Flyboy

by Nicole Austin

  “Oh damn. That’s good. So good.”

  Her hips rocked on his leg, drenched pussy matching the rhythm he set. She let him feel the scrape of her teeth and Jhett went crazy, thrusting farther down her throat, mumbling incoherent praise.

  Each sound he made sent sharp jolts of pleasure shooting from aching nipples straight to her deprived clit. Her pussy spasmed, empty and clenching on air, longing to be filled. Twyla tightened her lips, concentrated her efforts.

  His spine stiffened, hips arched, mouth dropping open in a soundless bellow as spasms shook his body. They started in his balls, sped through his cock and exploded in hot jets of cum, which she hungrily swallowed. Insatiable, she sucked until he had nothing left to give. She continued bathing him with tender licks until he softened before letting go with a wet smack of her lips.

  Their eyes met for a brief second, his vulnerable expression radiating intense emotions of love and tenderness. Then he blinked and the moment slipped away, making Twyla wonder if she’d imagined the whole thing. The steady pulsations in her excited clit made close scrutiny impossible. She fell in a heap over his legs, panting harder than a racehorse and longing for an orgasm.

  Neither prude nor innocent, she’d blown previous partners but without the profound echo that beat in her body now. While not her favorite sex act, sucking cock didn’t repulse her. She had the distinct impression that with Jhett it could become an obsession. Already she craved another taste.

  Yet something nagged at her consciousness. Twyla’s thoughts kept returning to the odd claustrophobic feeling she’d gotten from Jhett kneeling over her chest.

  A dream hit her while wide awake and without warning. She was herself but someone else at the same time. She still lay in bed with Jhett but also felt as if she had skipped back in time to another place.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Sadie pulled at the ropes holding her by wrist and ankle to the brass bed. The bodice of her new dress had a ragged tear down the center to her waist. The laces of her corset had been cut, the constricting garment shoved to the side to bare her pale breasts. Her thighs trembled as rough hands lifted her skirts over her hips. Fancy bloomers were no match for his strength, giving way with a loud rip.

  The big redskin would take whatever he wanted. She was at his mercy and so far he hadn’t shown any signs of having a lick of kindness in him. Oh, she could scream, yell for help, but it wouldn’t do any good. Everyone would presume that she was acting her part in a sex game. Saloon girls trading favors for money didn’t warrant white knights rushing in to save them.

  A menacing growl rolled up from his chest once he bared the delicate folds of her sex. Entranced, she stared as he peeled tight buckskin pants down slender hips to reveal a massive shaft. The skin of his engorged cock held darker cinnamon tones, the head half covered by the foreskin. He stroked it once and groaned as fluid beaded on the tip then rolled down the length, making her think of a teardrop trailing down a cheek.

  She expected him to drive his rather handsome cock between her legs without delay, but the Indian surprised her by crawling over her belly, stopping when his knees hit her armpits. He sat back on his haunches, firm ass coming to rest atop her breasts, and he pressed the tip to her lips.

  Oh lordy. His weight compressed her breasts and stole the breath from her lungs. Sadie coughed and sputtered. She went wild, bucking her body in an attempt to toss him off. Blackfeather ignored her protests. His fingers dug into her jaw, adding sharp pain to what had become a panicked fight for survival. Sadie’s lips parted as she panted and he thrust straight down her throat, cutting off the small stream of air.

  She gagged, choked and struggled harder. With his head tossed back, eyes clamped shut tight, the Indian didn’t realize she couldn’t breathe. This must be how it feels to drown. Why the thought, complete with vivid pictures, raced through her brain at a time like this she had no idea.

  How poetic for a saloon girl—a paid fuck—to die with a man’s dick shoved down her throat. She would laugh were it possible. Hell, she’d bite the bastard but the fingers jammed in her jaw socket kept her mouth wide open and immobilized.

  Her battle against the bonds made Sadie’s wrists bleed. The trail of warm fluid tickled as it ran down her arms. She clawed at the ropes, but her vision had started to fade and narrow. Strength and will left her. Blackfeather cried out and salty cum pumped into her throat.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Twyla came back to herself in a sudden rush, clawing at her throat, wheezing and gasping for air. Jhett attempted to soothe her by stroking her back, his warm body tense at her side. She scanned the room, taking in her surroundings, gaining a measure of calm from the now familiar space.

