by Skye Warren
We both looked at my lap, which of course had no seat belt whatsoever. My cock, however, thought this was a great time to pulse and leak precum into the army-green fabric of my pants.
“I’m so glad you told me about that, sir. I have just the thing to help hold you down… In the event of an emergency, of course.”
“Of course,” I murmured in agreement. My breath hitched as she pulled out a wide black strap. It was made of a stretching material, designed for multiple uses. For tying wrists together or attaching large, willing men to antique headboards. It did look remarkably like a seat belt as she draped it over my lap and pulled it tight. Much tighter than a seat belt would normally go, but the restraint just made my dick throb.
“Oh no,” she said. “This won’t do. You aren’t safe at all like this.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked, sounding worried, playing along. “Can you fix it?”
Her voice was directly behind my ear, low and breathy. “I’m going to fix you right up. Just hold very still.”
I almost laughed at her playful seduction, but I was too busy trying not to come. It took all my concentration to hold back when she bound my arms beside my body—for my safety, of course. Then she realized that my feet were in danger as well. They needed to be secured to the legs of the chair.
“Unfortunately the windows must stay open for the convenience of your fellow passengers,” she said sadly, holding up the blindfold. “You’ll need this if you plan on resting at all.”
My eyes were covered, and then she was kneeling in front of me. “Della, please. Please.”
“What’s this?” The lightest touch stroked along the bulge in my pants. “A wet spot here. Did you spill your drink?”
I groaned again, my breath coming more shallow. “I don’t know.”
“No, you won’t be comfortable that way. Here, let me wipe that up for you.” Her finger circled the tip of my cock, spreading the precum all around, pressing more of it into the fabric.
She made a dismayed sound. “Oh no, it’s getting worse. You’ll catch a chill, all wet like this.”
As if to prove her point, I shuddered and bucked my hips against her hand, my cock desperate for more contact. Desperate for her.
Thank God she was never cruel. She knew how much I needed her in that moment, and she opened my pants and took out my cock. I panted as she stroked me once, twice.
“This is the problem.” Her voice was authoritative now. A bit relieved, since she’d found the origin of all that wetness. “See, here? You’re leaking.”
Her finger swirled around the tip of my cock, and I choked out words I couldn’t even recognize. “Baby. Help me.”
“I’m going to help you, sir. That’s my job. But you’ll need to call me Della. Professionalism is vital on the job.”
“Yes, Della,” I gasped.
“Good. Now I’m going to do my level best to clean up all this wetness. And you’re going to be a very good boy for me and stay quiet, aren’t you? You don’t want to disturb the other passengers.”
The sound I made was a cross between a grunt and a whimper. Then her tongue touched the tip of my cock, and I moaned long and low. “Della,” I muttered, in agony, having to stay quiet instead of shout my ecstasy.
“Shhh,” she said. “I’m just cleaning up this mess. Look how much of it you have. And even when I lick some up, more comes out of the tip. What are we going to do about that?”
She licked me, over and over, while my thighs shook and my abs quivered. I was rocking my hips in the chair, threatening to break it apart. Then her mouth encompassed me, all the way down to the base, and I couldn’t hold back anymore. I was bursting, I was broken in pieces, but I forced myself to stay quiet while I shattered.
“Della. Oh, Della. I’m coming, baby,” I whispered as I pumped come into her mouth.
She cleaned me up with long licks that turned into leisurely pumps. I didn’t know how much time passed on that chair, in that blindfold, but my soft dick turned hard again. She licked and sucked and bit my chest until I was begging her to let me go, to touch her. I wanted to eat her out, but when my dick was hard enough, she climbed on top of my lap and impaled herself on my cock.
I shuddered at the feel of her swollen flesh.
She sighed in clear pleasure. “I used my mouth on you. I sucked your dick, sweetie. Didn’t I?”
“Oh, Jesus. Yes. So good.”
“Then why don’t you return the favor, hmm? Use your mouth on my breasts. Suck them.”
Thank fuck. I’d never touched her breasts before now. Never licked or sucked or bit them. Because she’d never ordered me to. But now I was released, and I tasted her soft flesh and sucked her tight nipples.
Her muscles tightened around my dick, and I groaned. Then her pace sped up and I couldn’t hold on to her breasts without hurting her. I kissed her neck and buried my face in her hair as she rocked her hips on top of me. Faster and harder, she slammed herself down on me until she shuddered and moaned and clenched around my dick with enough force to milk me all over again.
When our breathing slowed, she got up and took me out of the restraints. She tried to massage my arms, to make sure I was okay, but I wouldn’t let her. Her hand wasn’t fully healed yet, and damned if I was going to risk her comfort or her health so that I could get a rubdown.
In bed, I pulled her close, tucking her head under my chin and holding her tight against my body. I loved being dominated by her during sex, watching that sexy body move, doing whatever wicked thing she wanted me to. But I also liked to protect her.
