The Vigilante's Lover III

by Annie Winters

“Really? You guys control the fire department?”

  Jax runs a finger along the top edge of his wine glass, a slow sensuous gesture. I shiver.

  “Control is too strong a word, but we have a hand in most everything that matters.”

  “I don’t see how the Vigilantes can be such a big secret,” I say. I set my fork down. There’s no point in trying to eat. “People have to know.”

  He leans forward, his blue-gray eyes intent on me. “How many unsolved mysteries are there in the world? Cold cases? How many UFO sightings? How many news articles that don’t seem to quite add up?”

  “L-lots,” I stammer. “But usually that’s because nobody has all the facts.”

  He leans back and sips his wine. “Exactly. Because the Vigilantes don’t allow them to have all the facts. We mete out justice in our own way. People believe in karma, that bad people will have bad things happen. The Vigilantes are those bad things. We are karma.”

  I clasp my hands in my lap. Jax seems so intense, so intimidating when he talks like this.

  “Are you ever wrong?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Possibly. But we have the biggest information network in the world.”

  “And all these Vigilantes live double lives? Nobody knows what they really do?”

  “Not all of them. Some choose to stay underground completely. Most silo employees are permanent residents.”

  I pick up the champagne glass idly, then drain it. The bubbly liquid slides down my throat, chilling my belly. I take in a deep breath, looking around at the room, the beautiful decor, the impeccable table, and this man.

  I try to imagine living like this all the time. Anything you want, yours. Everyone around you, ready to serve. Information on anybody, puzzles to solve, crimes to figure out.

  People to either rescue or punish. No checks and balances. No judges or juries.

  Danger. No room for mistakes.

  Still, I want it. I can’t be intimidated or afraid to reach for it.

  I wasn’t born to this world, but it feels right for me.

  I have to keep Jax close. I have to prove myself.

  I think of my mother in that picture, a photo that is probably lost to me now, blown to bits.

  But I keep it in my heart, her hair blowing, a reckless look in her eye. I remember, when I was small, her picking me up and telling me never to let anyone make me feel afraid. “Just because someone tries to hand you fear, doesn’t mean you have to take it,” she said.

  I won’t be afraid. And I will figure out what to do to stay with Jax, to be worthy of the work that he does. I just don’t know where to start.

  But then it doesn’t matter, because Jax is up and coming toward me, a dark look in his eyes.

  5: Jax

  Even though this is a new hotel for me, I can still hear the subtle click of the door in the room next to us. Very few sounds escape me, even without enhanced hearing devices. One of the earliest Vigilante trainings centers around listening to the normal background noise of a room, and immediately detecting anything that changes.

  I’m not alarmed, however. The person who has arrived is here at my request.

  Mia hasn’t been exposed to many things, so what she’s doing next might be new to her. But I take her hand and pull her to standing.

  It isn’t wise to start anything here, not with someone in the next room, but I do want her relaxed. I pull her up against me and clasp her head, my fingers running through her hair.

  She sighs and rests on my chest. When her breathing has slowed and she seems past the anxiety of our conversation, I lead her out of the dining area and into the bedroom next door.

  A young man is there, setting up a massage table.

  Mia promptly halts. “Who is this?”

  The man extends his hand. “I’m Peter. I will be administering your massage.”

  Mia looks up at me, eyebrows raised.

  “Thought you could use it,” I say, although I’m not thrilled the masseur is a man. In fact, picturing his hands on her body is starting to make me doubt this decision entirely.

  He holds up a fluffy white robe. “You ready?” he asks Mia.

  She takes it from him uncertainly. “Okay.” She walks toward the bathroom to change.

  I stare down this Peter guy.

  “Viscount,” he says, with a half-assed bow.

  I settle in an armchair in the corner. The Peter person checks the bars beneath the table and arranges his tubes and bottles of oils.

  Mia emerges from the bathroom in the robe. She looks small and timid in the piles of white terry cloth.