  Crap! That had been beyond intense, bordering on a fucking surreal hallucination. She struggled to wrap her mind around the phenomenon.

  “What the hell just happened?” Jhett’s eyes were wide, the pupils dilated, the corners crinkled with concern.

  Good question, now if she only had an answer. The fog began to lift and she had a moment of clarity. Twyla remembered Danu telling her past life memories were sometimes triggered by an event or through a specific sensory stimulus—sight, sound, scent, taste or touch. No matter how she explained the episode, telling him she’d been caught in a memory from a previous lifetime, it would come off as hokey. Unbelievable. Irrational.

  Guilt gnawed at her, but once again, she held back the truth, opting for a cover story and partial honesty. “Panic attack. I’m not sure what sparked it. Haven’t had one in forever.” She’d never had one, but he didn’t need to know that. “I’m fine now.” At least the last part was true.

  “Christ! You scared the hell out of me, honey.”

  You and me both! And talk about shock…shit. Twyla just found out she’d been a two-dollar hooker who fucked men in a room above a bar. This freaky shit got weirder by the minute.

  How the hell am I supposed to use the lessons from a past as a hooker who was killed by oral sex, Danu?

  Chapter Eight

  “Any sign of trouble…hell, anyone even looks at you funny, I want you to get the fuck out of there, Hestia.”

  Twyla stopped dead in her tracks, pivoted around and glared into the camera. “Do you doubt I can handle this?”

  Shit, now he’d pissed her off. Again. “No—”

  “Then zip it, flyboy. I can’t focus on what’s happening with all this damn armchair quarterbacking.”

  Jhett stared at the monitor and rubbed at the stubble on his chin. Of course, she was right but that didn’t stop him from worrying. He shouldn’t have let the guys talk him into this messed-up scenario. Putting someone accustomed to operating behind the scenes in the thick of danger had been a stupid move, regardless of how much sense it had made when they’d pleaded their case. They were all frustrated and grasping at straws because of almost ten days on the scene with no progress. Sending Twyla in was a desperate move.

  “Walks like a damn marine,” Tank’s comment provoked a hearty round of laughter. Her walk did border on masculine, the steady clip military in its precision, yet somehow still all woman. Even through the monitor, he got a sense of her extreme self-confidence. Damn if he didn’t find it sexy as hell too. Judging by how she held the other team members’ attention, so did they.

  Jhett’s need for her ran soul deep. Regardless, he hadn’t touched her since the day he’d fucked her against the wall, followed by several times in bed and once in the shower. She scared him. In those stolen moments, he’d felt the palpable connection between them strengthen even though she had held something back. Considering their mission, fostering anything resembling a relationship could be a death sentence. He’d go insane if anything happened to her because he let himself become distracted by emotion. Not again!

  Jhett gritted his teeth when she paused just before stepping out of camera range. His fragile hold on his patience snapped.

  “For fuck’s sake, what now? What are you idiots laughing about?” Twyla snarled.


  Christ! His balls tightened and his cock swelled, blood throbbing through his erection. Even her anger turned him on, which made him one sick puppy. “Nothing,” he muttered then keyed off the mic.

  “Stop screwing around and get into your positions.” Sensing his mood, the men switched gears and became serious. As planned, Dodger had taken up a position inside the bar over an hour ago. Tank and Homerun would provide backup from outside, one at the front entrance, the other man in the back alley.

  Jhett’s nerves were shot. He didn’t know how Twyla dealt with running the operation from a distance and not being part of the action. Being stuck in the apartment manning the sophisticated computer equipment made him feel hemmed in, trapped within an electronic world, almost as if his hands were tied. He needed the action, the adrenaline rush of being in the field, a gun in his hand, relying on his sharp intellect to pull off what others would call impossible.

