Bolt Saga, Volume 1

by Angel Payne

  That I will endure.

  Yeah, even willingly.

  Because of him.

  For him.

  And yeah…even with him.

  The bright side? Absolutely nothing I’ll face tonight will be as rough as this.

  Or so I think…before walking through the executive offices and emerging out to the Brocade’s front desk.

  To find a dozen frustrated guests waiting to be checked in.

  And an army of at least fifty tabloid photographers hovering right behind them.

  Well…hell.

  I repeat it in a mutter beneath my breath but refrain from adding anything else to that litany. So much for thinking downtime was going to be an issue tonight.

  Chapter Four

  Reece

  Three hours.

  As fucking rough as it’s been to stick to my self-imposed time cushion for checking in on her, I’m proud of myself for the fortitude. But now that the timer on my watch conveys there’s only a few minutes of the ordeal left, I realize how necessary the stricture was. Just the concept of restarting the executive-office and front-desk surveillance cameras has my skin prickling, my fingers twitching, and my cock leading the way back to the penthouse office like a dog straining at its leash.

  Okay, yeah, I could’ve easily filled the hours by doing something useful. There’s a mountain of work on my desk. Folders full of emails to return on my laptop. And oh yeah, a city full of crazies and creeps having some Saturday night “fun” in the City of Angels. But every one of those options entails conscious and careful thought, and thinking means inviting Emma back into my head—especially in the case of the leathers, when the small head’s invited in on the ride too. I love the crap out of putting bad guys away—but all the electrons in my blood enjoy throwing a superhero after-party in my balls.

  And tonight, different balls are foremost on my mind.

  “Christ,” I grit out, having to fall into a chair as soon as I round the corner into the penthouse office. Normally my hard-ons are easier to tame once I cross the threshold of this room, lined by filing cases on one side and video cam feeds on the other, and assume hotel leader mode. But tonight, I’m twisting my balls with an open grimace to keep everything in check down there.

  Though the task is about to get a lot fucking harder.

  One more minute.

  Yeah. Harder.

  Because no matter what’s happening seventy floors down, I know my woman is handling it with her level head, her quick intelligence, her ready smile, and her joy for service—despite the dastardly chaos I’ve wrought to her pussy. She’ll be her gorgeous, refined self on the outside, while inside, I’ve ensured her wildest cave-girl self is beating at the walls, begging to be free.

  Now, I just want to see it for myself.

  To witness even the tiniest breaks in her control…and know I’ve put them there.

  The pumps of her breaths. The gloss of her eyes. Maybe even a few pissy looks at the cams, their intent for my eyes alone.

  Acknowledging my invisible control.

  Giving me the consummate power.

  Feeding the addiction of my domination.

  One more minute.

  I squeeze my balls again. “Fuck.” My sack must have bruises by now. So who does that really put in control here?

  Forty seconds.

  I lurch up from the chair, wobbling like I’m drunk, fighting that damn dog between my legs again.

  Thirty.

  Fuck it. The dog can have his day a little early.

  I jab the monitor buttons two at a time, jiggling a knee in order to stay in one place as they warm up. As the screens warm up, I rake both hands along the sides of my head. Why are these fuckers taking so long?

  “Shit.”

  My exclamation extends for at least twenty seconds as I bounce my gape from monitor to monitor in search of her. I’m relieved the quest doesn’t take longer considering the sea of humanity filling every camera feed. The first three, featuring the images from the three devices placed at the left, right, and center of the front desk, would be the most captivating if she were anywhere near that area. Those feeds definitely feature the most movement, due to the throng of photographers restlessly milling about in spite of the three LAPD Five-Os keeping them corralled at the south end of the lobby. At the other end, where the hotel’s bar is located, a full crowd takes advantage of the fact that last call is still an hour away—with the media presence a good augury for upcoming excitement.

  My scrutiny shifts to the next five monitors. The first gives a clear shot of the hallway outside the executive offices, while the next four are feeds from inside that sanctum.

