by An Latro
Her whole being buzzes with desire, not just for his ridiculously perfect body and insane bank account. It's never been about that. She wants to breathe in the scent of death that haunts him, feel his sorrow and his joy, know his secrets.
She feathers a kiss against his neck and he groans, uninhibited. She's heard this sound from him, and it's coal to the fire, such sexy abandon from a man who gives away so very little. She wants to slip her hand in his pants, but this restraint between them is so new, and quite maddening. His grip on her hips tightens.
His voice is hot in her ear when he says, “I remember that night in Chinatown, on the dirty street for everyone and no one to see. You told me there were no strings attached to the hooks—your hooks. I wouldn't admit then that you were right. You never pulled on me for anything. I could have ripped them out at any time. Except I couldn't. Instead I always ended up anchoring back to you.”
Her breath catches in her throat. She wants to pull back so she can see what he looks like saying such things, but she's pinned between him and railing. Of course, he wanted it this way, so he could give her this honesty he believes she deserves.
He continues, “I don't know if I'll ever be able to give you what you want from me, or even that I'll ever know what it is you want. I can't say when it is you'll see me again, but I can give you this. Stay with me tonight.”
“Seth.”
His name comes out with her breath, and for a rare moment, she can think of nothing else to say. Finally, he takes a step back, and looks her in the eye. For a stretch, they just stare. Then, that little boy smile returns, and his cheeks color.
“Come on,” he coaxes, “disappear with me. Let me show you the perks of owning a hotel.” “As if I'd say no,” she says. And then he's kissing her, hard and deep and slow. She whimpers against him, aches for him. Her hands curl into the lapels of coat. Breathily, she asks, “Can we go there now?”
He grins into their kiss. “Let's go.”
Back in the limo with more apple brandy, Vera's fingers draw tiny circles on Seth's inner thigh. She watches his jaw tighten as he tries to maintain his composure. He digs his phone from the compartment where he left it, and her features wilt. He just grins as the thing powers on. His free hand is in her hair. The cell phone makes all kinds of chimes and notifications, but Seth is intent on his purpose. He hits the number for Tinney, and waits for it to ring.
Vera watches sidelong, hand still on his thigh, breath catching in her chest. Finally, Seth says, “Hey, I need you to do something for me if you're not too terribly busy.”
Vera can barely hear a quiet, rumbling voice on the line, but can't make out what it says. The result is that adolescent grin, and Seth says, “I know. I owe you a righteous vacation soon.”
Again, the rumble sounds. Seth smile falls, and in a much quieter, somber tone he says, “I know.”
Vera chooses this moment to make her next play, and resumes the circular motion of her fingers. Seth sucks in a breath, surely without meaning to, because he would never willingly show her the effect she has on him. He tugs downward on a handful of hair in answer. And he continues as if nothing happened.
“Listen, I need you to call your head at the Black Diamond. Let them know I will be there in about twenty minutes. I will need one of the executive suites. I want no chit-chat, no stopping at the desk, none of the shit. Just somebody waiting with the key, at the door.”
Vera brushes the backs of her knuckles against his rock-hard response to her, so he pulls her hair just a little harder. He pulls her close enough that she can hear the voice on the other end says, “I will press upon them the need for discretion. Enjoy your evening.”
The line goes dead, and Seth chucks the phone back into the compartment. The grip in her hair loosens but doesn't relent.
“Who was that?” she wonders as she presses harder against his dick.
He pulls back on her hair, tilting her head and exposing her throat. He runs his tongue up the column of her neck, then says into her ear, “Head of security.”
“Oh, how Morgan of you,” she quips.
His free hand gropes a breast, and she gasps despite herself. Several years ago, they would have already been humping against the limo seat, both of them impulsive and driven by the passion they kindled in each other. This, this new level of the game between them, the waiting and stoking of the flame – it's a testament to the man he has become.
His thumb brushes over her nipple, hard beneath her lace bra, and she keeps the motion of her hand light and taunting. He groans again, and claims her lips with the fierceness she knows so well from him. It seems exacting his little game is taking its toll on him as well. She's so fucking wet.
