"You do have some information I would like, Mr. Brown," I reply. "You managed the money for the Bratva and got stupidly greedy, but I don't care about that. What I care about is why Sergei had Alexsandr Zotov terminated." I put up a hand to forestall any fakery. "I know it is not about Sergei's daughter."
Mr. Brown closes his mouth and then opens it again. "I'm not certain what it was about."
"Well, then," I lift Mr. Brown's gun up and chamber a bullet. "There is nothing with which to bargain."
"Wait, wait." He lifts his hands. "I heard them arguing about the cattle. Alexsandr didn't think the Bratva should be in that business. Guns and drugs, yes, humans, no."
I lower the gun and gesture for him to continue.
"Alexsandr said that the children were too much. He didn't want to be part of it and said that Sergei's uncle would never have participated."
"It is just the age, not the act itself that bothered Alexsandr?" Oh Alexsandr, our priorities are all so perverted.
Mr. Brown shakes his head, "I don't know. I didn't care. I was leaving. Now you have your information, you can leave too." Mr. Brown is brazen in his requests, but why not?
"A little information share and you expect me to let you go? Who do you think sent me?"
"Sergei," Mr. Brown replies sullenly. He looks down at his feet, and then to his dog, who has not moved from my side.
"Do you think I can return to him and say that the job is not done without suffering consequences?" I shake my head at him. "Do not treat me like I am a foolish child."
"What do you want from me?" Mr. Brown holds his hands up in plea. "I'll give you anything."
"You are a man out of ideas, yes?"
"Yes!" He is willing to agree anything right now.
"You have no contingency plan? You just thought you would take your money and run around the Midwest and that no one would find you?"
"Yes," Mr. Brown begins to cry and rock in his chair. "I've been on the run for so long. I stopped here because I was just so tired."
"So you give me the information that Sergei wants from you…because he did not ask for me to kill you, but to return you home to him."
This terrifies Mr. Brown. He hugs himself and sobs openly now. "Don't send me back. Just kill me now. Promise me."
I rub the inscription on my chest. Death is a mercy. This man understands. The end is merely the beginning. Staying alive when you are maimed, when your family is being tortured, when you are being tortured—all are worse than death. I bring mercy.
"I promise," I say. "I will return to Sergei and tell him that I had to put you down, but first you reveal the information to me that imperils Sergei. Tell me this information that is so important that you must be returned healthy and hale."
Mr. Brown begins to talk, and it is forty-five minutes before he is done.
I shoot him once in the temple. I will take the dog with me. I'm not certain what I will do with this dog, but I do not want to leave him here to eat out Mr. Brown's brains as dogs are wont to do.
I pick up Mr. Brown's body and lay him in the tub. There I pour a mixture of sulfuric acid and hydrogen peroxide that will eat away at Mr. Brown's body until all that is left are his bones. The lack of obvious decay will ensure that Mr. Brown's body is not found for some time. I pay his rent for three months in advance.
It will buy me some time with Daisy. Three months to figure out what I should do with her.
In my own apartment, I burn my clothes—the gloves, pants, shirt and skull cap—in my own bathtub. The porcelain is remarkably hardy, and the smell of cotton and wool burning is not unpleasant. Afterward, I shower off the residue of gunpowder, smoke, and ashes.
I give the dog a pat on the head and go to check on the security feed of Daisy's gas station that I have hacked into. She is sitting on a stool looking through a magazine. No one appears to have harmed her. Perhaps Daisy is right. She is fine.
Briefly, I wonder if she will miss her neighbor, but she has not mentioned him even once. I continue to watch her until her shift is nearing an end. I pour out some dog food for Mr. Brown's dog. He needs a new name. I cannot call him Peanut. The thought makes my stomach revolt in disgust. The dog is uncertain at first, but after pissing in two corners, he decides that my soulless apartment is just as good as Mr. Brown's. Cleaning up after the dog, I wonder what I will do with him. Perhaps Daisy would like a pet.
The rest of the night hours pass uneventfully.
As her shift nears its end, I trot down to the Ducati and speed off to pick her up.