  Where Emma looks determined to wear out the carpet before the sun rises.

  She sits—though hardly rests—as Wade moves into the frame, clearly explaining something to her. Something that’s definitely not making her night. She pinches the bridge of her nose, staying that way even after Wade finishes, his own expression tight.

  Only then, after watching her without mercy, do I spot it. There. The wiggle in her knee, small but violent, as if a current of hot electricity is powering it. As she presses her legs together, the other knee takes up the same cadence—making it all too easy to tell that the balls I energized three hours ago are still pulsing at maximum power.

  Goddamnit.

  I should be high on virile victory. Soaring on my semi-sadistic rockets. But I’m not jacked by even a frisson of satisfaction. Not a damn drop of fascination either. I’m a wicked bastard only on an even playing field. There’s nothing fun in teasing a cat unless it gets to grab the yarn at the end—and there’s nothing fun about taunting this pussy if the press have been turning her into a back-office hermit for the majority of the night.

  Unwittingly, my woman provides her own version of backup proof for that, as she turns around with a face drenched in frustration, fury, and a hell of a lot of pent-up lust.

  By now, I’m damn sure my features are coated in the same lovely mixture.

  Especially after I turn and examine the camera feeds from the Brocade’s front porte cochere.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  Now I’m just pissed the hell off. There are just as many reporters and photographers strolling around out there. Judging by the angles of their hands and the thin white haze across the shot, that’s the smoking crowd. Not that I’m ready to stand here and decipher the whole thing.

  Time’s up on this crazy circus. Past up.

  The thought is on its way to becoming my full resolve by the time I’m done punching in the four digits for the office phone closest to Emmalina. But the second it rings, I watch her start as if electrocuted. Damn if that doesn’t do something significant to how the balls caress her channel, because she squirms her hips with such suggestive little rolls, I’m tempted to hang up and call again just for the pleasure of watching. Goddamn what this woman does to me, even when she’s being adorably uncomfortable.

  “Mr. Richards.”

  So much for my hands cooperating with my libido.

  Or for her being “adorable” about anything anymore.

  Now she’s just downright full of vexation and impatience. In all the most gorgeous ways.

  “Miss Crist.” It’s impossible to subdue the husky admiration from my voice, clearly cluing her into the fact that I can see her now—an intrusion that ticks her off as much as what the media mob has pulled off.

  “Nice to have you back.” She remarks it coolly, knowing her direct glare at the camera is doing the heavy lifting for her ire. “Did you have fun saving the world tonight?”

  Well, shit.

  Leaving her out of the loop on my real “fun” for the evening—pacing, peeking in on the Dodger game, pacing, logging in two hours of weights, pacing, deciding an episode of Project Grizzly was better than the game—seems like a damn good idea at the moment. “Looks like you’ve been having more fun.”

  She whips a new glower up at the camera. “Don’t go there, miste
r. I’m not even half a step ready for the light side of this. Any of this.”

  “I’m on your side, Emma,” I attempt to soothe. Her caustic laugh doesn’t deter me. “Talk to me. What’s going on? Have those assholes been here all night?”

  She nods. “Apparently, we’re now officially numero uno on every magazine’s ‘must have’ list—ever since a certain video went viral earlier tonight.”

  I gulp hard, racking my brain through all the years when I was the poster boy for the Bacchanal billionaire’s club. God, I really did behave like an ass, though I always drew a strict line at recording sexcapades. I was a sinner, but I wasn’t stupid. But that doesn’t mean some resourceful woman didn’t secretly make one and has been waiting for the right moment to go public…

  “A video? Of what?”

  I’m stunned to see the bow of her mouth into a blithe ribbon. “Of a certain superhero destroying an Adele song while cruising down Grand Avenue with his girlfriend.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Took the words right out of my mouth, buddy.”

  “I’d laugh if I weren’t so sure you’d kill me for it.”

