Bolt Saga, Volume 2

by Angel Payne

  Deep furrows appear between his eyebrows. “Excuse the hell out of me?”

  “Stop it.” I brace both hands on the sink and glower at him via the mirror, fury making me forget all about my shirt. “You know damn well what I mean.”

  “Where I should be, no matter what, is protecting you, Emmalina.”

  “And you couldn’t do that from LA, where I asked that you stay?”

  The furrows vanish from his forehead and reemerge as deep brackets at the corners of his mouth. “And where I did stay, until—”

  “When?” I turn, folding my arms, fully aware I’m probably turning temptation into complete pain for the man—but too pissed to care. “Until when, Reece? During all the FaceTimes with those ‘palm trees’ behind you and the early mornings when you said even five a.m. was bearable because you were talking to me…”

  “All of which was true.” He snaps it from locked teeth.

  “And I’m supposed to believe you…why?”

  “For the love of fuck.” He whirls, spraying water all over the place with the swish of his overcoat, and dives a hand through his hair. “So this is the way it’s going to be from now on? You want a copy of the charter flight record from Teterboro, proving Sawyer and I landed just three hours ago?”

  “Considering Sawyer himself was a complete secret from me until last week?” I rebut. “Might not be a bad idea.”

  He links his hands against the back of his head. “And you still think that was a deliberate deception,” he utters. “Just like him recruiting Angelique as a double agent.”

  Suddenly, it’s easy to slip the T-shirt on—though nothing about the move helps to cover up the raw exposure of my heart. Or the vulnerability of my self-esteem…and all its ugly cracks. “At least I now believe it was actually Sawyer who did the recruiting,” I mumble. “Or whatever the hell it was.”

  “Thank God.” He lets his arms fall like his fingers are made of lead.

  “Yeah, well, that still doesn’t mean I like her having access to the Bolt Brigade clubhouse. Double agent still means double agent, mister.”

  He turns back. Not all the way. Just enough so he can slant his head over again, piercing me with a silver laser stare. “She turned over the intel that brought Foley and me to New York.”

  I rock my head, putting movement to my sarcasm. “Just in time to save me from the crazy ambulance driver.”

  “Well.” He turns a little more. “Yeah. But—”

  “Convenient timing,” I snip. “Don’t you think?”

  His head seesaws toward his other shoulder. “Ah. That’s the angle, then. You think Angelique set up all that insanity to go down tonight in order to gain our trust?”

  “No. To gain your trust.” It emerges as nearly a sneer, and I’m just fine with that. “Seeing as how she can’t use her pussy as leverage anymore.” But just speaking the words is like taking a hammer to those cracks in my confidence, breaking them open into gaping wounds. I have to force myself to mutter the follow-up, actually afraid of what the answer will be. “Or…can she?”

  As soon as I spew the words, I want to haul them back in. I brace myself for Reece’s anger—or worse, his laughter. How can I doubt his devotion by even a drop after the man has already declared it before the world? Thinking of the answer yanks the hammer back out, pounding at my dignity all over again.

  But this isn’t some doting little Bolt babe we’re dealing with. This is Angelique La Salle, owner of the magical vagina that led Reece to his original ruin. Is my love enough to keep him from getting caught in her spell again? And how the hell do I prevent all those thoughts from traipsing their way across my face now?

  I don’t.

  Damn it.

  I know it with horrifying clarity as my temples throb and my lips twist. I’m a thousand kinds of messed-up about this, expecting things to get even worse as soon as Reece lets loose with that laugh or that fume…

  Though neither comes.

  Through another long moment, just more silence and stillness—even though he continues to hover, subjecting me to the potency of his stare and his clean rain smell and his mighty, beautiful body…

  Until he’s not hovering anymore.

  He’s kneeling.

  My fierce, headstrong, hulking hero of a boyfriend has dropped to his knees on the bathroom tile in front of me, keeping me fixed in place with his hands at my waist and his face pressed into my stomach, spreading warmth through my entire center as he finally speaks again—in a grating whisper.

