The Negotiator

by Gadziala, Jessica

  Even I had to admit—and I was being critical of myself—it was pretty damn good. All of it, too. The only thing that might have made it even better would have been some homemade bread. Which I vowed to learn how to make.

  "I told you that you could do it," Christopher told me, coming into the kitchen where I was scrubbing the sheet pan in the sink.

  "It was pretty edible, right?" I asked, giving him a tentative smile as he moved in beside me, rolling up his sleeves, reaching for a towel, starting to dry the plates I had already washed.

  "It was perfect," he corrected, making a warm feeling bloom across my chest. "Cora would be so proud," he added, just making that sensation move all through my body until it chased away any chilly corners inside.

  "I wouldn't have been able to do it without the frappe," I told him, suddenly too aware of the way his arm brushed mine as he dried the plates, feeling weirdly short of breath from the chaste contact.

  If the brush of his arm against mine was enough to send a jolt of pleasure through my body, I couldn't imagine what his hands on my bare skin, what his lips, his tongue, the scrape of his scruff would feel like.

  When I moved to pass the baking pan to him, his hand closed over mine. Whether it was purposeful or accidental was anyone's guess. Still, it made my gaze shoot up, finding his already on me, eyes dark, heavy-lidded. If I wasn't mistaken, turned on. Just like I undeniably was.

  Alexander and Laird had gone to town to pick up dessert.

  Collis was on the front deck, smoking a cigar.

  Marco was taking a hike.

  We were as alone as we were going to get.

  Seeming to come to the same conclusion as I did at the same exact time, the pan found its way into the drying rack as his hands moved out, and framed my face, his lips crashing down on mine.

  My wet hands curled into his sleeves, holding on as he tipped my head further back, as his hand slid into my hair, as his tongue claimed mine.

  A low, throaty sound escaped me, making a rumble move through Christopher's chest.

  His hands released me for the barest of seconds before sinking into my ass, yanking me upward and off my feet, depositing me onto the counter.

  His body pressed into my knees, making them spread toward his sides, ankles crossed over his lower back, as his hardness pressed against me, making a shiver of anticipation move through my lower stomach.

  Shameless, my legs tightened around him as my hips ground against him, getting the friction I so desperately needed.

  Likewise needy, Christopher's hips ground into mine as he bent me backward, as his lips ripped from mine, moving down my jaw, over my earlobe, down my neck.

  His tongue traced, scruff scraped, lips closed and sucked, sending a shock of pleasure to my core, making his name whimper out from between my lips.

  On a growl, his lips claimed mine again as his arms anchored around my back, holding me to him as he lifted me off the counter, turned, walked me through the house, doing so blindly as his lips continued their relentless assault, making mine feel swollen and overly sensitive.

  My back slammed against the wall in the hallway, his cock grinding against me restlessly, stoking the flames of need in my system, making the pressure on my lower stomach almost unbearable before he pulled me away once again, going up the stairs, down another hall, into a room, the door slamming behind us.

  Inside, he made his way to the bed, turning, dropping down with me straddling him, giving me all the power.

  And I used it. To drive myself up, to move against him until my whimpers became too much for him, making his hands greedy, yanking at the skirt of my sundress, pulling it up, allowing his hand to slip underneath, slide over the patch of material covering me, working my clit through it, driving me up and over before I could even draw in a steadying breath.

  "Again," he demanded, fingers slipping under the material, moving up my slick cleft, circling over my clit until it felt swollen and too sensitive, then moving back downward.

  Two fingers tapped against the entrance to my body, making my thighs clench the sides of his hips, making low, mewling noises escape me, wanting the pressure, needing the invasion.

  "Christopher, please," I demanded as he continued the torment.

  Dark eyes on me, his fingers pressed inside, slow, all the way, pausing, refusing to budge.

  On a grumble, I lifted up a bit, then rolled my hips, feeling his fingers press against my top wall as I did so, making that shock of G-spot contact tighten my walls around his fingers as he started to gently thrust as I continued the circles, both of us driving me up, then sending me crashing over once again.

  Christopher's hands left me once more, grabbing my dress, bunching the flowing fabric up, inching it upward, exposing my belly, my bra, pulling it up over my head.

  Greedy fingers reached out, fumbling with his shirt buttons, yanking at the fabric of his shirt to free it from his waistband, so I could spread it wide, slide it off of his magnificently tanned shoulders.

  He always looked good with his shirt off. In the mornings before he got dressed for the day. During and after his workouts. But he looked especially good right there, right then, for my eyes and hands only.

  My fingers traced over his shoulders then inward and down at his chest, over the muscles of his abdomen, feeling them twitch at the contact.

  My fingers snagged the side of his belt, working it out of the loop, slipping the prong out of the hole, sliding it free from the rest of the loops, dropping it down on the floor beside me. When my fingers sought his button and zipper, though, his moved behind me, slid up my back, snagged my bra, working the clasps free, exposing me, then distracting me from my task as his fingertips grazed the undersides of my breasts, thumbs moving out to stroke over the hardened peaks, working them into tighter buds.

