying, magical ripples of electricity.
“Kate,” he moaned, clutching her waist and staring into her eyes. “I’m coming. Ahhh, fuck!”
With a guttural groan, he jerked into her erratically and buried himself deep, holding her against him as he filled her with his come.
“Fucking amazing,” he said on a long, languorous sigh. “Thank you.”
“That’s a first.” Twitching with the sparkling remnants of ecstasy, she collapsed on his chest.
“Which part?”
“You thanking me for anything.”
“I’m working on rectifying that.” He brushed her hair behind her ear and blew out a breath. “We need to go.”
“I’ll get a towel to clean us up.” She lifted, letting him slip from her body.
“Don’t.” He straightened his pants and tucked his dirty cock behind the zipper. “You’re going to wear my come to dinner.”
“How romantic.”
He rose to his feet, pulling her with him. His hands smoothed over the dress, straightening and adjusting, and all the while, she could feel his ejaculation leaking down her legs.
She would just have to use the bathroom on the way out and clean up the mess.
As if reading her mind, he sneaked a hand under the gown and smeared the come down her thighs and in her pussy.
She gasped. “What the—?”
He rubbed those same fingers across her mouth. “Let’s go meet the President.”
CHAPTER 29
During the two-hour drive to dinner, Kate fretted over whether she reeked of sex or had a wet spot on the back of her gown. As it turned out, the President of Venezuela was in no position to notice.
Not only was he a busy man, life hadn’t been kind to him in the hygiene department.
As Tiago clasped his outstretched hand in greeting, she had to hold her breath and stifle her gag reflex.
The elaborately-decorated, so-called dictator smelled like a burnt cigar soaked in the anal gland discharge of a dead skunk. She wasn’t even sure which part of his body the offensive odor was coming from.
Maybe it was best she didn’t know.
Thankfully, the introductions lasted just long enough for a handshake, a distracted smile in her direction, and a brief conversation with Tiago in Spanish. Then his brigade of uptight assistants ushered him off to the next partygoer.
Tiago hooked an arm around her back and touched his mouth to her ear. “The air is safe to breathe again.”
“Jesus,” she whispered on an exhale. “What was that?”
“The aroma of corruption and power.” He steered her toward the bar.
“You don’t smell like that.” She smirked.
He smirked back before calling out his drink order to the bartender.
On the way to this majestic beachfront mansion, he’d explained they were going to a private island owned by one of the President’s diplomats. The last jog of the journey had involved a car ferry from the mainland. She hadn’t been able to see the ocean in the dark, but for the first time in her life, she’d detected the scent of salt and brine and heard the roll of waves.
They’d only been on the island for thirty minutes, entering the main hall at the end of dinner. The hundreds of tuxedos and gowns in attendance had been too busy stuffing their faces to pay any attention to the late arrivals.
But she felt their eyes now.
Pinched-faced, scowling men and women filled the ballroom, all of them glaring at the man at her side. Apparently, they didn’t like the King of Caracas in their presence.
“Some of these people are staring so hard,” she said under her breath, leaning back against the bar, “when you leave tonight, your ears are going to be on fire.”
“They want my city.” With his body facing the bar, his assertive hand glided across her stomach and closed around her hip. “And the gorgeous woman on my arm.”
“Pretty sure they just want you dead.” She spotted Arturo at the entrance of the ballroom, his gaze ever-watchful.
“That, too. But we’re safe tonight. No one will try to kill each other with the President’s armed forces on the premises.”
If there were armed guards in the room, their weapons were concealed beneath tuxedos. Arturo was the only face she recognized, and he didn’t have a gun. Every visitor in this house had to go through a metal detector.
She’d asked Tiago a thousand questions during the drive, and he’d only answered a few. While he was hunted by American government agencies and Mexican cartel, he’d assured her the President of Venezuela had more enemies than he did.
That did nothing to calm her nerves.
The bartender handed him the finished drinks. Tiago kept the tumbler of clear fluid and offered her the wine glass.
“What is this?” She took a small sip and widened her eyes.
“Vino Pasita. Wine made from bananas.”
“Wow.” She swallowed another greedy gulp and licked her lips, savoring the burst of sweet, fruity flavors. “This is heaven.”
“You only get one. The hangover is a slow death of agonizing pain.” He clasped her hand and guided her through the crowds of formal wear, his whisper a caress at her ear. “I need to rub some elbows and finalize a few deals. Enjoy your vino and don’t leave my side.”
For the next hour, she remained on his arm like a silent gold ornament, mesmerized by his sensual Spanish parlance as he hobnobbed with politicians, Venezuelan celebrities, and random powerful bad guys.
