Harris

by Jasinda Wilder

  "God, so good."

  "Now what?"

  "Now you massage my balls. Touch my taint. Go down on me until I make you stop."

  And that is exactly what I did. Cupped his heavy sack in my hand and massaged it with gentle fingers, using my other hand to press a finger against his taint, taking him into my mouth and blowing him with all the skill I possessed. I bobbed down slowly at first, and then faster, faster, and then slowly again. I pulled back, licked it from top to bottom, took him into my mouth again, stroked the base and bobbed and sucked around the head.

  When he started to grunt and shift his hips, I stopped. "You're getting close, aren't you?"

  He nodded. "Yeah, babe. I'm real close."

  "Now what?"

  He hesitated, which told me what he wanted next he wasn't sure about, because Nick never hesitated. "Out with it, hon. What is it you want now?"

  "It's just a stupid fantasy I jerked off to."

  "You want to come on me, don't you?" I stroked him while I spoke, keeping him going, keeping him right on the edge. "Where do you want to come? On my face? Or my tits? You want me to kneel in front of you with my mouth open like a porn star, waiting for the cum-shot?"

  "Layla--" He growled my name, his abs tensing.

  He was close, so close. I mouthed the tip, swirled my tongue around him, taking him deep, bobbing hard, pulling at his ass to get him to move. And move he did, fucking my throat. I let him fuck for the space of a dozen thrusts, and then I felt him falter, felt him tense again, pulling back.

  "Give it to me, baby," I said, staring up at him.

  I sank down low, kept my eyes on him, put my mouth in front of his cock and stroked him hard and fast with both hands, switched to a hand-over-hand stroke until he was pumping into my fists, then I cupped his balls in one hand, middle finger against his taint, the other hand stroking him from root to tip, hard and slow sweeps of my fist down his length.

  We'd done a lot of stuff, but he'd never come on me before, mainly because I didn't know he wanted to. He'd never mentioned it. And actually, no one ever has.

  "Fuck, Layla. I'm coming--Jesus fuck, I'm coming," he grunted.

  "Give it to me, Nick. Come all over me. Let me feel you all over my face." I gazed up at him, stroking him fast now, pumping him to climax.

  He tilted his head back, closed his eyes and groaned long and loud, and then, in the moment of his orgasm, he returned his eyes to mine, watching as he exploded. A thick stream of come shot out of his cock and splashed into my mouth, tasting thick and salty and smoky, splattered onto my upper lip and chin. I kept stroking, lifted up and squeezed my tits together with my arm, took another load of his sticky, warm, white seed all over the slope of my tits.

  Nick was cursing up a storm, grunting, thrusting into my pumping hand, watching himself come on me.

  "You like this, baby?" I asked. "You like coming on my face?"

  "Fuck yeah. So hot."

  "Good. Because I've never let anyone else do that before. You're the first, and the only."

  "First for me too." He said, reaching down and pulling me up.

  There was a rag hanging off the end of a propeller blade, which Nick snagged and used to wipe my face clean. And then, with a hungry, feral grin he wrapped his strong hands around my hips and lifted me effortlessly onto the wing of the plane. I knew what would come next, and I was eager for it. I hooked my heels over his shoulders as he knelt in front of me. He turned his cap brim around to face backward, and then tugged me down the wing so I was all but sitting on his face. I braced my hands on his shoulders, lay back against the wing, let my knees fall open, and gave myself over to his talented tongue.

  And god, that tongue of his lashed me to a frenzy. He didn't use his fingers at all, this time. Only his tongue. Spearing into me, flicking and flitting with the stiffened tip, licking and suckling the hard, aching, throbbing, tingling bud of my clit.

  I reached down, stole his cap from him and stuffed it onto my head over my thick mass of black curls, pulled the brim low, leaned on my elbows so I could watch him eat me. I buried the fingers of one hand into his dark brown hair. Felt my O brimming, felt it boiling. I tucked my feet up on his shoulders and spread my knees wide, rode his face, using my palm against the back of his head to jerk him harder against my slit, gyrating madly against his lapping tongue until I lost it completely, screaming like a banshee as he licked, nipped, and flitted me to climax and beyond.

  And my man, my Nick, he ate me out so good for so long that he was hard and ready for me by the time I was done. And god, was I ready.