  Peter pats the table. She’s not terribly tall, so when she turns, she has to hop a little to sit on it. The robe parts to reveal her slender legs. Peter notices.

  Yes, this might have been a bad idea all around.

  “Just untie the front and lie down on your belly,” Peter says. He unfolds a towel.

  Mia does what he says, shooting me an uncertain glance.

  Peter spreads the towel across her, then expertly peels the robe down so that only her back is exposed. Still, I can see the side of a compressed breast.

  “Chin here,” Peter says, shifting her position.

  The movement causes her to lift a little, and I see more of her. I decide to escape for a moment to avail myself of the bar. We might be in Tennessee, but it’s five o’clock in New York. Close enough.

  Rather than mix my own, I head out into the shared space of the executive floor. The bartender spots me and smiles. He’s an older gentleman, as they often are in these positions.

  “What can I get you, Viscount Argetti, sir?” he asks.

  “An Old Fashioned,” I say. “Short splash. Bourbon.”

  He nods.

  I try not to think about a naked Mia under Peter’s hands as I survey the room. “Are the other suites occupied?” I ask.

  “Just you here tonight,” the bartender says as he expertly swirls the bitters at the bottom of the glass. “Tomorrow night, though, we have some singer. Hopefully it won’t be an issue.” His tone is dark.

  Great. A musician.

  The elevator opens directly into this room, four exits, plus the windows. The rooms are probably laid out identically, although mirrored. The bedrooms are to the inside. This hotel has eighteen floors, but none are above. Out the window and up to the roof would be the wisest escape in a pinch.

  Not that I think anyone knows where we are. But positions like bartenders in posh hotels are prime locations for retired Vigilantes.

  I assess this man. Sturdy, fairly fit, gray haired. I’d put him at 65. One of the telltale elements of old-school operatives is the way they always scan a room. It’s something very difficult to get out of the habit of doing.

  He passes me the drink, and I take a sip. “Excellent,” I say.

  He nods and wipes the bar.

  Nope, not Vigilante. He’s let several minutes go by without a visual sweep. We’re in a good place for the night. I never let down my guard, but my assessment of our security ensures that I am able to focus on other, more delectable things.

  I turn back to my suite and enter the spacious living room. I hear a groan from Mia and realize the bedroom door is closed.

  I’ve crossed over to it in three seconds.

  6: Mia

  Jax charges into the bedroom like a mad bull.

  Peter stops his magic on my tense back muscles. “Is everything all right?” he asks Jax.

  Jax’s eyes dart from me to Peter. I know what he’s seeing. Me, no robe, on my belly, my backside barely covered by a towel. I do feel a little revealed, but whoa. Totally worth it.

  “He has this oil,” I begin, but Jax’s glare stops me.

  “We’re done here,” Jax says.

  “But we’ve only —” Peter begins.

  “We’re done here,” Jax repeats, and the menace in his voice would make a military commander quake.

  It definitely makes me quiver. I hope he never gets that angry at me.

&nb
sp; Although, I guess he probably has.

  Peter snaps his bag of massage oils shut. “I’ll come back for the table later,” he says, shooting an angry look at Jax.

  I’m amused that there’s someone in the world who isn’t subservient to him.

  Jax’s dark eyes follow him out the door. He waits until Peter has completely left the suite, then he takes a sip of his drink.

  “How was it?” he asks casually.

  Good grief. As if he hasn’t just thrown the man out! When it was his idea!

  I prop up on one elbow, knowing full well that I’m exposing parts to Jax. I’m going to make him suffer for being a possessive ass.

  “Great, until some crazy man ran in here and stopped the whole thing.”

  His eyes are on my body. I decide to mess with him even more. I sit up, letting the towel fall behind me. I don’t have a stitch on.

  I see his jaw tighten. To make it a little worse on him, I dangle my legs on either side of the table. I feel crazy and brazen, but I lean back. Now it’s all right there in front of him. I wonder exactly how long he can hold out.

