The Pact (Chicago Nights Book 2)

by Natalie Wrye

  How can I tell a woman who hates me that I wouldn’t mind making her come on my tongue? Because I sure as hell wouldn’t.

  Not tonight.

  The tequila is finally kicking in, asserting itself.

  Feeling horny beats feeling sad as hell any day, and I decide to choose the former.

  Eyes hazy, heart jackhammering, I lean over, slamming the bathroom door and locking it, my hand steady. A moment later, I slide that same hand along the seams of Naomi’s jeans, smile brightening as I swipe fingers over her denim-covered hips, my hands slow as they brush over her skin.

  I hold out my hands for her to see. “Look, Ma, no strings.” I shift on my knees, hoping they won’t give out on me. It’s actually been a while since I’ve been in this position. My throat tightens. “I can assure you that I’m completely ‘string-less,’ Miss Silva. In fact, if I were any less tethered by strings, I might float away into space. I know you know by now that I’m not the kind of guy to get attached.”

  “I’ve been banking on it. It’s the only reason I’m even considering this ridiculous proposal in the first place.”

  “Aside from the prospect of enjoying my very talented tongue?” I squeeze her hips and she shudders.

  Removing my hands, I gaze into her pretty heart-shaped face, finding little emotion and when she stares back—blank-faced and waiting, I have to remind myself not to kiss her…

  As if I were to make that mistake anyway.

  For a man who loves sex as much as I do, I sure hadn’t mastered the art of kissing. Never had to.

  And even if I had, I’m sure Naomi might slap me if I tried, since we’ve never been the best of friends, always been total opposites.

  I was sure as hell we weren’t going to start being anything else right now, so with my full attention on her pink-flushed face, I lower my hands to her knees, pressing, reminding myself that this is just sex.

  Just. Sex.

  Wrapping my fingers around each well-toned limb, I give them a squeeze, and the Sawyer I’m used to—the Sawyer inside—comes back out to play, my libido kicking up ten notches.

  “Okay, so please tell me you’ve done this before…” I say, arching a brow.

  “I guess I don’t have to ask you if you heard Ros and I talking in the kitchen.”

  “Just enough to make me ask that question.” I pause. “Have you?”

  “Yes.” She rolls her eyes. “I’ve had oral sex before. I’m not completely devoid of sexuality, you know.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know personal assistants with stuffed sphincters had much sexual experience.”

  The insult leaves my lips before I can stop it, and I suddenly wish I had swallowed the words. But Naomi surprises me by not walking out.

  Instead she sits on the marble counter, eyeing me. Her fingers reach down, and I wait for the knee to my balls I know is coming.

  Hell, I’d deserve it.

  But instead her hands shove at the waistline of her jeans as she shimmies them down.

  A pair of Hello Kitty bikini briefs greets me as she does, and I can’t stop the grin that spreads on my face, the sight of the silly cartoon drawing a smile too big to contain.

  I glance up at her, watching as she inhales, the breath unsteady.

  “Look, you made your offer, okay, and I accepted it. But make a crack like that again, and you’ll be walking out of this bathroom with a limp and a few less working sperm in your baby bank. Okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll do what I can. I happen to like my dick’s two friends right where they are, and I’d prefer to keep the possibility of kids.”

  “I can’t make any promises. Since your dick and two friends have an owner with a smart mouth.”

  I’d agree. But my eyes are too greedy on the cutesy cartoon peeking between her legs.

  My cock jumps. Coming alive more than it has all night, I push mini-Sawyer’s wants to the back of my mind, focusing on the feel of Naomi’s skin beneath my fingers. I reach for her underwear. But she stops me abruptly, shaking her head.

  “Stop, no. Not like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “So rough, Sawyer. I know you have the grace and manners of a Neanderthal, but I don’t want you ripping these underwear. I really like these. Let me stand first and slip completely out of them before we start this program.”

  “Start this program?” I ask. “This isn’t Microsoft Word.”

  “Excuse me for knowing how to work a computer. One of us should. And I happen to like that programs actually come with instructions.”

  “You need instructions to get your pussy eaten?”