  Holy fuck, was I ready; I'm never so horny and ready to fuck hard and long as when I'm fresh on the heels of a ripping orgasm.

  Nick stood up, gliding his palms up the back of my thighs to hold me in place, slid his erection against my slit, grinding teasing slides of his cock against my clit. I let him tease me, and then when I was done being teased, I reached between us and grabbed a handful of dick, nestled the broad, soft, plump head against my opening, and fluttered my hips, teasing him back.

  He slid the single remaining bandolier of bullets off me, tossed it aside, and pushed into me, eliciting a long groaning sigh of bliss from me. He leaned against me, palming my breast. He licked my nipple, kissed my throat, then my chin, then my lips.

  "Yum," I said, smiling against his lips. "I love when your beard smells like my pussy."

  "Me too," he murmured. "Thanks for this, by the way."

  "For what?" I was being driven delirious by the teasing, fluttering thrusts he was giving me, so I wasn't exactly my sharpest at that moment.

  "Making my stupid fantasy come true."

  "It's not--oh god, oh fuck, I'm close again already--it's not stupid. I like the thought of you jerking off thinking about me." I reached down between our bodies and circled my clit with two fingers, hard and fast motions with a light, deft touch, the way I come the fastest.

  "You know I jerk off thinking about you when I'm away, right?"

  "You do?"

  "Fuck yeah." Nick slid a single finger against the rosebud muscle of my asshole, pressed, teased, and finally slid the tip of his finger in. "Every morning, or whenever I can. Multiple times a day, some days. Those pictures I took? That's highest quality spank bank material right there, baby."

  "Next time you're jerking off thinking about me, take pic. Or better yet, a video. Best would be if you can FaceTime me while you're jerking it. I'd love to watch." I was there, on the edge, keeping myself on the edge but not letting myself fall over until Nick was there. "You ready to come, baby?"

  In answer, Nick pulled out and let me slide down off the wing, spun me around, pressed a hand against my head to bend me over. I assumed the position, legs spread wide--in the words of the song, face down booty up--hands braced on the wing.

  I felt Nick press against me, fitting himself to my entrance, and then he rammed in. God, I loved it when he did that, fucked in hard without warning, knowing I'd take it, knowing I'd be ready for him. He grabbed hold of my hips and pulled me back into his thrusts, which were manic, wild, primal, grunting, pounding slams of his cock as deep into me as he could get, his hips slapping against the juicy meat of my ass. And fuck, it felt good. Especially when I put my fingers to my clit and got myself really going.

  "Let me feel it, Nick. Give it to me."

  He could only grunt in reply, fucking furiously. "Take it--fucking take it, Layla. Take it all."

  "Oh fuck, I'm coming Nick. Come with me."

  We both ran out of words then, both of us coming, exploding in unison, orgasming in sync. Nick shouted and I screamed and we kept up the frantic pounding pace, me pushing back into him and Nick slamming in, over and over, until he started to go limp and my thighs shook.

  I collapsed against the wing, metal cold against breasts and belly, breathing hard.

  And that's when Nick's phone rang.

  He gently tugged himself free of me, reached up and into the cockpit to retrieve his jangling handset. "H
arris." He was using his curt business voice. It was Sunday, and everyone who had his direct number knew not to call him on Sundays unless it was important.

  I flipped over, sat on the wing, resting on my elbows, watching my naked, beautiful fox of a man.

  "Went missing, or was taken?" Nick asked, pausing to listen, and then he spoke again. "Have they contacted the police? No? Good. Tell them to leave everything as is, I'll send Puck over with his kit ASAP. Yes, we'll take the case. No, I'll handle this one directly. Lonigan is too high profile to hand this one off to a B team. Usual fees apply, and since it might come to a retrieval situation, make sure they know about the hazard rates. Get the paperwork started and send everything you have to Layla. All right, bye." He ended the call, letting out an unhappy sigh.

  "What's going on, babe?"

  He spun the phone between thumb and middle finger. "Jon Lonigan and Callie MacPhereson's daughter was kidnapped. He's tapped Alpha One to bring her back."

  I grabbed a tablet from the nearby workbench and called up the basics on those two while Nick made a few calls.