During each introduction, he announced her as Kate. Some of the faces she recognized. Others she knew by name. If she had a phone, she would’ve been burning up the Internet in an attempt to learn about these people.
After another hour of standing around in six-inch heels, her feet throbbed. Her delicious wine was long gone, and maybe she was just overstimulated by all the conversations, but something niggled. She felt edgy. Almost paranoid.
Her scalp tingled, and the constant itch between her shoulder blades had her searching the crowds at her back every few seconds.
Arturo hadn’t moved from his position near the door. Nothing seemed amiss.
She needed another drink.
With no servers in the vicinity, she lifted Tiago’s tumbler from his hand. He glanced at her while continuing his conversation with the Minister of Foreign Affairs.
She gave them a soft smile and sipped from the glass.
Well, crap. He was drink
ing water? Useless.
A younger man stood beside the old politician. She couldn’t remember his name, but she didn’t like his eyes. Especially when they fell to her chest. It was quick. A dip down and back up. But it happened, and Tiago didn’t miss it.
His neck rolled, and his biceps hardened, crushing her fingers in the bend of his arm.
Desperate to diffuse his temper, she glanced around the room, and an idea struck.
“Sorry to interrupt your conversation.” She set his glass aside and rubbed a soothing hand over his clenched fist. “Will you dance with me?”
“Yes.” He said his goodbyes through gritted teeth and escorted her across the room to the dance floor. “Trying to distract me?”
“Absolutely.”
“Do you know how to dance to this?”
Dozens of couples spun to the fast, creole-like music. Hands clasped, they faced each other, making small, stomping steps. They all moved in the same speed and style, using waltz turns and sweeping foot movements. She’d never seen anything like it. Maybe it was the fandango. Definitely not the tango.
“I have no clue.” She didn’t know how to dance at all.
“It’s the joropo, the national dance of Venezuela.” He led her to the side of the dance floor where the band congregated.
At least twenty musicians played guitars, maracas, harps, mandolins, and multiple other instruments she couldn’t name.
He whispered something to the maestro, and a moment later, the music segued into a slow Spanish number.
“Better?” He stared at her mouth and brushed a thumb across her lower lip.
She nodded. “I think so?”
He guided her to the center of the dance floor and held her tight against the front of his body. Then he swayed into an easy rhythm, keeping his steps simple and slow, as if he knew she didn’t know how to dance.
If the room was watching, she didn’t notice. She was only aware of the strength of his arms around her back and the heat of his breath on her neck.
She ran her hands up the strong column of his neck and spoke against his mouth in an almost-kiss. “I like you like this.”
“That so?”
“Yeah.” She pressed her smile against his cheek, delighting in the scratch of stubble that had grown in within a few hours.
“Then I’ll dance with you every night.”
He carried her through another song, gently rocking, pacing the rise and fall of her breaths. But something started to shift under his skin. A tension that wasn’t there before.
Or maybe it was just her earlier unease seeping in?
She ignored it for a few moments, until his muscles grew tighter beneath her fingers, and his movements stiffened with each note of the song. He was bracing for something.
“What’s wrong?” She looked around and didn’t register anything out of place.
“Let’s take a walk.” His fingers intertwined with hers, and he strolled off the dance floor with a nod to the maestro.
Panic seized her as he wove through the room, keeping his gait slow to accommodate her clicking high-heels. His expression was too calm, too blank. What was he hiding beneath that emotionless mask?
He didn’t make eye contact or stop to talk to anyone. His gaze flitted between Arturo and the side door, where he was leading her.
She pinned her lips tight, knowing not to ask questions or draw attention with so many people around.
“This way.” He directed her into a quiet corridor and around a few clusters of mingling partygoers.
Stalking down the hallway, around the corner, and past a vacant dining room, he seemed to know his way around. She glanced back and found Arturo trailing at a distance.
“Are we in danger?” she whispered.
“Just one more meeting. Then we’ll leave.”
“That’s not an answer. Where are we going?”
“Not sure.” He flicked a finger at the wood flooring. “Following the beer.”
“What?” She squinted in confusion. “The beer?”
He stopped and lowered to a crouch. With a swipe of his thumb, he collected a tiny drop of wetness from the floor and held it to his nose. “A trail of beer.”
“Why? Who left it?”
He rose and touched his lips to the sensitive skin beneath her ear, shushing her. “Through here.”
With a hand at the small of her back, he turned her into a dark, empty service kitchen.
“Where is everyone?” She craned her neck, searching the shadows amid commercial appliances. Her pulse skittered out of control.
“The main kitchen is on the other side of the house.” He ushered her toward an industrial steel door.
An entrance to a walk-in freezer?
A beer bottle sat on the floor in front of it. He moved it out of the way and shrugged off his tuxedo coat.