  A shiver started at the base of my spine, worked upward and spread out, taking over my whole body as he leaned forward, lips sealing over one of my nipples, sucking hard. Then, before I could take a deep breath, he moved across my chest to continue the sweet torment before suddenly anchoring his arm around my lower back, lifting me up, turning, dropping me down on the mattress, body moving over mine, lips sliding between my breasts, tongue moving out to stroke an unhurried path downward, stopping only when he met the waistband of my panties, lifting up to remove them from me before dropping down again.

  His fingers traced slow circles over the ultra-sensitive skin of my inner thighs until he had me writhing, begging for more.

  Then and only then, did his head dip again, lips closing around my clit, sucking in short, uneven pulses, keeping my body guessing, refusing to let it get used to the motion.

  "Not yet," he said in a hushed, husky voice when I begged for release, fingers scraping at his neck, shoulders, arms as he moved away from me, going to stand off the end of the bed, eyes roaming over me hungrily.

  Gaze finding mine, they held as he reached downward, worked his button and zipper free, slid his pants and boxer briefs down over his hips, thighs, discarding them, then standing there gloriously naked.

  My eyes broke contact first, too desperate to take him all in to not appreciate the whole view. The thick lines of corded muscle, the dark smattering of hair, the hard desperation of his cock, promising fulfillment.

  My gaze made its way back upward, seeing the heat in his eyes as he put his knees to the end of the bed, moved toward me, came over me, body pressing mine into the mattress, the weight something I hadn't realized I had been needing so badly.

  His lips claimed mine once again, but softer, less demanding. Almost... sweeter.

  Sweet and sex were not things I really thought went together too well.

  Until now.

  Until Christopher.

  I don't know how long it was, where all there was in the world was his lips on mine, the pressure of his body, the heat that seemed to overtake every inch of me.

  But then his weight shifted, balanced on one arm as the other reached into the nightstand.r />
  He slipped on the condom then claimed my lips again, the sweet, unhurried exploration leaving me in this floaty, dreamy highly sensitive state, a place I wasn't sure I had ever been before, where I felt everything at once, and deeply, every sense overwhelming me.

  His lips moved from mine as he pressed up slightly, looking down at me, waiting for my heavy eyelids to flutter open.

  Then, hungry gaze on mine, his hips shifted, pressed, his cock pushing inside me in one slow, deep thrust, claiming me entirely.

  My back arched as my fingers curled into his shoulders, nails digging crescents into his back as a low moan escaped me, making his cock twitch, making my walls tighten.

  He withdrew slightly, slowly, pressing back in, stealing my breath, making the entire world fall away.

  Again.

  Twice.

  Three times.

  Ten.

  Twenty times.

  Before the need seemed to grip us both at once, making my feet plant, my hips driving up against him as he thrust faster, harder, deeper, my whimpers becoming moans, my fingers raking down his back as he drove me up, as he pushed me to the edge.

  "Come with me, Melody," he demanded, voice rough and soft somehow at the same time.

  His hips thrust.

  And I just... shattered.

  Waves crashed over and over as he thrust through them, only planting, body stiffening, my name cursing out from between his lips after he felt my orgasm ebb away.

  He rolled to my side, pulling me with him, hooking my leg over his hip, pulling me onto his chest, his chin resting on the top of my head as we both worked to even our breathing, slow our pounding hearts, process what had just happened.

  Something more than what it seemed, I decided immediately.

  Sex was sex.

  It could be enjoyable and uncomplicated, bodies just seeking relief in one another. Nothing more.

  But this wasn't just sex.

  This was intimacy.

  This was something deeper than I was used to. There was a connection here.

  Where, in the past, sex was always the end of something, this felt undeniably like a beginning.

  The part of me that had always been wary of feelings with men said to shutter up, to batten down the hatches, to make sure he couldn't get in deep enough to do any damage.

  The other part, though, was curious.

  And maybe even, I don't know, hopeful.

  Christopher's fingertips stroked lazily up and down my spine, an almost meditative motion, each lap bringing more calm to his body.

  "Stay," he demanded softly as he pulled away from me, got to his feet, made his way toward the bathroom.

  Stay.

  As if I was capable of moving at all, let alone leaving.

  And that was the weird thing, wasn't it?

  Because this would be the time when I would normally be jumping off the bed, shrugging into my clothes, likely shoving my bra and panties into my pockets or purse in my desperate attempt to get out of there before someone asked me to stay the night.

  But there wasn't a single part of me that wanted to get out of this bed, to get out of this room, to get away from this man.

  In fact, I wanted him to come back, to curl into me, to fold me into him, to feel him hold me like he'd done in his room back in Santorini. But for longer. For the entire night.

  I wanted to wake up in the middle of the night to see his face softer in sleep.

  I wanted him to wake me up before his morning run by sliding inside me, bringing me to a lazy morning orgasm, leaving me to sleep it off as he went about his day.

  Not a single one of these was what I ever imagined myself wanting with someone, let alone all of them at once, with this one man.

  I had no idea what it meant. On a deeper level. All I knew was this felt good in the moment. It felt right.