  “Oh, I’m already going to kill you, but those reporters have nothing to do with it.”

  I swipe the phone downward, careful not to let her hear my audible effort to hold in the mirth now. And the relief. Shit tons of relief.

  And arousal.

  A hot, heavy new wave of it as she pivots back toward the wall, ensuring no eyes can see her but mine via the camera over her head…before she frees the top two buttons of her blouse until her bra is exposed. And then yanks that aside so her nipple is exposed. And starts pulling at the already erect nub beneath, joining the sight of it with her angry, sultry eyes, until the inches between my mouth and the receiver can’t hide my tortured groan from her ears.

  “Goddamn.”

  She jogs her chin and continues looking into the camera, but now at an angle that thoroughly reminds me of how she looks when I’m between her thighs, fucking her senseless. “You’re very right, Mr. Richards. I’ve been damned for the last three hours, and you’re the god who’s done it to me.”

  I gulp again, stumbling backward. When my ass hits the edge of my desk, my bulging cock screams at my strained zipper. “Fuck.”

  She keeps plucking at her breast, turning my imagination inside out. The camera feed is black and white, meaning I’m forced to imagine how deep a shade of red that gorgeous tip has become. “You know what all this makes me now, right?” she says between a couple of dense breaths.

  “Wh…” I clear my throat, searching for a tone other than a croak. “Wh-What?”

  She makes me wait for the reply. Through two, then three more twists at her beautiful erection. “The demon who’s going to demand my revenge.”

  EMMA

  “I’ll be right down.”

  The line to the penthouse clicks dead with such a crash, I almost laugh.

  Almost.

  There are still a whole bunch of barriers left in the way of that glee. Like the way I’ve just screwed myself royally by making my point to Reece so well, my nipples are now twin points of hot anguish. Like the fact that they wouldn’t be if he hadn’t come up with this damn bright idea in the first place. Like the fact that I’ve invented more creative profanities for the man in the last three hours than in the last three weeks. I’ve never had a more challenging or unforgettable night at work.

  And that I’ve kind of liked it.

  Not that he’ll ever get that willing confession out of me.

  Especially because it would’ve been more fun to focus on controlling the need between my legs than the reporters swarming the hotel like ants on honey. And, knowing I’m their honey, having to do that mostly by proxy—with the exception of the initial moment they took me all by surprise and got off the first round of pictures while I stood at the front desk like a frozen drop of honey.

  Since then, I’ve been holed up here in the offices, the ringleader trying to run the circus from outside the tent. Thank God for Wade and Fershan, who have been pulling double duty between the reservations bay and the command center my office has become. Not only have they kept me apprised of the media invasion of the lobby and the status of guests’ reactions from the smaller guest hallway cams, but they’ve tried to keep tabs on the police scanners across the city too. While they’ve reported no definitive Bolt sightings, that only means Reece has been handling minor shit in order to beat feet before the cops arrive on the scene. For that, my superhero earns himself a few free points of my gratitude. The concept of having to worry about his ass in significant danger is a stress my ass doesn’t need right now.

  Especially because every inch of that body part now clenches, struggling to handle the new influx of lust to everything south of my waist, as the penthouse’s private elevator dings to a stop—and Reece emerges at full, furious stride.

  Dear freaking God.

  He hasn’t changed from his earlier outfit, and his anger-puffed chest stretches his blue Henley to eye-popping magnificence. I curl my fingers against my palms, battling the instant craving to run to him and grip him by those impressive pecs—and then to keep going, exploring every defined ridge of his taut abdomen…

  And I don’t dare let my fantasies drag any lower.

  Not with what my pussy has already been aching to do to that part of him for three damn hours now.

  Not with what it really wants to do as he pins me with a look that glints like handcuffs, barely moving his lips to order, “Stay. Right. Here.”

  Not with how all my tissues vibrate so hard, I sag against the wall in full compliance—watching helplessly as he wrenches open the door leading out to the lobby.

