Wings of Gold Series

by Tappan, Tracy

  Jesus H. Christ. He might not be an actor, but Gamboa sure as shit was. Her transformation was mind-blowing. Her body had changed positions, her hip now outthrust and her back arched a little to display her breasts to their best advantage. Her expression begged a man to do me now, and hard, her nostrils fluttering slightly and her lashes drooping low over sensual eyes. Sexuality poured off her, and it was that, more than what she was doing with the dildo—which was, admittedly, an incredible turn-on—that had all of the men nearly passing out from lack of adequate blood supply in their brains.

  Mustache was the one to break the moment first. He stepped up to Gamboa, almost nose to nose with her, and gave her a hard, venal stare. “You come see me after you’re done with your show for the Captain. You hear me, little rose?”

  Good bet ear-scratching wasn’t going to get Eric through this one. Protective anger, the urge to do raw, brutal violence—and, okay, yes, searing jealousy—detonated across his vision in a red haze. All emotions that didn’t bode well for his ability to manage Carrera’s voyeurism. What the hell had happened to the control he’d always been able to summon as easily as his next breath? He’d genuinely like to know. Because now was kind of not the best time to be losing that.

  Gamboa shrugged. “You got the money, treasure, I have the time.”

  Her unperturbed air was once again award-worthy. Although since none of the guards were staring down Eric and snarling, “What’s your problem, meat?” he supposed he was managing to keep his insane reaction all nice and private, too.

  Mustache handed Gamboa the sex toy bag, and Pablo opened the gate. They followed him inside the hacienda, Eric too keyed up to feel any relief over the tracking device success. Two other guards armed with Uzis were posted inside the house’s domed foyer. Beams of colorful sunlight angled through eight small stained glass windows ringing the top of the dome.

  “Where does the Captain want them today?” Pablo asked.

  “The dining room.”

  Eric and Gamboa followed Pablo down a long white hall, with Raphael-like paintings of religious figures on both walls, to a set of open double doors at the end. Two more guards were stationed inside the dining room, these guys dressed in black suits. They weren’t openly carrying weapons, but it was more likely that Nicole Gamboa was in possession of a tucked-back penis than for these two not to be packing.

  To the right a two-story waterfall cascaded into a clear pool. Jesus. Understated wealth was clearly a concept beyond Carrera. To the left was a formal dining room table made of polished wood, twelve high-backed chairs positioned around it, and a lavish crystal chandelier hanging above. One of the chairs had been removed from the end of the table and set aside, opening a space for Eric and Gamboa to do their show. Because where else? A row of tall, paned windows let in the hazy late afternoon sun.

  A comfortable-looking armchair had been set up just off of a sideboard, placed in good viewing position of the dining room table. Another table, small and round with a cigar leaning in a gold ashtray, was next to the armchair.

  “You’re late.” This icy statement came from a tall man standing at the sideboard, his back to them. He was pouring tawny liquid into a crystal glass from a decanter.

  “This stupid whore broke her shoe,” Pablo explained. “Do you want me to beat her, Captain?”

  Also not planned for. Eric’s mind sank into a disjointed, psychotic place, imagining anyone putting their hands on Gamboa in violence.

  The man at the sideboard turned around, presenting a replica of the photograph Eric had seen of Alejandro Carrera, all the way down to the über-expensive suit. The drug lord’s brown eyes were the most merciless Eric had ever seen, and the narrow inspection he passed over Eric and Gamboa lit several more burners of aggression inside Eric. There was a dark edge of challenge in those brown eyes, and a Navy pilot—at least this particular one—generally didn’t let such provocation pass by unanswered. The temptation was strong to stride over and knock foreheads with the drug lord for being dumbfuck enough to look at Eric that way.

  But he wasn’t an aviator. He was a man-whore who was no doubt piss-pants terrified of a FARC kingpin, and so Eric fidgeted his feet and wiped his palms on the front of his pants. The little scaredy-cat pretense seemed to convince Carrera that he and Gamboa—both a solid double-digit level of better-looking over the two whores they’d knocked out—belonged here. Hell, maybe he could act.