  “There’s only one pussy on earth I worship now.”

  As if his words haven’t demonstrated his meaning, he drops his face lower…then lower still…until…

  “Oh.” The syllable shudders from me as he scrapes at my workout tights with his teeth, moaning like a starving man at the very core of my body. Beneath the Lycra, every tissue in my sex swells and sizzles and shivers, and I lurch my hips, needing more of his illicit attention, already imagining his mouth on me, inside me…

  Oh…him.

  Oh…this.

  Oh…us.

  Oh…yes.

  It echoes in my head because I’m powerless to give him any other answer. Because every channel in my system is dialed into him, and every frequency in him is tuned for me. I know it. I feel it. I revel in it. I’m lost in it. This is what we’re made to do together. To create together. To ignite together. It incinerates my inhibitions. Torches every logical thought in my head.

  This is why I had to get out of LA.

  To get lucid from the fever dream of him. To break free from exactly this. To try to figure out how to do this “relationship” thing with a man with fingers that hold the power of the sky and thread the mental needle about putting my trust in him—if I can. Because isn’t trust a thing of equality? And how equal can I be to a creature like him?

  But at the moment, do I really want to push the issue? Can I?

  Screw the issues.

  And for that matter, screw perspective.

  Right now, I need to forget. To dream again. To have the dream of him again. Of us…

  Reece’s growl is a toe-curling interpretation on the same message, electrifying everything south of my waistline as he drags the top of my pants the same direction. The skintight fabric sticks to my wet skin, making him work for the prize. His fervor makes me feel like a carnal reward—a succulent fruit he’s unpeeling, dripping with juices for him to devour…

  Until he gets so consumed with stripping me, his trench coat loosens and falls away from him.

  Revealing that underneath the leather duster, the man is nearly as naked as the day he was born.

  “Reece.” My jaw plummets. “What the…” Shock rips the rest of it from my throat. Clinging to a few—very few—of his bare, wet muscles are the remnants of clothes, as in half the collar of his Henley, one thin strip of his pants, and the tops of his socks, looking like burnt curly fries bursting from the tops of his calf-high boots. The other threads scattered along his frame—which I’m more than aware of as he rises back to his full height—won’t even roll up into a decent lint ball.

  Not that I want him covered in lint balls right now.

  Dear God.

  Not that I can even imagine anything else against his rippled, burnished skin…except me.

  A resolve the man doubles, then triples, as he drops his hold from me long enough to let the duster fall all the way to the floor.

  There’s still enough moisture on his body that the leather keeps clinging to a few places, like his taut ass and formidable thighs. Not that I regret getting to appreciate the view—until turning my face back up to recognize that the bastard is noting every second of my diversion and is unafraid about letting me know. If only his new smirk weren’t so damn cocky…or the surge in his cock, now sliding against my trembling cleft, wasn’t so huge and hot…

  “Saved a damsel tonight,” he rasps, his lips against my temple. “Just wasn’t planning on it, so the leathers weren’t handy. And Bolt
blasts verses cotton and denim?” He moves back in, grabbing me by both thighs in order to hike my ass all the way up onto the counter. “Guess which side won?”

  At first, I’m only able to reply with a serrated sigh. His lips along my face…his fingers against my skin… They infuse me with so much heat and light and awareness, I’m temporarily stunned. Has it been only one week since I last knew this magic? Was consumed by this connection to him? But neither of those are the most burning question on my mind. “So…wait. You just happened to be strolling out on Eighth Avenue, in front of this hotel, when that ambulance jumped the curb?”

  He pauses long enough for me to feel his silent contemplation. Angling his head up by a few inches, he wets his lips while still gazing at mine. “In a matter of speaking? Yes.”

  “In a matter of speaking.” I fight to get at least a prick of are-you-fucking-kidding-me into it. “Which means, essentially, you’re a damn stalker, Mr. Richards.”