  Jon Lonigan and Callie MacPhereson were one of the most high profile Hollywood celebrity-couples in the world, married after a whirlwind romance that had been on the front page of every gossip rag in the world. Despite both of them having been married to other people at the time of their romance, they seemed to be making it work, since they'd been together for a good six years already and married for four, which in Hollywood terms is an eternity. They'd recently had their first child together, a beautiful little girl they'd named, in classic Hollywood style, Cleopatra. Yes, Cleopatra Lonigan. I mean, it's got a ring to it, but...Cleopatra? Really?

  "So you're leaving again?" I asked, only pouting a little.

  "Seems like it."

  "You just got back." I sounded a little petulant, but then I felt a little petulant.

  I knew I'd signed up for this and all, getting together with a man like Nick Harris, but it still sucked.

  "I know. But this is a big case. Huge."

  "You're huge," I joked, and then reached for Harris, pulling him to me using his cock as a handle. "Think you can go again? I need to stock up, if you're leaving again already."

  "Jesus, woman. I've come twice in the last thirty minutes. Give a guy a minute to recuperate." Yet, despite his protests, I felt him stirring a little.

  "Can't help it if I'm starved for your loving. You were gone for two weeks. Two weeks! That's fourteen days without your dick. Fourteen days of my vibrator, which just doesn't cut it."

  "You're insatiable, babe." He leaned against me, pressing me back against the wing, kissing me.

  "Like you're any better?" I asked.

  Oh yeah, definitely stirring. I stroked some life into it.

  "No, I'm not better. Can't get enough of you. Never will, I don't think."

  "So how about this time you bring me with you? I can help with the case and keep your bed warm."

  He was hard by this time. Still perched on the edge of the wing, I slid him home, wrapped my arms around his neck and a leg around his waist so he hit the angle I liked best. This time I did the work, grinding my hips on him.

  Seriously, Nicholas Harris was a beast, an absolute animal. Insatiable, unstoppable, wickedly virile. I couldn't have custom designed a better man to meet my own unquenchable sexual thirst if I'd tried.

  "You're not coming with me," Nick said, cupping my tits in his hands.

  "Yes I am."

  "No, you're not. Holy hell, don't stop. I'm close."

  "I'm so coming with you." I kept doing what I was doing, rolling my hips with Nick's cock buried deep. His thick shaft hit me just so, which meant he was making me come too. "And I'm coming, like right now. Oh god, that's good. How can it get better every single time, no matter how many times we fuck?"

  "I don't know, but it does. Jesus, you feel good. So fucking good." He held onto both my thighs now and took over the thrusting, pumping himself to climax for the third time, and me for the...fifth? Sixth? I'd lost count. "And you're staying here. If whoever took Cleo Lonigan was willing and able to snatch her right out of their Malibu mansion in broad daylight, they're at least reasonably professional and likely very dangerous. I'm not risking you."

  I let him pull free, holding onto his neck until he was out of me, and then I pressed my face into his chest. "I'm not staying here again, Nick. I'm just not. I've stayed back almost every mission. I want to go. I'm getting bored here."

  Nick paced away from me, running his hand through his hair in frustration. He jerked his jeans off the floor and shoved his feet into them, not bothering with underwear. Then he grabbed his boots off the floor, but didn't put them on. Walking over to the control panel, he jabbed the button to open the bay doors, stopping it when they were open just wide enough to admit a body.

  Paused in the opening. "Layla--god, you're so fucking stubborn. I'm telling you, you can't come on this one. I'll bring you on the next one, I promise."

  I scooped up the bandoliers and draped them over my neck, snatched up the rifle, and followed him out of the barn. Once we were outside, he used the keypad on the outside to close and lock the doors, arming the alarm.

  I stalked past him toward the house. "You say that now, that you'll bring me on the next one. But you won't. That one will be too dangerous, too. I'm not fucking helpless, Nick. Or have you forgotten Brazil?"

  He was right on my heels, probably staring at my ass despite our disagreement. "No, I haven't forgotten about fucking Brazil. My job is to keep you safe. Putting you in harm's way is doing the exact opposite."

  I stopped in my tracks, spun around and jabbed a finger into his chest. "No, Nick, your job is not to keep me safe. Your job is keep me happy and to love me. I love it here; I love being an information analyst. It's challenging, and rewarding. It's the best job I've ever had, and not just because it's with you. But I'm fucking bored. I don't need you to babysit me, to keep me shut up in the compound like some fainting daisy prima donna. I can hold my own and take care of myself, and you fucking know it. I can be an asset...I am an asset."