I wanted her to feel safe next to me, her smaller body against my larger one, her sweeter nature against the hard-hearted training of a soldier. I knew she thought of herself as a cold person, a cruel one, but I’d never met anyone who met my needs before her. I’d never met anyone who gave me her house, her body. Her hopes for the future. There was no woman more kind and generous than her, and I counted myself lucky to be the one to serve her.
“You okay?” I asked with a contented sigh.
“Never better.” Her voice was thick with sleep. “Thank you for asking.”
I smiled, feeling my eyelids shut. The world narrowed to her and me. “Anytime, Della.”
“And thank you for flying.”
THE END
Thank you!
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Now turn the page for an excerpt from my dark sexy thriller Don’t Let Go…
Don’t Let Go
“Beautiful. Poignant. Complex. Haunting.” – Leila DeSint, author of the London Brown series
Junior FBI Agent Samantha Holmes is assigned the case of a lifetime, along with an enigmatic new partner, Ian Hennessy. She’s determined to prove herself to the bureau legend, but late nights and stolen moments lead to more than respect. They lead to desire, and soon she’s fallen for the one man forbidden.
Together they hunt for the FBI’s most wanted man. A criminal. A psychopath. But when they get close, Samantha may end up prey instead. She must face her dark past to stay alive—and to protect the man she loves.
“The chemistry between these two burns hot. The heat they create is utterly, darkly seductive. Combined with the emotions behind it, watching these two souls, broken beyond repair, find an unusual solace in each other… enthralling. Erotic. Breathtaking.” – Romantic Book Affairs
Excerpt from Don’t Let Go:
There were lies people told you. Like when the case worker said, You’re going to love your new home, Samantha.
Then there are lies you tell other people. My father passed away. That was what I told people, even though he’d just turned fifty-two in a
supermax prison. It was easier that way. Lies smoothed the way so we could go on pretending. They were the lube of life, and we all got a little messy in the process.
But the darkest lies were the ones you told yourself. They lurked in the shadows of your subconscious, undermining you and twisting your perceptions. They hid the answers in plain sight, right when you needed them most.
Spread out on my desk were piles of surveillance photos and notes taken over the past twelve months. I found it impossible to imagine that countless field workers and researchers had managed to miss his completely. Which meant this muddled collection of reports contained the information we needed. Hiding in plain sight.
Every image, from airport security cameras to public transportation cams to satellite imagery, showed a man with his head bent, facing down or away. As if he knew exactly where the cameras were, eluding us once again. The man looking the other direction, he could have been anyone. He probably was anyone, considering the pattern of times and locations didn’t add up. Carlos Laguardia wasn’t in a Chicago eatery known for mob connections one day, and then a Paris subway the next, and then a Florida University after that. We were grasping at straws—carefully planted straws designed to misdirect.
Only one image was different. A grainy black-and-white photograph showed a man standing still with people milling about him. Blurs brushing past a dangerous criminal. A monster. They’d run screaming if they knew all the things he’d done. I had chills just reading about it in this air-conditioned cubicle at the highly-secure FBI office.
Money laundering. Extortion. Murder. If there was a law against it, he’d done it. A wave of old pain washed over me. Men like that didn’t care who they hurt, whether it was the victims of their crimes or collateral damage.
I had been collateral damage once. Twelve years ago, I’d huddled under the coffee table when my father came home late, hands crusted with blood. I should have been grateful he hadn’t ever touched me, raped me, killed me. He did that to other little girls. And boys—he was an equal opportunity creep.
Until he finally made a mistake. A boy from my street had disappeared, and even at ten years old, I knew what it meant. I still remembered the heat of that August day and the cold bite of the chair beneath my legs. Static from the plastic seat zapped my skin while I waited in the police station. Horror and pity flickered over the policeman’s face as I told him my story.
I learned an important lesson then: criminals always make a mistake. Always.
If I could figure out Laguardia’s mistake, I’d have him. If I could find the little man with blue pants and a red striped shirt in this real life Where’s Waldo, he’d be mine. Unfortunately, the heavy stack of papers on my desk wasn’t talking.
This was the only image where he looked at the camera, but the resolution was too low for facial recognition software. I got the impression of patrician features—a broad forehead, a strong nose. Dark, curly hair peeked from beneath a thick skullcap. A bulky jacket obscured what looked to be a large frame of a man. Tall, compared to the people walking around him. Well, we’d always known he’d be physically fit and capable of fighting. But beneath his brawn was a mastermind who had run a global organization and eluded hundreds of trained law enforcement officers.
Not for much longer, though. The director had held an all-hands meeting last week.
“Laguardia has made a mockery of this organization,” he’d said, and at the back of the room, I’d silently agreed.
“Our ideals,” he’d continued, practically frothing at the mouth. “Our effectiveness. Even our dignity. A single man has turned us into a joke. That ends now. The time to get a gold star for effort has passed. It’s not good enough to look for him. You’re going to damn well find him. Use all the goddamn resources you need. I will find a way to get funding and support from legal, but you are the agents. You’ve got your eyes on the ground. It’s up to you to bring him in.”