"Hey, Nick." She seems pleased to see me, all bright smiles. "I didn't think I'd see you."
"Why not?" I am offended. Did I not tell her that I would watch out for her?
"I'm just surprised. Pleased, but surprised. I didn't get a text from you." She slings her leg over the back of the bike and tugs on her helmet. It is hard to talk to her while she is wearing it. I would need to buy those helmets with the mic capabilities.
I tug her close to me and pat her hands, which are folded over my abdomen. I am tired, and I suspect Daisy is tired. We both needed to sleep, but I cannot sleep when I am worrying about her. When we arrive at her apartment, I broach the issue with her.
"Daisy, I am exhausted," I tell her honestly.
Her hand reaches out to brush against the skin under my eye. "You look it."
"You are tired too, yes?"
She nods a little.
"Then let us sleep together. I cannot sleep without being next to you now. Not after." I pause meaningfully, and I am pleased when I see her blush. She understands then. "Just sleep, nothing more."
Daisy huffs a laugh and shakes her head. "I don't know if I should be offended that all you want to do is sleep."
"No offense is meant." I tell her. "I want you much, but we are both tired, and your first time should be when we are both fully rested. After, you will get no sleep for hours, maybe days."
This makes Daisy blush even harder, although it is nothing but the truth. Once I am inside her wet lushness, with her sweet cunt gripping my cock, I will not want to leave for days. We will need to arrange to have provisions brought to us every few hours, for I suspect that once I have Daisy, I will think of nothing else but having her again and again until our muscles are jelly and even the ability to think will have been suspended. But I cannot do this until the situation with Sergei is resolved. I cannot place Daisy in any danger, and thus I must remain vigilant at all times.
Daisy takes me by the hand, and I follow to her apartment. When she shuts the door, I pull out some string and ask her for a couple of cans or metal items.
"Why?"
"For safety," I respond honestly. She looks at me like my idea is full of craziness, so I tell her, "I will not be able to sleep if we cannot secure your residence."
"Nick, did you grow up in an unsafe neighborhood?"
"Yes." Truth. The streets were unsafe. In the Bratva, a non-Petrovich was a target until you could stand up for yourself. You needed to learn that skill quickly.
Daisy asks me no more questions. Instead, she digs around the trash and finds two metal cans. She rinses them out, and I dig a hole in the bottom of each with the little penknife on my keychain. The cans are strung together and rest at the top of the door.
"What about Regan?"
"If she leaves or returns, we will know. Just like with anyone." I want to keep track of everyone coming or going.
Daisy looks down the hall toward the bedrooms and then back up to the cans. It takes effort not to cover the area beneath my jacket where my gun resides.
"I think that there's a lot you should be telling me, Nick, or things I should be asking you about, but I'm too tired right now." She yawns even as she speaks this.
I nod, although at this point, I don't know what I am agreeing to. I spare a thought for the dog, but if he shits or pisses again, I will just clean it up. Tomorrow. All those things can be taken care of tomorrow.
"Come on," she says, and I follow her
down to the bedroom.
I've seen it before, but being in Daisy's bedroom is completely different than staring at it through a scope. I run my fingers across the scarred wooden dresser that holds the clothes I've bought for her. I'm not sure who has slept on the bed before us, but I care not. All I know is that I will be cradling Daisy's body close to mine.
"Do you want clothes to sleep in? I don't have any, but maybe Reagan's boyfriend has left something?"
I shake my head. "No, I can sleep in my t-shirt and jeans." I don't tell her that I'd rather be naked than touch his clothes.
Daisy picks out some clothes. I try to remember what we bought that would constitute nightwear. My blood heats when I think of the scraps of satin and lace that were in the lingerie department. I remove my jacket and hang it on the closet door. The gun is tucked between the mattress on the side of the bed closest to the door. I shuck off my boots but leave on my socks and belt. It will be easier to respond to threats the less clothing I have to don. I know Daisy is nervous, so I lie down in the bed, my hands tucked behind my head. And I wait.