  “If anything happens to her—”

  “Yeah, we know, Hammer,” Homerun interrupted. “You’ve pounded all the painful ways you’ll take it out on us into our thick heads. She’s part of the team, man. We’ll take good care of her.”

  “You handpicked us for a reason. Now you have to trust us to bring her back safe and sound.”

  Tank was right. He’d worked with all of them on various missions. They were the best of the best and he had to trust them. “I know. Now get your game faces on and focus.”

  She didn’t have to see them to feel the weight of the team’s gazes touch her while scanning the area. Presented with their plan, she’d agreed without hesitation. They were all well-trained, competent and she believed in them enough to put her life in their hands. Tank, Dodger, Homerun—any one of them would take a bullet for her. Despite the mixed signals she’d been getting from Hammer, she held firm to the conviction that he’d be the first man in line.

  As she moved from the bright sunlit street to the dim confines of the bar, Twyla tuned in to her inner voice, what she’d always considered to be gut instinct but Danu had said was her higher self offering guidance. Whatever it was, wherever the voice came from, it had never steered her wrong and she depended on what it said. While the voice cautioned that danger surrounded her, any fear was dispelled by the assurance no harm would come. Not with the ever-present team of men, who she considered to be friends, watching over her.

  Dodger slumped over a table, a glass of dark amber liquid held in a shaky fist, telling tall tales to his female companion. Jerky movements made the liquor slosh over the rim onto his hand and his voice slurred. For all appearances, the man was drunk as a skunk. Twyla had to fight back the natural urge to nurture and care for the friend who didn’t make eye contact. He played a role, same as she did. And here, in this foreign environment, surrounded by potential enemies, he was nothing more than a drunken stranger.

  “Don’t let your gaze settle on anyone for longer than a few seconds. Take a seat at the bar, far from the entrance, and place your order.”

  She took a breath, thankful for the reassuring velvety tones of Jhett’s voice rolling through her head, soothing her nerves. He’d taught her some phrases in Surzhyk, but her current role didn’t call for her to speak the language. Since many of the establishment’s patrons were smugglers, they spoke English.

  Twyla used great care as she sat down to ensure her short skirt did not ride up too far. She loathed wearing what she called “girly clothes” even if they did go with her cover story. The bartender appeared before she’d gotten settled on the padded stool.

  He glared at her for long, breathless moments. “Sweetheart, let me give you some advice. This is not the kind of place for the likes of you.”

  “Nonsense.” She dismissed his concern with a casual flip of the hand. “I’m on holiday and intending to see everything there is to see while I’m here.” She met his hard brown gaze. “I’d like a glass of red wine, please.”

  “Wine,” he sneered. “We don’t have anything fancy here. Just beer, vodka and whiskey. Go find yourself a nice restaurant in the city.”

  “No thanks, I like living dangerously. I’ll take a beer and a shot of vodka.”

  He continued to glare at her with contempt. Twyla met the fierce expression with a brilliant smile until he relented. He filled a mug with beer, poured vodka into a glass and set both on the counter then leaned back on the wall behind him, arms crossed over his immense chest.

  She took a sip of the warm beer without flinching and lifted the icy glass of vodka. Interesting, they chilled the vodka to arctic temperatures but didn’t refrigerate the beer. With a shrug she held the shot over the beer and let go, waiting for it to hit bottom. The bartender cringed as she lifted the mug and took one big swallow after another until both glasses were empty.

  “Ahhhh!” The frigid glass of vodka lowered the temperature of the beer to a drinkable level. The concoction revived her, gave her new energy. The drink also brought back fond memories. She hadn’t indulged in a boilermaker since college. Many late night hacking sessions had involved a group of so-called computer geeks sinking depth charges—shots of whiskey, tequila or vodka dropped into a beer. Twyla had been no stranger to this game and developed quite a high threshold for the mixture, even drinking a few jocks under the table during a drinking contest. Now that had been fun.

  Getting the locals to relax didn’t take long. By the time she chugged her second drink, they were gathered around, enthralled by tales of her fictitious exploits. She tuned out the intermittent chatter on the com link, ignoring Jhett’s colorful cursing and Dodger’s play-by-play of the action that had everyone but their leader laughing.