  The words are dirty, and I can tell she likes them. She squirms on the counter.

  “No, I mean instructions for doing this,” she signals. “Sleeping together. Sneaking around. Doing something that I think we both don’t want Sevin finding out about.”

  My hands freeze. Because shit. Sevin.

  I’d forgotten about him.

  The pact shouldn’t be that far from my mind, but it is. I swore nine years ago that I’d never do this…

  Never cross a line with a woman in his life.

  But right now, I can’t make any of those promises. I’m too goddamned screwed up.

  Too suspended. Too horny. Too into staring at the swirling patterns covering Naomi’s tight pussy.

  “For one: we are not sleeping together. This is just a one-off. But you’re right…” I rub my face. “He can’t know.”

  She nods. “I’m aware of that.”

  “So, we’ll keep it a secret.”

  “I hadn’t planned on making an announcement of this.”

  “You might feel differently after I make you come,” I say, my eyes burning into hers as I try to ignore the quick swipe at my ego. “I can keep this little ‘arrangement’ to myself.”

  “We can think of it like a pact.” She shocks me with her use of the word, but she presses on talking to herself, her brown eyes wide. “A secrecy pact. No kissing. No telling. No screwing up my relationship with my boss.”

  “And my best friend.”

  “Because this is just sex,” she rapid-fires.

  “Oral. Barely counts.”

  “I’m not sure that’s true. But…sure.”

  “A little mouth action. No more. No less.”

  “Nope, not at all.”

  The words are barely out of her mouth before I grab for her. The back and forth is like foreplay, and I can’t take it anymore.

  I shuck Naomi out of her dark jeans as fast as I can move her. Her fingers fly to my shoulders immediately, and down go her pants, pooling at her feet. I kick them aside for good measure.

  She looks absolutely delectable like that, glaring down at me. Her glasses make her cocoa irises look as round as moons, and every bit of me is liking the naughty side I can see behind them—the heat simmering in their earth-like depths, more gorgeous than I ever realized.

  As closed-up and conservative as she is, she sure does know how to cast a longing glare, her red-painted fingernails grasping for my nape. She gasps.

  “Guess we don’t need that instruction manual, huh?”

  “Nope.” I’d shake my head, but my lips are already between her legs, covering Hello Kitty. I spread her thighs with my hands, pushing outwards. They’re silky beneath my touch, quivering already.

  French-kissing the silly cartoon, I soak the center of Naomi’s panties with my tongue, listening to her little noises.

  Even now, in the midst of my mouth between her legs, the rules and regulations-obsessed assistant can’t stop talking, and I suppress a chuckle, licking at her sensitive spots beneath the fabric, feeling the outline of her pussy with my taste buds as I breathe her in deep, exhaling slow.

  Her nails dig into me, driving down.

  “Wow, you are really, really good at that,” she comments into my hair, ruffling the strands.

  “Luckily, I’ve never had any complaints.”

  “I wonder—ah,” she stops,
moaning as I make figure-eights across her clit, my lips moving slow. “I always wondered how someone got good at something like this.”

  “Years of years of practice, kitty. I’d have a Master’s in the art, but they wouldn’t allow it in school. Go figure.”

  “Might as well,” she laughs, her nails leaving marks on my skin. “No one—gah, oh my God,” she groans, still trying to talk. “No one would hire a man with a PhD in... in…”

  “Pussy?” I finish, grinning. “You’d be surprised. Now, I’m pretty sure only one of us is supposed to be using their tongue, and last time I checked, it was supposed to be me…”

  Her mouth snaps shut with a snap, and I revel in the silence, eyes focused on tongue-fucking her. There’s still too much cloth in the damn way, too much fabric.

  I’d promised not to hurt Miss Hello Kitty, but I didn’t promise not to stretch her. Standing to my feet, I reach my arms down, wrapping Naomi’s soft ass in my grasp. She gasps when I scoop her up and into them. The sharp intake of breath she takes is barely past her teeth before I snatch the cartoonish underwear off, sending them flying.