  “I see Consuela has finally listened to my demands for better quality couples.” Carrera flicked a wrist at Pablo, sending him off.

  With no hitting, thankfully, or God knew what Eric would’ve done. Blown the mission and gotten them both killed? Just as well it hadn’t been tested.

  The double doors shut, and the two suited-up guards planted themselves in front of it, faces forward, wrists crossed at their waists.

  Great. Two more audience members to watch the sex show. Not to mention that extra men would complicate the matter of getting out of here and to the drug sub when the generator was blown.

  And sidebar: shouldn’t that be happening right about now?

  Carrera swept his arm toward the dining room, like a game show hostess presenting an array of prizes…an effect that was ruined when one of his eyebrows also slanted at a sharp angle, as if to suggest he shouldn’t have had to make the gesture, you stupid whores.

  Gamboa sauntered toward the dining room, the graceful motion of her hips and the sway of her long hair against her back grinding a deep need into the pit of Eric’s belly.

  He followed, working his jaw in a circle to keep it from seizing up.

  Gamboa tossed her broken shoes and the sex toy bag on the pulled-out chair and strolled to the open end of the dining room table, hitching a hip against the edge of it, one foot swinging.

  Eric checked out the length of her shapely leg, from her thigh to her bare foot. Her toes were painted. His belly rolled over. Spinning-back-kick Nicole Gamboa had pink toenails. Why would the discovery of that give him such a sensational thrill?

  Carrera took a seat in his armchair and busied himself with lighting his cigar.

  Gamboa’s chin dipped down, and she gave Eric a look from beneath the sultry sweep of her lashes that raised every hair on his nape.

  Okay. She was managing this sex kitten thing a little too successfully. He ambled up to her and paused, his stomach balling into a knot. Now he wished they had followed Kyle’s self-serving suggestion and practiced their act. Or at least verbally choreographed something so Gamboa would know that every move he made was planned and deliberate.

  She stared up at him, unmoving. It was no more than a shift of her irises in Carrera’s direction that let him know he needed to get his ass in gear before the drug lord felt the need to make another gesture.

  Eric licked his lips. His pulse kicked hard at the skin of his throat. Slipping a hand along her cheek, he tilted her chin up and set his mouth on hers.

  Chapter Ten

  A rocket went off in Eric’s pants. Ah, hell…

  He’d warned Gamboa that he was going to get a boner if they did anything, but he really had thought to push it beyond a measly kiss. Although this wasn’t exactly measly, was it? He’d never kissed lips quite like hers, so pliant and mobile, softer than…velvet…? silk…? than anything he could compare them to. This was a mouth to be savored, and he couldn’t help but move his lips slowly over hers, exploring and tasting as her caramel scent tickled his nostrils and her femininity seemed to engulf him. If a woman could taste like desire, she did, the sensation of warm lust on his tongue staggering. He didn’t feel any hesitation in the way she kissed him back, making a little red devil plop down on his shoulder and whisper in his ear, She’s not acting, bro, she actually wants to—

  “No.” The single syllable whiplashed from Carrera’s mouth.

  Eric and Gamboa startled apart.

  Gamboa’s cheeks were a little pink.

  His lungs were pumping more rapidly than he would’ve preferred.

&
nbsp; “Do you not know how this must go?” Carrera demanded, annoyance drawing tight lines on his face.

  How this must go did not give Eric a warm ‘n’ fuzzy feeling on the inside. Nor did this lapse in their intel, but at least he had an excuse ready to go, one based on Carrera’s offhand comment about Gamboa and him being a better quality couple. “We don’t work for Consuela regularly,” he said. “She hired us only for this, sir.”

  Carrera set down his cigar and picked up his cocktail glass. He took a sip, then set it down, and reclaimed his cigar.

  The whole evolution seemed to take a small eternity.

  “I direct your actions,” Carrera informed them.

  The muscles in Eric’s abdominals stiffened, the implication of those four words shooting straight to his gut. At his side, he sensed, more than saw, Gamboa tense. She knew what had happened, as much as he did. Their control over the pacing of this show had just been punched out of the aircraft.