  I wait, really unable to do much else, until his thunder of a bellow shakes the building.

  “What the fuck are you idiots doing in my hotel?”

  I tremble harder. Then grate to myself, “Holy crap.”

  Fire in the rain, indeed.

  At least enough to finally spark my ass into gear. I sprint across the office, along with Wade and Fershan, to peek around the doorway behind the front desk…

  At my boyfriend, now in the center of a flashbulb lightning storm, his hands at his hips and his legs positioned wide.

  And rage crackling the air all around him.

  Literally.

  “By the gods,” Fershan blurts.

  “Holy crap.” I deem it worth a repeat.

  “Effing awesome,” Wade exclaims—at full and confident volume because not a damn person in the place is going to hear him over the riot to which the press has now dedicated themselves, becoming a textbook case of mob mentality. I find it hard to remember I’m watching human beings, as they scramble over and atop each other like monkeys trying to ring a bell for peanuts.

  “Reece!” one of them yells. “Reecy baby! Over here. Smile like ya mean it, man!”

  “Now sing like ya mean it, too. Come on, dude. Just a few bars for the fans.”

  “Especially because you’ll look so damn good doing it. What’re you wearing, man? D&G? Massimo? Varvatos?”

  “Target off-the-rack.” I snort softly at Wade’s and Fershan’s incredulous gawks. “What? It was an impulse buy during my monthly run. You know…for the essentials?”

  “Doritos and Gatorade?” Wade offers.

  “Tampons, vitamins, workout water, and cat food.”

  Fershan hurls a glare at his friend. “You had to go there?”

  Before Wade can get in a zinger in response, the air gets a lot more tense. The reporters have amped up their assault on Reece.

  “Where’s Emma?”

  “Bring out Emma!”

  “She was out here earlier. She looks great. You’ve got great taste, Richards. Always have.”

  “Yeah. We want Emma too. Call Emma out! Will you sing to her if she comes out?”

  “Holy shit.” My repeat is twice as strident as the first. What the hell is he up to? And if he even thinks of rewardi
ng these goons after they’ve hindered our work and clogged our lobby for the better part of the night…

  My ruminations—and most of the din from the reporters—are cracked down by one snap of Reece’s fingers. The friction of his action turns his hands into miniature cherry bombs, the force of his fury turning the fireworks nearly silver. As soon as he’s commanded their attention, his stance stiffens. His jaw hardens. His nostrils flare.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I’ll only say this once,” he finally intones. “Emma is working tonight, so she won’t be joining us in any capacity. Further, you’re hindering her from accomplishing that job successfully—and doing it while trespassing on private property.” He lifts a sizzling finger, stopping the one reporter who dares to draw in a breath, poised with a protest. “And Pete, I know the laws about privately held public space, which is why I’m sure my friends with the LAPD haven’t hurled you all out on your asses by now.” Slowly, he uncurls his other four fingers. Turns his hand over until his palm is up, and there are jolts of blue and white light dueling across the taut surface. “But at the moment, ask me if I care about the law.”

  Pete the would-be protester is joined by another guy with a man-bun and hipster glasses accented in the same purple finish as his camera. “That’s not the way it works anymore, Richards. You’re not the darling boy breaking the rules now, and that means—”

  “That I don’t need all of you to sway public sentiment to my side?” Reece counters.

  Purple Glasses fumes. “Yeah, but that also means you owe us a few. More than a few. So just stand there and smile pretty and call your bird to come join you, and we won’t—”

  “What?” Reece leans a step closer to the hipster. “You won’t what, asshole? File a complaint with hotel management? I can predict how far that’ll go right now. Or maybe you just won’t have me arrested? Was that the gist?” With his glare still fixed on the guy, he lifts both his arms and swings them toward the cops, who’ve actually stepped off to the side with visible relief upon Reece’s arrival. Not anymore—especially as sparks start to dance atop Reece’s other hand. “Fine. Do what you must, officers. Arrest me.”