In the doorway to the hall, Arturo stood with his back to the kitchen, keeping watch.
“Tiago, you’re scaring me.” She rubbed her arms. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“It’s going to be cold.” He draped the jacket over her shoulders and pulled the lapels together at her chest.
With a hard, tense kiss against her lips, he turned and opened the steel door.
A blast of frigid air punched through her, but that wasn’t what froze the breath in her lungs.
Standing at the rear of the walk-in freezer was a man she never expected to see.
Dressed to the nines in a black tuxedo, he looked like an apparition in a swirling cloud of wintry air.
She gasped. “Cole?”
CHAPTER 30
Kate blinked rapidly, struggling to believe her eyes. Her pulse thundered, and her palms slicked with sweat, despite the frosty air.
“Kate.” Cole Hartman folded his hands behind him, shoulders back, as if he were expecting her. “Are you okay?”
“I’m kind of freaking out.” Her gaze snapped to Tiago as he shut the freezer door behind him.
Not a hint of surprise or anger on his stern face. What the almighty fuck?
Her mind reeled to make a connection between the two men. They seemed to look at each other with familiarity, and that kind of made sense. Cole had appeared on the video with Lucia when she found Tate in the shack.
But Tiago had never mentioned Cole’s name to her. Did he know Tate had hired Cole to locate Lucia?
In all likelihood, Cole was here for her. To rescue her.
What if he’d sneaked in a gun? Would he shoot Tiago?
Were her friends here, too?
Elation and terror jolted through her, trembling her limbs and making every breath a workout. “Are you alone?”
“Yes.” Cole narrowed his eyes at Tiago.
“Don’t kill each other.” She gripped Tiago’s hand and squeezed. “We can figure out whatever this is without spilling blood.”
Cole stared at their entwined fingers, and lines formed in his brow.
She would have to explain her relationship to him, even if she wasn’t sure how to explain it to herself.
First, she needed answers.
“You purposefully left a trail of beer to this freezer,” she said to Cole. “For Tiago?”
“Yes.”
She stared up at Tiago’s unreadable expression. “How did you know he did that?”
“I spotted him while we were dancing, and he tipped his beer bottle at me. A helpful clue.” He scanned the ceilings and shelves of frozen foods. “Is this—?”
“I did a sweep.” Cole’s words rode on a flume of white steam. “The area is clean.”
“Clean of what?” She glanced between them, taken back by the way their eyes connected so…comfortably. “I’m sorry. Do you two know each other?”
“Clean means no bugs. We’re not being recorded or spied on.” Tiago banded an arm around her back, pulling her against the heat of his body. “And yes, we know each other.”
“Took you long enough to mark me.” Cole cocked his head. “I’ve been here all night.�
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“I was distracted.” Tiago stroked a thumb along her arm.
“You shouldn’t have come out of hiding,” Cole said.
“We both know I didn’t have a choice.” His jaw hardened. “How’s Trace?”
Cole crossed his arms over his chest, nostrils flaring.
“Who’s Trace?” She adjusted Tiago’s tuxedo coat tighter around her, shivering.
“He was our handler.” Tiago turned, putting his dark eyes inches from her face. “Cole and I have known each other for a long time.”
“What?” Shock strangled her voice. “How?”
“We worked for the U.S. government.”
Her mouth fell open, closed, and opened again. “But you’re Venezuelan.”
“My mother was American. I was born in the U.S. and raised here, in my father’s country.”
“Were you military?” She recalled what little she knew of Cole and the fog of secrecy surrounding the man’s credentials. “Or some kind of spy or assassin?”
His gaze slid to Cole, and they exchanged an indecipherable look.
“He can’t discuss the job.” Cole’s lips slanted in a harsh line.
“But you both knew this Trace guy?” She trembled uncontrollably, fighting to keep warm in the subzero temperatures. “You worked together? On the same side?”
Her whirling thoughts jumped to FBI, CIA, top-secret espionage stuff. Except weren’t those the very organizations that were hunting Tiago?
The night he told her about his wife, she’d asked him why he became like the man who had his family killed. His response hadn’t made sense at the time.
I didn’t. He was my colleague. When he betrayed me, I became the opposite of him. I became his enemy.
“Many years ago, Cole and I had the same employer, on the right side of the law.” Tiago tugged her against his chest and enclosed his arms around her, running a hand up and down her back to create warmth. “We didn’t work closely together, but we both reported to Trace. He was the handler who gave us our orders.”
Just…mind-blowing.
“Trace is also Cole’s best friend. Or was.” He shot Cole a cruel smirk. “Is he still banging your fiancée?”
Cole bared his teeth. “He married her, you fucking asshole.”