  “You.” Carrera gestured at Eric. “Get undressed.”

  Yep, total fucking loss of control. Squawking 7700,26 declaring an emergency, lost hydraulics; the ability to manage a safe landing has been seriously compromised.

  Kyle? Now would be a very good time for that generator to bite the bullet.

  With deliberate and measured movements, Eric grabbed the back of his shirt and hauled the garment over his head, moving slowly enough to give himself time to think.

  Sorry, señor, but I have a terrible skin rash, I cannot disrobe completely.

  Oh, really, whoremonkey. Why did Consuelo send you, then?

  Goooood question.

  Nothing. Not a single plausible idea came to Eric about how to avoid getting bare-assed naked. Okay, shit. Well. Gamboa had seen dick before, right, so, just…you know. He yanked on the drawstring of his canvas pants, making sure to push his underwear down at the same time as his pants—his bad, but he wasn’t sure if his skivvies were typical Colombian wear. Weird thing to worry about now that he was standing naked in front of a notorious drug lord, two of his goons, and a knockout woman who any man of sane mind would celebrate his nakedness in front of with the touchdown dance.

  Except like this.

  As a part of her act, Gamboa leaned back, bracing her hands on the dining room table behind her, and gave his body a leisurely inspection. Her gaze lingered on his cock, already at half-mast from their kiss, and… Lingered? Wait. Was this part of her act, or did she really—? Fucking stop. He was going to spend this whole show in the land of the mentally enfeebled if he kept asking himself questions like that.

  “Take her in your arms,” Carrera instructed. “Kiss her, mouth open, with your tongue.”

  Eric felt a tic jump in his jaw. No, thank you. He’d prefer not to do that, now he was naked ’n’ all. His knees felt constructed of broken glass as he stepped back over to Gamboa, the cords in his neck taut.

  She straightened off the table.

  He aimed his vision at her neck. Whatever was going on in her eyes, he didn’t want to see. He tugged her against his body and exhaled. Her hooker dress and lingerie provided little barrier against the feel of her figure, ripe, full, and young, against his bare flesh. His balls came to attention with a hot pulse, and, dumbstruck, he froze there for a combined moment of sublime wonder and heart-stopping panic.

  She linked her arms around his neck, obviously meaning to help him along, but as she leaned into him, her lips brushed his ear in a soft kiss, and that ended him. He groaned softly. Idiot, stupid-ass mook, why hadn’t he warned her about his ears? An interstate highway of lust traveled a direct route from his ears to his cock. Mess with his ears, and he pitched a tent. There weren’t any toll booths in-between; it just happened.

  The resounding thunder of his heartbeat roared into his head as the length of him jutted up against her soft belly. Something dropped away inside him. He’d tried to prepare her for this, but now that it was happening, it came to him, swift and hard, that he hadn’t adequately prepared himself. This wasn’t the mild embarrassment he predicted he’d feel should he get a stiffy. No. This was gut-flinching vulnerability.

  Because he didn’t want her to see him like this. This woman who so often displayed herself with ill-fitting mannish mannerisms—which was really lovable for how wrong it was—who had pushed herself beyond what was reasonable on Monserrate Mountain…just like he had, who felt she needed to show off her fighting skills to prove her worth…something he could totally relate to. There’s no point in doing something, if you can’t do it well, Eric. Who, he could tell from the look in her eyes, wasn’t as tough as she tried to prove. This woman he wanted to see him erect during a night with candlelight, a bubble bath, and lots of low, soft laughter. Not with them both drowning in this head-fuck.

  Her lips were still by his ear, so he heard her perfectly well when she breathed the words. “It’s all right.”

  His lids sank shut. His heart stepped into his windpipe. No, it wasn’t all right, but for her to say it was…more screwy stuff for him. Chest tight, he wrapped his arms around her, spreading his fingers against the feminine turn of her spine. He kissed her hard, going immediately for open-mouthed hunger, slanting his lips back and forth over hers, passionate-looking, but still somewhat restrained with his…

  She was the one who forged her tongue into his mouth.