  More of his lip-licking—which would start bordering on disgusting if this man’s lips weren’t as decadent as a Renaissance painting. “In a matter of speaking…yes.”

  I don’t want to concede how aroused that makes me either, but I’m helpless to ignore it. In his subtle Reece way, with his shameless, audacious nakedness, he’s attempting a weird form of détente between us—at least right now. And with what he’s doing to my body, I’m not sure my mind has the capacity to resist.

  “Stalker.” I repeat it with more definition, my arousal spiked by his brazen acceptance of it. “That’s on top of being a pervy flasher, you know.”

  One of his brows spikes up. “Ah. Is that what you’re calling it?”

  I meet his mischievous smile, raising the game by one ruthless nod toward the door. “I could probably make kidnapping stick too.”

  “Probably.” Though his voice is a wry mutter, the lust across his face speaks a different story—as well as the efficient tug he gives my left shoe, getting it off my foot before freeing the rest of that leg from my tights. With my thighs physically free to spread for him, he steps in and does exactly that. With our bodies now fitted from head to crotch, he brings his face close again, letting ferocity take over his beautiful features. “But you moved to the big city for the excitement, little bunny.”

  My lungs stop as his feral growl works its way through me. When I release my breath again, it’s mingled with the hungry heat puffing in and out of him. “Which means I have to learn to play with the wolves?”

  “No,” he grates. “No playing.” He hitches his hips, teasing at my quivering entrance with his thick erection. “Just fucking.”

  Oh. God. Yes.

  As the words spill through my mind, my head falls back and collides with the mirror. The scrape of my hair on the glass is a perfect companion to the claw of need in my pussy. Reece’s cock swells too, his throbbing veins caressing my labia. I hold my breath, knowing he’s close to spurting precome. Just a few drops of his scalding milk on my clit, and I’ll be able to—

  I scream as the lightning of the orgasm slams. Reece sucks the sound down with the mash of his lips, blending in his ruthless groan as he invades me completely with one brutal thrust. It hurts, my body not accustomed to taking in his size, but I welcome every harsh, hot sting of the agony, recognizing how my world is righted even as my sights careen.

  We kiss hard and screw harder, the smacks of our bodies drowned by hundreds of voices shouting a deafening version of “Hava Nagila” from across the hall. With his grip still cupping my ass, Reece digs his fingers in, searing the insides of my cheeks with the lusty glow of his fingertips. I groan, abandoning myself to the consuming heat as he starts pile-driving my body onto his, impaling me deeper with every savage stab.

  This is twisted. Insane.

  I’m still mad at him. Maybe even more than I was before. He really is the fucking wolf, sweeping back into my forest and dragging me off by the fur into his lair—and goddamnit, even making me like it. No. This is more than liking it. This is craving it. Drowning in it. Wondering how I got by for a whole freaking week without it.

  Wondering, even now, how I’m going to give it up again.

  Not a great moment to even toy with that dilemma—as Reece releases one of his hands from my body to slam his palm to the mirror, impacting it so hard that I’m stunned the glass doesn’t shatter. His entire arm flexes, precluding the surge of pressure into his cock by just seconds, before he drops his forehead to mine and snarls hot words against my lips.

  “Emma. My Emma.”

  Then, there’s no more room for anger. Or insanity. Or anything but him, in a fast and fierce flood, pouring himself into me. Jumpstarting every nerve of me. Igniting and enflaming and filling me, until every spare inch of me…

  Is him.

  And for that perfect second, in the chaos of his passion and lightning and fire, I’m completely at peace.

  All the doubts vanish. All the distrust melts.

  All the world goes away.

  And in that space, I’m finally able to find courage.

  It’s not that I don’t know what the stuff feels like. I’ve accomplished a lot of courageous things—many would argue falling in love with a guy nicknamed Bolt was one of them—but none that felt as significant as this.

  None that required trusting that same man.

  Really trusting him.

  With truths I’ve never told anyone in my life before.

  With truths I can no longer withhold from him. Not if I’m asking him to keep on loving me and trusting me with his truths.