Chapter Ten
DAISY
MY MIND IS TROUBLED AS I head to the bathroom and change into a sleep shirt. It's soft and fuzzy, all warm and flannel. It's not cold in the house, but I feel obligated to Nick to wear thicker clothing to sleep in so I don't bother him. He looks exhausted and doesn't want to have sex, so I won't torment him by wearing one of the silky nighties I got when we went shopping together.
I exit the bathroom and give the cans strung above the door a quick look and then glance away as if they are no big deal. The sight of them bothers me. Not because they are there, but because they represent secrets. They make me think of my past with my father, and the many ways he had to ensure that we would never be surprised by intruders. I remember bubble wrap placed on windowsills.
I wonder if that is why I am so drawn to Nick—underneath it all, we are more alike than either of us realizes.
There are dark shadows under his eyes, but his gaze is watchful even as he relaxes in my bed. The frame is pushed against one wall, and Nick is lying on the outside. I will have to crawl over him to get into bed. I wonder if he does this on purpose because he wants to see me drag my body over his? The thought excites me, and I crawl into bed over him, blushing, my gaze averted. I lie stiffly, hoping, waiting for a furtive touch on my breasts, my sex.
But all he does is put an arm around my shoulders and draw me against him. My cheek rests on his shirt, and I lay a hand on his stomach.
"Priyatnykh snov," he says in Russian, and I guess he is wishing me pleasant dreams.
"Night," I murmur back to him, and he clicks off the light.
I listen to his breathing, my ear on his chest, but I'm wide awake. I can't possibly sleep with his big, firm body lying against mine. My hand is relaxed on his stomach, but I want to move it. I want to brush over his skin, feel the warmth of him, explore his body at my leisure.
But he's so tired. I don't want to bother him. I'm torn. I'm aching to explore him, but I'm frozen in place. It's like I've been offered the world and told not to touch.
His big hand strokes over my back. "What troubles you, dasha?"
"I'm fine."
Nick chuckles. "I can feel the stiffness in your body, little flower."
"Can I….should I get off you? I don't want to bother you." My hand smooths over his stomach, wishing I was feeling skin instead of fabric. "You need to sleep."
His arm tightens around me. "I enjoy the feel of your body against mine, Daisy. Your touch brings nothing but comfort. Now, relax."
I do, and my hand brushes over him in soft patterns as I wait for his breathing to even out. It does, and I am glad he has finally fallen asleep.
Ever so slowly, my hand creeps to the edge of his shirt. It is untucked. I am inches away from feeling bare skin, and it is a temptation I can't resist. My hand glides lower, and my fingertips graze warmth. His skin is scorching underneath my touch, but soft. So soft. I am riveted.
"Daisy," he murmurs, and his voice is thick.
I snatch my hand away, scalded by the sound of his voice. "I'm sorry. You're trying to sleep, and I'm bothering you."
He reaches over and grasps my hand again, replacing it on his lower stomach. "Do you want to touch me, Daisy? I will not object."
"I…you don't mind? I'm not going to keep you up?"
"I will not sleep, but nyet, I do not mind." His fingers caress my cheek. "How can I mind when my woman wishes to explore my body? It is not possible."
My hand lies on his stomach, unmoving for a long moment. I'm afraid to give in to my desires, feeling a bit put on the spot now that I know he is paying attention. In the end, though, my curiosity and my need win out, and I slide my hand fully under his shirt, pressing my palm to the warm flesh there.
Nick groans and shifts his hips, and I notice that the crotch of his jeans has risen. He's erect down there, all from my simple touch.
I'm fascinated by his erection and by the feel of his stomach under my hand. His skin is taut, and there are crisp hairs in a line down the center of his stomach. My hand has grown bolder, moving under his shirt, exploring. His bellybutton is a soft dip of skin surrounded by nothing but muscle. I trail my fingers along that line of hair, up and down, though I pause at the waistband of his jeans.
How much do I dare?
Nick takes that question out of my mind when, in the next moment, he reaches over my exploring hands and unbuttons his jeans. They have no zipper but five buttons, and I watch with amazement at the rapidity in which he dispatches them. Then his hand moves away again.