That little speech had flashed me back over a decade, when I’d had my eyes on the ground. When I’d been the only one at the right time and place to capture a criminal, even if it had been my own father. Yes, I understood. Yes, I was on board, ready to catch him. Of course, as a junior agent, that would mostly involve getting coffee and making copies, but hey, that would be my contribution to bringing him down.
A soft knock came from the cubicle next to me. I peeked my head over the short beige walls.
Lance, my friend and fellow junior agent, held up a cup of baby carrots. “Want one?”
“Thanks.” I grabbed one and sat back down, munching.
We had started at the Houston branch of the FBI at the same time and bonded over the completely uninteresting work we were given. Instead of glass-walled offices, we had small stubby cubicles shoved into the corner. Instead of field assignments and fancy gadgets, we did grunt work and replaced toner in the printer.
“What are you working on?” Lance said from his side.
“Looking at this case file.”
A snort. He knew which one I meant. “Did you find his secret hideout yet?”
“Oh yeah,” I joked airily. “I think I’ve got this case wrapped up tight. He should be in custody within the hour.”
“I’m sure Brody will be over to thank you personally for your service.”
“And offer me a raise,” I added.
Our boss and regional manager, Brody, barely even knew I was alive, except when he needed coffee.
Lance’s response was cut off by a commotion in the hallway. I peeked over the wall to see a wave of suits led by Brody rounding the corner, heading in my direction. Plopping back on my seat, I swiveled to face my desk and pretended to work. I actually had been working, in a sense, but not on the budget reports I’d been assigned. I gathered the photographs into an unruly stack and stuffed them into my desk, turning my attention to the spreadsheet blinking empty on my monitor.
Instead of quickly rushing past, as expected, the thud of footsteps slowed.
Brody peered over the ledge. “Meet us in the conference room, Ms. Holmes.”
Then he was gone, and I was hyperventilating. Me? Now? The suits continued past, toward the tall-ceilinged conference room. I stared at the blank cells in the spreadsheet, heart pounding. They’d never asked me in to one of their powwows before. And everyone looked so stern—almost angry. What would they say to me? I could only imagine the worst: you’re fired. You screwed up. You don’t belong here. Unlikely, but try telling that to my racing heart.
Lance hissed at me through the cubicle wall. “What are you doing, Samantha? Go!”
“Why do they want me there?” I whispered back, stalling.
“I don’t know. Maybe to take notes?”
“Oh.” Relief swept through me. Immediately followed by embarrassment. “Good idea. Probably that.”
Why had I freaked out over a simple conference? They wanted a secretary, for crying out loud. What was wrong with me?
Transitive guilt, the psychology textbook would say.
A tendency to assume guilt for wrongs I hadn’t committed due to childhood trauma. In other words, I felt so freaking bad for what my father had done that it spilled over into my adult life.
I could self-diagnose like a pro after specializing in Criminal Behavior at Quantico. We applied a lot of psychological buzzwords to deviant behavior. But the most interesting part had been the total lack of blame present in those classes.
Maybe that was why criminal behavior studies appealed to me. We analyzed them like rats in a maze, trying to figure out what made them tick. No one blamed a rat for eating the cheese at the end. No one blamed him for wanting to escape.
The FBI knew about my dad, of course, and the part I’d played in his capture. That was fine. Plenty of agents got started because we’d seen the effects of criminal activity firsthand. They had just required that a psychologist sign off on me. That had been a cakewalk, after taking all the required classes on behavioral psychology.
What do you remember? she’d
asked, again and again. Psychologists were such voyeurs. They got off on true-life confessions, and then expected us to trust them. Not likely.
Grabbing a steno pad and a pen, I hustled down the hallway where a few of the suits were heading in a different direction. A smaller meeting then. When I slipped through the heavy door, I found only two men inside.
Brody sat at the head of the cherry wood conference table, but without the full audience I was used to from the staff meetings. The other man stood at the window, turned away. I couldn’t see him very well, but the gray peppered through his dark blond hair gave me a clue to his age. He kept himself fit, his body lean and exuding virility. And my last observation as a budding detective: he had power. Power enough not to wait on Brody attentively. No, he continued to gaze out the window, pensive.
“Are you going to sit down, Ms. Holmes?” Brody asked.
I’d been staring at the stranger. And caught by my boss.
A flush crept up my neck. “Yes, sir.”
I slid into a seat at the opposite end of the table, pad flat and pen poised to write. Except Brody was looking at me, as if waiting for me to talk. It felt vaguely like a nightmare, walking into class and realizing I’d completely forgotten about the assignment that was due. I wished I hadn’t worn this pale pink blouse I’d fallen in love with at an artisan fair. Even if it was covered by yards of stiff suiting to guard against any idea that I favored form over function.
Self-consciously, I tugged at the drop pearls hanging from my earlobes, wishing I’d skipped those too. I wanted to wash myself in professional bleach so they’d know I belonged at the table. I looked down, letting my hair brush across my face—hiding, wondering. What the hell did Brody want me to say?
Brody leaned forward, a predatory glint in his eyes. “Agent Holmes, I’m sure you know why we’re here.”
The only thing I was sure about was that my palms were sweating. The pen was slippery in my hand. “Sir?”