  Oh, God.

  I barely realize I’ve whispered it out loud until more words spill out afterward, full of the sighs that turn them into strident pleas. “Here goes nothing.”

  Chapter Three

  Reece

  I have to face the inevitable. Fate has bashed me between the eyes with it.

  Heaven’s soundtrack isn’t angels on harps. It’s a ballroom full of people yelling “Hava Nagila.” And instead of a white silk robe, all I have to wear is a few shreds of torched clothing along with my shitkickers. And the whole place smells like bleach and bathroom potpourri and rain-drenched skin. And sex. Some of the best sex of my life. Yeah, in a damn bathroom, in the middle of New York, without even taking my boots off.

  That’s because none of the outside details matter.

  Only she matters.

  Only she makes this huge of a difference.

  To everything…

  Now, I just have to remember how to do a few minor things, like thinking and talking, and then I can ask for her phone in order to buzz the Obelisk’s kitchen. My own cell, stowed in an inside pocket of my trench, is likely cooked worse than my clothes after the zero-to-ninety sprint tonight. Can’t say the same about my appetite. I’m ravenous, but that won’t last for long. With any luck, Cindy’s heading up the kitchen tonight, and she won’t blink twice when I ask her for a priority delivery of her killer lasagna with a Bundt cake chaser. I love Cindy’s Bundt cake.

  Though the next second, I’m tossing the cake dreams into a mental trash can. And yeah, damn it, the lasagna longings too. All the energy of Emma’s rasp suddenly weaves through my mental fog and goat-hooks the center of my chest.

  “Velvet?” My own voice is sandpaper, not a surprise since I’ve just damn near emptied every drop of moisture from my body into hers. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.” But as she lifts her hand to my chest, her features tighten. “No. God. I don’t know.”

  “Sssshh.” It’s more a sibilance than a scold, leaving me as I glide my own touch up her backside and around to her waist once more. “It’s all right. Take your time.” I catch her stare with a roguish wink. “I really didn’t fly all the way across the country just to do this—though it was a damn nice fringe bennie, woman.”

  Luckily, she doesn’t belt me for that—a move she could probably get away with, considering my physical battery’s nearing its redline after letting Bolt the Badass and Reece the Lover run w
ild over the last hour. But she’s also not chortling in amusement. The tension around her eyes and mouth fortify the impression.

  “I have to tell you something,” she murmurs after another thick pause. “It’s…it’s not easy. I think…maybe…I’m even ashamed, though I have no idea why.”

  Hell. This is considerably more than just “something.” So much so that letting her confess it while flattened to a bathroom vanity and my dick still twitching inside her is out of the fucking question. With a decisive huff, I slide out of her body. At once, my system screams its disapproval of the move. I grab the counter as my body temperature plummets, steeling myself as the walls spin.

  “Oh, sheez.” Emma pops to her feet and seizes one of my arms. “Baby, are you—”

  “I’m fine.” I try lightening up the growl with a dark snicker, but it just sounds like I’ve downed one too many shots of Stoli—and not in the good way. “It’ll be over in a second.” I hope. Sometimes, my drops last for thirty seconds. Other times, it’s been three hours. Fortunately, the room realigns as I turn and prop a hip against the counter. “And damn it, what do you have to be ashamed of, Emmalina? With me?”

  I deliberately bite out the questions. The last thing the woman should ever be, anywhere near me, is ashamed. My goal is to make her world the opposite. Free and safe and confident and joyful. And yet right now, none of that claims her face, her posture, or the mutter with which she continues speaking.

  “There’s a reason why I freaked out on you,” she says slowly. “Back in California. About Sawyer, then Angelique.”

  I tilt my head. Study her intently, from the way she worries her bottom lip to the nervous skitter of her gaze. “You mean, to the point that you bugged out of the entire state.”

  She starts rolling her workout tights back up over her thighs and hips. “Well, yeah.”

  “Bugged out on me.”