  Nick snarled, a rare expression of extreme frustration and anger. "We're not having this conversation right now, Layla." He shoved past me and into the kitchen via the back door. I followed him.

  And, of course, who should be sitting at our kitchen table, sipping a cup of coffee but Puck Lawson. Five-nine, barely, but what he lacked in height he more than made up for in breadth. He was built like a wrestler, barrel-chested, arms thick as my thighs--which, let me tell you, is fucking thick. Trim waist, quads so massive it was ridiculous. Bald as an egg, naturally swarthy skin tanned darker by the sun, and sporting a black beard so long and thick it spread across his chest. Gimlet, intelligent brown eyes that never missed a thing. He reminded me of one of the dwarves from The Hobbit, actually, and not at all in a comical way. He was dangerous. Liked to drink a little too much, and liked to fight when he drank. Liked to gamble, and won more than he lost. Quick with his fists, quick with comebacks, and quicker yet with a trigger. I'd seen him perform feats of sharpshooting that shouldn't be possible, pinging a nail head with a handgun from seventy yards, one-handed, without even really trying. Of course, his skill with firearms was tertiary to his real talent: forensics. He had a Ph.D. in forensic science, actually, which came after a tour of duty in Iraq, and eight years as a special agent with the FBI before being lured away by Harris with the promise of a massive salary and a don't-ask-don't-tell policy regarding Puck's wild ways.

  Puck liked his women, too. I'd seen him down in town on several occasions with more than one woman on his arm, and never the same one twice. And now he was in my kitchen. The men weren't allowed in our home, as a general rule. When Nick was home, I was naked more often than not, either post-fuck or ready for another round. Which meant the guys stayed out.

  Because of situations like this. I hadn't bothered to arrange the bandoliers at all, so they were all just hanging around my neck, not covering diddly-squ
at. And Puck being Puck, he wasn't shy about staring.

  I scooted over to hide behind Nick. "Puck, what the hell are you doing in here?"

  He grinned over the rim of his coffee mug. "Waiting for the boss." He gestured at Nick with the mug.

  "Well couldn't you have waited out front?" I glared at him from around Nick's back.

  "Could've," Puck drawled, "But then I'd have missed this little treat. Got yourself a fine-ass woman, Harris."

  Nick's voice was colder than ice and sharp as razors. "Get out, Puck, and stay the fuck out."

  "I'm going, I'm going." Puck stood up and moved to the front door, taking the mug with him, walking backward, and still trying to get another glimpse at me.

  "Puck." This came out as a whip-crack. "Talk about Layla like that again, look at Layla like that again, enter this house again--I'll fucking bury you. Got it?"

  Puck didn't seem fazed. Just winked at me. "I didn't mean no harm, boss. I just can't help admiring a work of art."

  "Puck!" Nick actually took a step forward, fists clenching.

  And Puck? His eyes widened and he moved back a step. You do not fuck with Harris, and all his men knew it. Puck, being a gambler, liked to push buttons. He was the sort who would take a tiger by the tail, just to see what it would do. But even Puck knew when to back off when it came to Harris.

  "I'll meet you outside. Need you to brief me on this Lonigan SNAFU." Puck left then, whistling a tune under his breath.

  Nick shook his head in disbelief. "I swear to god, if that man wasn't the best goddamn forensic scientist I've ever seen, I'd put a bullet in his thick skull. He's absolutely incorrigible."

  "He's an asshole," I said.

  "Yes he is. But he's a loyal and talented asshole. If you're his friend, he'll take on Hell itself with a squirt gun for you. And god help you if you get on his bad side." Harris poured a mug of coffee for both of us. "Plus, he makes a hell of a cup of coffee."

  "Is he really that good at forensics?"

  Nick nodded. "Hell yes. He graduated high school at sixteen, had a Master's by twenty, got recruited by the FBI at twenty-one and had his Ph.D. by twenty-three. And the only reason he didn't move up the ladder at the FBI is because he's too much of a wild card. He's got the intelligence and the skills to run the whole show if he wanted, but he'd rather drink, fight, and fuck than sit behind a desk in Washington." A quick grin. "Plus, he'd have to shave his beard, and that's not happening."