  “I wish y’all could see this. She’s got every man in the place wrapped around her finger and the few women are green with envy. If I didn’t know it was Hestia, I’d swear it had to be someone else. It’s like she’s been transformed.”

  The trick, she decided, was to maintain an outgoing, gregarious attitude opposite her normal reserved personality. Her admirers gathered around gave her the perfect excuse to turn and cast a surreptitious glance around the room, noting that even Dodger had moved closer to where she held court. Only one man remained at a distance, a large figure in the back corner, cloaked in shadows.

  Many hours and drinks later, well after dark, she walked out of the bar on her own two feet, managing to stagger only a little. She bumped into something and muttered an apology, almost rolling with laughter over Dodger’s comments.

  “She’s completely shitfaced. Apologizing to a lamppost for crashing into it.”

  “Just get her the fuck back home,” Jhett snarled.

  Dodger moved around a corner, his voice low and dangerous through the com link. “Can’t. She’s got company.”

  The sudden silence grated on her nerves. Staying in character, she stopped in the middle of the road, pressed a fist between her breasts and cut loose a loud, rumbling belch that would make her brothers proud. Her shadow waited until she stumbled a few more blocks, singing a drinking song at the top of her lungs, making a mess of the lyrics on purpose.

  “Eighty-four bottles of beer on the wall, uh…forty-eight bottles of beer. Take one down, pass it around…um, I forgot how many bottles of beer are on the freakin’ wall.”

  A firm hand clamped down on her biceps and pulled. Going with the motion, Twyla spun, crashing against a solid wall of muscle encased in a fine silk shirt. She grasped at the lapels of his linen jacket to regain her balance, leaning heavily on the man. Relaxing the muscles in her neck, she let her head roll drunkenly and looked at the stranger through squinted eyes.

  “Well, hello there, handsome.”

  Jhett cursed a blue streak, which she ignored.

  The jerk now held her by both biceps and shook, hard. Damn, that didn’t feel very good. She handled her liquor well, but there were limits, and he was making her brain slosh around in her head. “Hey!”

  “Silence.” He had a thick accent. Twyla thought she should recognize the voice, but couldn’t place it.
“You must listen now. The game you are playing is very dangerous and is not for silly girls. Go back to the States. You will not find what you seek in the Ukraine.”

  Yeah right. Bozo.

  “Wanna buy me a drink?” She batted her eyelashes.

  “You’ve had too much drink. Sober up then you and your friend need to go.”

  Interesting.

  “I don’t wanna go. We just met.” She let her fingers slid suggestively over his chest.

  The moron shook her again. Damn it, he needed to stop doing that. “You must listen to me. What you seek is in a very bad place.” A choked, gurgling sound filled with pain filtered through the com link. She wasn’t certain, but thought it had come from Jhett. “You don’t want to go anywhere near Stark. Not if you want to live.”

  Stark? What the hell is Stark?

  She struggled to maintain the appearance of drunken miscomprehension. “Have a drink at your place? Sure, but I need to make a stop first.”

  Jhett kicked the chair, which he’d overturned when Twyla had been grabbed seconds after stumbling within range of the camera. He would kill Alexi Zelenko, strangle the bastard with his bare hands for touching Twyla, scaring her. If there was one bruise on her creamy skin…

  “Fuck!” He tried to focus, listen to the conversation, but the image of Twyla being held by the slimeball and roughly shaken made his blood boil. Any scrap of restraint, objectivity or control he’d had flew out the window as Alexi’s head lowered until their lips were millimeters apart. Then the soon-to-be-dead son of a bitch nuzzled her unbound hair.

  “Move in. Now. Get her the fuck out of there. Everyone engage. Kill that motherfucker if necessary.”

  Twyla looked over Alexi’s shoulder and straight into the camera. “No! Scratch that.” Green eyes that had appeared glassy and dazed now were as crystal clear as her message. Still, Jhett debated for several long moments before confirming her order. Of course, his word didn’t seem to matter. The team had listened to her refusal and no one had rushed to the rescue. He made a mental note to deal with that problem later.