  Replacing her back onto the swirly-patterned ledge completely half-naked makes a moan that is so guttural it rocks my core.

  Bottomless, the sharp-tongued brunette is a fucking dream, and I wonder how I didn’t see that before. How I couldn’t tell. How I didn’t notice that all those taut legs and tight curves existed beneath those baggy jeans of hers and those ridiculously oversized shirts.

  I marvel at her for a second, lowering to my knees.

  “Jesus Christ,” I groan. “Why have you been hiding all that from the world?”

  “Well, I get to see this pretty much every night, so… Jealous?” she jokes.

  I don’t want to confess that I am.

  It was all banter and jokes just a minute ago, but the air has gone serious, a weight added to the room around us.

  This isn’t the Naomi I know.

  For a torturous moment, I wonder if I’m taking advantage of her, of her vulnerability, and before I lose myself, before I cross a line that can never be uncrossed, I peer into her expressionless face, finding her looking back at me, her stare steady—fearless more than ever before.

  And I can’t help but be attracted to her—her assertiveness. My eyes burn into hers.

  “Just so you know…if you want me to stop this right now, I will.”

  “If I wanted you to stop, Sawyer, I would have told you a long time ago. I’m not made of china; I’m not that fragile.” She shifts, looking uncomfortable. “You were right. It does feel pretty good right now to be wanted,” she confesses. “And I don’t want to think about it too much, so please…” Her chocolate eyes beg. “Just keep going.”

  I want to grab her face. Correct her. Let her know that she could feel wanted every day like this if she wanted to. I’d be happy to oblige.

  But guilt grabs at my insides, and I choose instead to show her as I clamp my hands over her soft thighs.

  I lower my lips to the ones between Naomi’s legs, inhaling hard when they finally settle, pressing against her most sensitive spot.

  She sighs when I make contact, and it’s the only encouragement I need. I go farther.

  I swipe my tongue to outline the length of her, the strokes circling slow. I feel her out, testing the pressure of my mouth and tip, and it is all I can do not to plunge my tongue into her, not to mouth-fuck her completely when her nails grab me hard enough to draw blood.

  There’s that Hell god I know well—the fiery fury.

  With all the passion of a Greek myth and twice the mystery, the siren I knew existed within her comes alive. Her moans are loud, long as I love her with my tongue, licking every inch. Fingers traveling down my shoulder and neck, she draws patterns with her nails, spurning me on. Making the sexiest sounds known to man, Naomi starts to climb the peak of her orgasm, and I am there.

  Every step of the way.

  Pushing. Prodding. Poking. Pushing.

  Plundering until my tongue is numb, the taste of her all over me in what is frankly the hottest moment of my fucking life.

  I grow unimaginably hard sending her to the brink, my cock begging to be inside her more than anyone before.

  And I can’t stand it. Can’t bear it anymore.

  Not when she comes.

  Exploding in a climax that makes my newly painted bathroom walls vibrate, her thighs quake in my hands, signaling the intensity of her orgasm.

  I rise to my feet after her shudders subside, needing her.

  Especially when she looks up at me—awestruck.

  Mouth pressed into a hedonistic, round “O,” stare half-hooded, she blinks behind those librarian-like glasses, her gaze giving me chills up and down my spine.

  I ask her for her permission without words, and she nods, reflecting my desire back to me. Her chest is heaving, shoulders shaking, her answer as muffled and muddled as I feel.

  “Yes, please,” she mutters, the words a moan more than anything. “Please fuck me, Sawyer. Please. I need it.”

  I make a silent vow to do just that, reaching for my jeans.

  But before I can unfasten the button, unzip the fly, a knock sounds on the door, knocking me out of my reverie.

  Our collective gaze flies to the dark heavy wood a few feet away just as a heavy voice rings behind it, the air shaking with the loud sound.

  My hands freeze.

  “Saw!” Lenny, my ex-teammate, calls out, rumbling, his deep voice as drunken as a skunk behind the door. He knocks again. “Get your ass out here, Kennedy! I saw you go in there not too long ago. And you never came out. Now’s not the time for jacking off. That’s what the women are for! I’ve got a pair of swimsuit models gagging for you in the kitchen, so stop staring into space like you’ve been all night and get out here. I need a backup.”