  Air whooshed from his nostrils. The feel of her warm, moist tongue stroking over his sent any lingering control he had the way of the dodo. His cock throbbed against her, and she answered with a soft groan, warm breath spilling into his mouth. His head reeled. Where did fake Nicole end and the real one begin?

  “Take her dress off.” Carrera’s voice pounded against Eric’s eardrums.

  Eric lurched backward, his heartbeat a scattered mess. Okay. Okay. Throttle back. It’s only her dress. Leaning forward, he curled his fingers under the hem of Gamboa’s dress, his fingertips encountering soft skin, his nose nearly brushing the feminine slope of her shoulder. He pulled upward, and she raised her arms, letting him haul the garment all the way off, exposing her lingerie. Purple, purple, purple. Eric would never look at a plum the same way again.

  “Now her bra,” Carrera said.

  A vein pulsed behind Eric’s left eyeball. Shit. Gamboa escaping this thing without getting naked was now a goner. Why did that feel like such a failure on his part? Dragging a hand over his bare skull, he checked in with her and received the silent message that she was still pressing ahead. And, really, what choice did they have? One foot in front of the other until that distraction came along.

  Kyle, Whiskey Tango Foxtrot,27 you ass?

  Gamboa inched forward, subtly urging him on.

  He focused intently on the clasp at the front of her bra as he unhooked it, the backs of his fingers brushing against her plump cleavage. He peeled open her bra, and all the moisture abandoned his mouth. Maybe it would’ve been gentlemanly to have ignored the sight, but he didn’t, and her breasts were magnificent, perfectly round and buoyant, topped with nipples of deep rose.

  “Her underwear.”

  A tightly bunched knot moved painfully down his throat as he swallowed hard. He grabbed her underwear and gave it a shove down her hips, then let go, hoping her thong would drop the rest of the way on its own. Because he absolutely wasn’t bending down to take it off. That would put him at eye level with her… He looked, anyway. His Y chromosome just wouldn’t allow him not to.

  Damn him, she was hot-looking down there, too. Her light brown pubes were groomed into a racing stripe, leaving behind just enough hair to invite a man to nuzzle his face in the feminine softness right before dipping lower to explore the little pink lips he saw peeking there. His jaw muscles flinched as the image slammed into him before he could stop it. Of him grabbing her by the thighs and pulling her up hard, jacking those sweet feminine lips into his face, her taste coating his tongue, and why the hell was he letting himself imagine that? He compressed his back molars together as his balls drew in close to his body on a ne
ar painful surge of lust.

  “Grab his cock,” Carrera said, switching to instruct Gamboa.

  Eric crushed his eyelids closed, feeling sweat squeeze out from beneath his lashes. Please, God, I’ll eat all of my vegetables for the rest of my life if you could just see it within Your power to blow up that generator exactly right now this minute.

  Gamboa’s fingertips skimmed across the skin low on his belly, making the muscles there jerk and spasm. She lingered, her touch uncertain.

  He pared his lips apart on a silent yes.

  Gamboa’s warm fingers encircled his shaft.

  His breath came hissing out of him. His cock leapt against her palm, and he lurched forward, clutching her shoulders to keep from collapsing on top of her.

  “Stroke him.”

  No. He stared a hole straight through the back wall. No, no, no.

  Gamboa took hold of the end of his shaft and tugged, not his whole length, probably trying to cut him some slack, but it didn’t work out so well. The crest of his cock was too sensitive. A bolt of hot, stabbing pleasure shot from the top and traveled into his balls then through his anus. His spine spasmed, arching him involuntarily into her hand. He clamped his teeth against a primitive groan of pleasure.

  Biggest mistake he’d ever made was not planning an exit strategy in case the distraction never showed. This thing with Gamboa was going too far…just way too damned far.

  I’m sorry, Mister Carrera, but I suddenly feel ill. I must’ve eaten some bad chunchullo. We’re going to have to leave.

  We? No. She stays. Rico, get over there and fuck that girl.

  No! No, sir, we’re both sick!

  Oh? Rico, call Consuela over to my hacienda. We’ll see what she has to say about her two defective whores.

  You mean the DEA Agent and the naval aviator Consuela has never seen before? Could we skip that part…?