I see the stiff form of his cock pressing against the fabric of his underwear. As my fingers play with the hair below his bellybutton, I feel his breathing quicken. He's excited by my touch, and his excitement fuels mine, chasing away my shyness.
He likes my exploring, and that makes me bold.
I slide my hand to the bulge of his penis, and I stroke over the fabric-covered flesh. A low noise hisses from Nick's mouth, but he doesn't pull me away. He likes this. It makes me want to do more. I push at the fabric of his underwear, and the head of his cock is revealed.
It's thick and round, larger than I remembered it. The head glistens with a droplet beading the crown, and it makes me lick my lips. I remember the taste of him from last time, and I want more.
"Nick," I breathe, and my hand slides under the band of his underwear so I can grasp that heated rod of flesh. "Can I put my mouth on you?"
He mutters something in Russian, voice strained. His hand strokes my hair. "I am yours, little flower. Do anything you like."
"Will you like it?" I squeeze my fist around him, fascinated by how hard his length is, how hot and smooth and silky the delicate skin covering it is.
"Da," he says, and the word is thick. "I would love it."
I want it, then. I want to drive him crazy. I love the thought of my Nick losing control because of something that I've done to him. So I slide down his belly and move forward until I can brush my tongue against the head of his penis. I catch that droplet with my tongue, and I taste him. He is salty, the taste almost bitter, but strong. I am intrigued by it, and by the droplet that arrives to take its place immediately.
I tongue the head of his penis again, fascinated by the velvety texture of him against my tongue and by the way Nick goes all stiff with each motion of my tongue. I know that stiffness; it's a good one. It's a sign of him trying to keep control.
It's my goal to make him lose that control.
I press a kiss to the head of his sex, wanting to brush my lips over that impossibly soft skin. I like the feel of him against my lips. In the books I've read at the library, the heroine always takes the hero in her mouth and sucks on him. But it feels like there is too much of Nick to fit into my mouth. I ponder this even as I press small kisses to the head of his penis, letting my lips explore him gently. I don't want to do this wrong.
His hips shift again, and his peni
s brushes between my parted lips. If that's not an invitation, I don't know what is. I open my mouth wider, let my lips circle the head of it, and then I pull back, uncertain once more.
"Can I take your penis in my mouth, Nick?"
I look back at him for my answer, and his eyes are glittering in the darkness, his gaze intent on me. He gives me a small, jerking nod. "It is a cock, Daisy. A khui. Say that for me."
"Khui," I say. "I want to taste your khui."
I'm rewarded by his groan of pleasure, and his eyes close. I love that, the tension on his face, the way his body hums under mine. I'm the cause of this, and it's a delicious feeling. My hand tightens around the base of his penis—no, his cock, his khui—and I bend to take the head of it into my mouth again.
And I suck.
His breath hisses. "Teeth, Daisy—"
"Oh," I say. "I'm sorry. I didn't know—"
"It is okay, dasha." His hand soothes along my back, on the stupidly thick nightie I'm wearing. "A man's skin is sensitive there."
And he trusts me enough to let me put his cock into my mouth. I'm pleased. I open my mouth wider and take the head into my mouth again, this time letting it rest against my tongue. I turn my head and look to him for approval.
Nick only groans and brushes my long hair aside so he can see my mouth on him. "God have mercy, but you are beautiful."
He's so hard that I don't need to hold him to guide him into my mouth—the long, smooth curve of his cock seems to point right at it, and I gently suck on the head and move my mouth over it, exploring. I'm not sure how to do this, but I seem to be doing okay, if Nick's stiff body and softly muttered Russian epithets are any indication. But I'm not sure how to get him off. In the books, it's simply a process of putting a mouth to a penis and then the hero pulls the heroine away. Nick doesn't seem like he wants to pull me away.
And I'm having too much fun to leave.
So I change things up a little, and press small kisses to his cock in exploration. I move over the length of him, licking and nibbling with my lips. There is a vein on the underside of his cock, and I kiss it, too. The base of his cock is surrounded by springy, dark hair, and I find his balls oddly delicate. I'm not sure what to do with them, so I go back to his cock and begin at the head again.
Last Hit (Hitman) Page 18