  Jax takes another drink. His gaze is hot on me, pausing on key places. Now I feel that intense rush myself, wetness and heat and the unfurling of desire.

  How long can I hold out?

  We remain in this standoff for long, excruciating seconds. His glass empties. His eyes are dark. The blue in them is long gone, all black-gray.

  Calmly, carefully, he sets his drink on a side table near the door.

  And I don’t see it coming.

  He’s at me, mouth on mine, and I’m in his arms. Before I can catch my breath, I’ve landed on the bed, and he’s on top of me, heavy and solid. The feeling is delicious, his smooth shirt and pants against my naked skin.

  He grabs my wrists and takes them both in one strong hand. He lifts them up and over my head. I’m pinned, but I want it that way. If he’s going to possess me, he might as well do it right.

  I sense he wants to tie me down, but he doesn’t have a rope, and there are no cords on the draperies. His lips rove over mine, his mouth hot, his tongue demanding. I can scarcely breathe.

  I hear a jingle and a faint hiss and realize he’s removed his belt. My heart speeds up.

  He breaks the kiss a moment and lets the soft end of the leather trail up my thigh. It lands for a second between my legs and I inhale sharply. Every part of me is on edge. I look up at him, knowing I want something but am too embarrassed to ask for it. I’ve barely even had sex with him, but already I know what takes things over the edge. A little bit of —

  Thwack.

  He slaps it lightly against me, and I cry out.

  He knows.

  I look up at him, the sting flashing through my body like an electric shock.

  His eyes are on me. I remember in the barn, when I surprised him by saying, “Harder.” I know based on the letters he wrote me that this makes us a fit. He can say those words were code, but I know that in order to write them to begin with, you have to know what you’re talking about.

  This is what he likes.

  Rough then gentle. The extra burn makes the pleasure that follows all the more intense.

  I get it.

  I learn fast.

  Thwack.

  I clutch at his hand, igniting with the contact. This time he drops the belt and applies the touch after, a finger slipping inside.

  Now I moan. I can’t manage. I need more. I writhe beneath him, trying to make him work faster, harder. I’m heading up that peak and I want it now.

  He chuckles. “Oh, it’s not going to be that easy for you. Not after taunting me on the massage table.”

  My eyes fly open. He withdraws his hand and picks up the belt. He encircles my wrists, then weaves the end through the slats on the headboard. With a quick tug, he has me locked down, my elbows by my ears. I’m exposed again, like in the barn.

  But this time I’m not the least bit afraid.

  He puts his hands on my waist and neatly flips me over onto my belly.

  “On your knees,” he says, and guides my legs underneath me.

  He comes up behind me and runs his hands down my back, then my bottom, sliding down the curve until he finds me.

  “Spread your knees,” he says.

  I do what I’m told, so desperate, so full of need, that I’ll follow any instruction.

  His fingers come up inside me, one on the swollen nub. I jerk when he touches it. The contact is like a spark. Then I rotate down on his hand, wanting to work toward that climax, to let loose the tension in my belly that is driving me insane.

  “Not yet,” he says, and his free hand comes around me, his arm locking around my middle. He holds me up, stilling my movements. I am at his mercy.

  The belt keeps me in place. There are no knots for me to untie. I keep my head down, my breathing hard and erratic. I need this more than I can bear. I never knew I would want something so dark, so much.

  When I’ve gone quiet and still, he begins to work me again, on his terms. His fingers explore every part of me. I relax into it, letting pleasure wash over me. And I understand. I was rushing things. Pushing too fast too hard. I have to let him control it, control me.

  A long moan escapes as he picks up the rhythm. He seems to trust I’m on board now and releases the tight grip on me, massaging a breast instead. He tugs at a nipple and another rush flows through my body.

  His mouth is on the back of my neck. “You are so deliciously wet,” he says. “I’m not going to be able to resist that.”

  He turns me around onto my back again. He steps away, and my whole body quakes with the loss of his pressure and his warmth.