  It’s the worst timing of all. And a frown finds my face.

  It’s no deeper than the one decorating Naomi’s, and she glances at me, brows knitted together, betrayal in her almond-shaped eyes.

  And I want to explain it to her.

  I want to excuse the truth.

  But there’s no excusing the man I’ve always been, the athlete I am, the player I’ve become.

  Naomi Silva, adorable as she, is absolute oil—unyielding. But me? I’m the water. Following life’s flow.

  Unfortunately, everyone knows the reputation those two have for mixing, so when she reaches for her jeans, roughly shoving them back on, when she double-checks that Lenny is gone and when she slips out of the bathroom, out of my apartment, her cold shoulder frostier than ever, I don’t stop her.

  I don’t say a word.

  I know I don’t have the right ones to give her.

  Chapter 4

  NAOMI

  Monday Night/Early Tuesday Morning

  Thank God for Chicago. A city that never fully sleeps.

  Screw New York. This slice of Midwest I’d found was a city that never fully closed its eyes, even the summer nighttime streets pulsing with the vein of life at odd hours.

  Like right now.

  At almost one A.M., the perpetual party that exists under the city’s skin is still alive and kicking. And usually, I’m not a part of it.

  Except tonight.

  Because tonight, I have to.

  Tonight is different.

  Probably because I’m on a mission to forget that I had oral sex—the mind-blowing type—with my boss’s best friend.

  The air even feels different, I swear.

  Hell, I look different as I pass by the Alchemist bar’s huge dark windows, and through the thick glass, I notice the flush from earlier still on my cheeks—signs of the scandalous minutes I spent with Sawyer shaded on my skin.

  I say a quick thanks to the heavens and all the gods in it that I haven’t seen much of Sevin tonight.

  Because the second I step into the infamous downtown bar he owns, The Alchemist, I know I won’t be able to hide the shame shining in pink t
ones on my cheeks.

  I walk inside the lowly lit pub to the funky Chicago sounds of a romantic rhythm and blues mix playing in the air, heading straight for the bar.

  Even on a Monday, the bar is still buzzing, singles in slinky-backed dresses and button-downs crowding the hardwood-covered space.

  Warm gold lighting and exposed brick welcome me into the new haven that, in some ways, is a second home to me.

  Flashing a few small smiles and waves, I head directly for the first barstool I can find.

  Luckily one of the regular bartenders Chris, an ex-Minor League baseball player with blond hair and a big smile, saves me before the guilt can make me too sick.

  His eyes roam over my face.

  “Need a drink?”

  “Not really. What I need is a winery’s worth of alcohol, but I’ll settle for a glass of wine, tonight,” I say, exhaling as he starts a healthy pour of the nearest red wine, planting it in front of my fingers.

  I grab the glass. “Sevin hasn’t showed up yet, has he?” I risk a quick glance over my shoulder, but Chris shakes his head of blond hair, strands swinging.

  “Not yet, but I’m sure he’ll be here before the night is over. He always checks in before closing.” He glares into my glass. “You ever going to let me fix you a real drink? Or will it be red wine for the rest of your life?”

  I sigh, shifting on the stool. “The day I start drinking liquor, I’ll let you know, Chris. Until then I’m fine with my red wine, a good hard apple cider here and there, and possibly a good cold beer when I’m in the mood.”

  “A cold beer is great on a long hot day. But nothing beats a cold, hard glass of vodka or tequila on a particularly tough night. And while we’re on the subject of things you can’t beat…” Chris slides a cocktail to a waiting hand—smirking, a sloppy grin on his pretty boy face. “I heard we have you to thank for yesterday’s staff meeting’s pastelitos. I thought the food tonight would be from one of those catered joints, but the second I saw that buttery crust, I knew we were in for one of Naomi Silva’s classic Cuban creations.” He nods. “Seriously. You saved this event.”

  I grin, pushing upwards on my glasses as I motion for another glass of wine, since I’m already finishing up the one in my hand.