  It felt righter still as he moved out of the bathroom, still perfectly naked, making his way back to the bed, leaning down to turn off the light, sinking his teeth into the side of my ass playfully before sliding in with me, and pulling me close.

  "You're staying here tonight," he told me.

  Normally, I'd bristle at that demand.

  But, instead, my lips curled upward, big enough to make my cheeks hurt.

  "Okay," I agreed, leaning up to press a kiss to his jaw before nestling in.

  And then I did it.

  I stayed.

  And I had a feeling as I drifted off to sleep that everything had just changed.

  Of course, life tends to like to laugh at your plans.

  Christopher, me, our budding relationship, that was no exception to the rule, it seemed.

  But right then, in that moment, for a short period of time, all I knew was happiness.

  And hope.

  However short-lived it would all be.

  THIRTEEN

  Christopher

  No one was surprised.

  Save for the two of us.

  The people around me, the ones who had known me for so long, had seen it coming from the beginning.

  In the little things.

  Like making her coffee, allowing her to make absurd demands, and following through with them.

  They also saw it in the big things.

  Like me losing control, beating a man to death in front of her.

  I'd killed men before. You didn't get to be in my position in life without getting your hands dirty, rolling around in the blood and filth on occasion.

  But death by my hands had always been a cold, calculated thing. Something that needed to happen with as little fuss as possible. It was simply a task that needed to be carried out. Even if that task was dispatching someone I thought loyal, but who proved otherwise.

  I never lose my cool.

  I never used my fists to beat someone to death.

  That was not how I conducted business.

  It was never necessary.

  It wasn't how I was wired.

  Or so I thought.

  But then I was shocked awake by Melody screaming my name, pure, undiluted fear clear in her voice.

  I shot out of bed, flew into her room, flicked on the light, and saw Niko on top of her on the bed.

  And I just fucking snapped.

  There was no other way to put it.

  Something inside me snapped.

  The control I usually had such a strong grasp on disappeared.

  I didn't need to kill him, I wanted to. I got a sick satisfaction at the blood flowing, the cracks of his bones crushing, the last gasp of breath.

  Because he put his hands on her.

  Because he made a strong woman feel weak and scared and helpless.

  Because he had no right to do that.

  It had nothing to do with his disloyalty. That was a side-effect of working with shady individuals who wanted to go into an illegal enterprise.

  It had to do with her.

  At first, in those hours afterward, while I made plans to move us to a new location for added security until the threat could be neutralized, I convinced myself it was simply because she was in my care, and that I owed it to her to keep her safe while I was keeping her in my home.

  It wasn't until the next morning that I started to understand it was more than that, that she was more than just a guest, more than someone I needed to protect.

  I suspected it was genuine affection as we toured my other home, as we played cards, as she opened up to me, as she made food for us.

  But I only knew for sure when I got my hands on her again, as we took things completely out of the professional realm.

  That this was something.

  Something big.

  Something with a future.

  Which had been a shocking revelation as I lay there in bed the next morning, arm around her lower back, her body draped over me, still passed out, since she always seemed to sleep in.

  But I suddenly couldn't picture next week, next month, next year without her exactly there. Without coming in from
my workout to find her bleary-eyed, coffee in her hands, eyes roaming over my torso. Without finding her in the kitchen sneaking something sweet. Without her at the dining room table. Without her there in the evenings to watch a show, to play cards, to talk about our varied, interesting life stories. Without her in my bed again at night.

  It was too soon to say she was the one, but she was something more than a one-night-stand. And that was shocking enough in itself.

  "What?" I asked, feeling Alexander's gaze on me in the kitchen.

  As he moved beside me by the window, I realized he caught me staring at Melody as she leaned forward over a pot of oregano, gathering spices for dinner.

  Pasta with homemade sauce, because you can't expect miracles from me every night she'd told us over an egg and toast breakfast when Alexander asked what was on the menu for the day.

  "So, am I supposed to call her my sister-in-law?" he asked, clucking his tongue. "My sister-in-law Miss Miller? Seems a bit formal."

  "Her name is Melody," I told him, glancing over, finding his lips curved up, his eyes dancing. "And no one said anything about the two of us being anything more than professional."

  "Oh, right," he said, pressing his lips together. "So those moaning sounds I heard in your shower this morning, that was a business meeting?"

  He was going to be a real handful being home, I realized. Much like I had been at his age.

  "Watch yourself," I demanded, tone a little cutting, not liking him talking about her in that way.

  First, because he was a kid.

  Second, because it gave him a mental image of her.

  Third, because, well, I didn't want anyone thinking about her that way except for me. Regardless of how irrational that was.

  "I don't like the idea of you treating her like you've treated other women."

  "You know nothing about how I have treated other women," I reminded him. Which was true. Because I never brought women home.

  "I know you are gone for one night, and then you never see them again. I don't like that for Melody."

  "I don't either," I told him honestly.

  "So it's more than that."

  "While I don't think it is appropriate for you to ask, I respect your desire to protect her. And in the interest of full disclosure, I don't know what this is, but it is more than a one-night-stand. Beyond that, I don't know."