  “I know what I want,” he says. He reaches beneath the pillows, and jerks the covers off the bed from underneath me. I land on a cool sheet.

  He pulls that down as well and begins to wind the length of it around his hand. “Won’t be able to reach these ties,” he says wickedly.

  His dark hair is mussed. He takes my ankle and winds the sheet around it, then lashes it to the knob at the bottom corner of the bed. His hand slides up my shin, over my knee, and along my thigh. I drop my head back, waiting for the touch I’m longing for. But he continues, going back down and wrapping the opposite corner of the sheet around my other ankle.

  He’s tied me down, spread wide across the bed.

  “Let’s put a little more light on the subject, shall we?” he asks. He walks to the window and jerks the curtains open wide. The late afternoon sun blasts inside. The windows take up the entire side wall, floor to ceiling. We’re on a high floor, so no one can see in, but I feel like I’m on display. It’s hot and intoxicating. I imagine someone watching us, watching me, and another hot thrill flows through me.

  Who have I become? I’m so brazen. It’s like I skipped past virginity 101 and straight into my doctorate.

  Jax turns to survey me. He gives a little growl and lunges for the bed. His mouth is everywhere, breast, belly, then down into the folds.

  I lurch up, pressing into him. His tongue is intense, lapping at me, then he’s sucking on the nub. His hand steals upward to clasp my breast and I’m losing it, shattering, the need exploding out into an orgasm.

  Jax feeds it, taking it higher, extending it out. His hands move beneath me and lift me more firmly into him. The cascades keep coming, and I’m crying and saying random words and totally totally lost.

  He lets me come down, but only a little, before he works his way up my body, his mouth trailing along my skin. He takes a nipple in his mouth and he’s already back, fingers inside me, keeping me going, refusing to let me rest.

  I don’t know that I can handle any more, the pleasure sliding over into an exquisite form of torture. I want to touch him, to lower my arms, to move my legs. But I am his, and I’m not in control here.

  He breaks away and strips off his shirt. “No more seeing what I’m up to,” he says, and the sleeve comes over my eyes. He ties it down and the world is reduced to shadows t
hrough the white cotton.

  I hear the thud of his shoes on the floor and the cool hum of his zipper coming down. I want to see him, that hard chest and flat belly, those powerful thighs. But I can only listen and breathe.

  Sensations become intense. The cut of the belt into my wrist. The coolness of the sheet around my ankles. I smell him on his shirt, aftershave and outdoors.

  The room gets deadly quiet. I strain, but I can’t hear anything.

  Then there’s a tinkle of ice, melting and falling in his glass across the room.

  Or not. It seems closer than that.

  I know what’s coming a second before it hits. The icy shock of cold against a nipple. I buck up on the bed and jerk my head from side to side. It’s torment, and just when I don’t think I can take it another second, it’s gone, replaced by something warm, wet. His mouth. He breathes hot against me and the relief and pleasure is so intense that I want to weep.

  Jax continues to work the tortured skin until it is warm and pliant again. Then he pulls away.

  Without any contact, I don’t know what is next. I hold my breath, trying to fix on his position in the room.

  Something warm and wet dribbles on my stomach and slides into my belly button. It pools there for a moment.

  Then the smell. Spicy and fruity. The red wine.

  I feel his hair tickle my skin, then the hot lapping of his tongue. When he withdraws, I shiver from the chill where he’s left me damp.

  Then he’s at my mouth, and he tastes like the wine. We touch nowhere but our lips, and I lift into him, trying to create pressure.

  But Jax is elusive and doesn’t allow me even a small measure of control.

  “One more thing,” he whispers. “And then I’m going to take you however I want.”

  7: Jax

  Mia keeps surprising me.

  I pull away from her naked body, arms tied over her head, ankles lashed to the bedposts. The sun caresses her skin, flawless and smooth.

  I can’t help myself, but let my fingers travel down all the planes and curves. The swell of those luscious breasts, the tightly puckered nipples, the small bump of her ribs and the concave of her belly.