She gently strokes his length through his jeans. She loves the sounds he makes, the tiny affirmations that he wants her, and the way he fights it until he can no longer keep quiet. He pulls back from the kiss just a fraction to rein in some control of his breathing, and on his driving need for her. He cannot lose himself in the tsunami of emotion and desire, in the truth of the matter: this is the culmination of two and a half years of absence. Sure, they have seen each other, but they haven't fucked since life before Cuba.
By the time the limo rolls into the garage they are both breathing heavily and red-faced. The hotel's head of security says very little as he escorts them into a service elevator and up to the top floor. And as soon as the door closes behind them, they are locked into a hungry kiss.
She's shoving his coat off his shoulders as he drops her skirt around her ankles. She jerks his belt from his buckle, then he's pulling her sweater over her head. He kicks out of his Docs as she leans against him to unzip her boots. And he steps out of his jeans as he pushes her backward onto the California King bed. He slips the innocent white t-shirt over his head, then peels her leggings off. Then he stops, just stares down at her in her black bra and panties.
Her eyes crawl down his body, stop on the barely healed tattoo on his left pectoral, just beneath the new scar—the place where she was used to the old scar. But it's the ink that really grabs her attention, the black and grey snake swallowing its tail, and the crown over top. Never in all her worldly knowledge and vast array of contacts would she ever have expected to see ink on the royal skin of Seth Morgan. And so never did she ever consider how completely sexily the boy would wear ink.
“My god,” she all but growls, “I never thought you could get any more delicious.”
He leans down over here, but pauses, poised above her with most of his weight on his right arm. His expression is full of the ferocity she has missed from him, and his eyes burn into hers when he says, “I was just thinking the same thing.”
She runs a gentle touch across the ink, the skin still the slightest bit raised but healed. Her free hand grabs his cock through his boxers. He makes a gruff, “Mmm.” Bites down on her bottom lip. Moments later, he makes quick work of her bra with one hand, then he rips her panties over her hips. He drops the boxers, then pauses. She stares up at him like she might devour his soul, and perhaps like she can share the burden of his pain if he gives her the burden of his pleasure.
Her voice is quiet, raspy, when she says, “I've waited a long time for you to fuck me again, Seth; don't be cruel.”
He grins, and this time, it's purely predatory. He grabs her knees, shoves them apart, and rather than heeding her wish, he buries his tongue inside of her. She cries out, louder he's heard her before, and it's a long sound of reckless abandon, a sound that becomes a whine when he runs his tongue up to her clit and begins working it.
His hands explore her thighs, her flat stomach, her breasts as he makes her writhe against the bed cover. Her hands twist the blanket, and her muscles shake as she comes. In all their history, all their circumstances, and despite all her masterful blowjobs, he's never given this to her. So he bares his soul in this rare show of skill, and he makes her come until she's covered in sweat, shaking, and whimpering.
When he surfaces, he wipes his mout
h on the back of his hand with a pompous grin. For a moment, he just watches her, perfect breasts heaving for breath, hair of fire spread around her face, cheeks flushed. How did he ever deserve this—this perfect devilish goddess of pleasure?
He mutters, “God, you're so gorgeous.”
Before she can answer, he pushes inside her, and that answer comes out as, “Aaaaagh fuuuuck.”
He goes slowly at first. She's so goddamned tight around him from the multiple orgasms he already gave her, and just as his big dick might hurt her, her perfect pussy might make him come too soon. Her moans drop in pitch, and even this slow friction sends earthquakes of ecstasy through her. He can feel it radiate in the sound she makes.
Soon enough, though, her legs wrap around his hips, and he finds himself bucking into her as though there will never be another chance. Her hips roll with the cadence of his, every muscle in her body tensing in time, and his cries join hers in the otherwise quiet room. All the passion and lust and trust and denial swirl together, hit them like a steam roller, until they are pounding against each other—until there's nothing else in the world but their lips and hands and flesh, and that relentless rhythm.
All the pressure from the outside world melts in this moment of perfection, this fast and fierce blaze of glory. And all falls to white when Seth buries himself in her, feeling her shiver around him with yet another orgasm, and he can no longer fight nirvana. Her back is arched against him, and he presses his forehead against her chest as his orgasm sputters through him.
Sweat slides between their skin, and their hearts pound next to each other, as Seth slips out and collapses beside her. His left shoulder screams in pain from his exertion, and his right arm dully aches, but the physical discomfort doesn't begin to touch the spiritual cleansing that lingers with the scent of their sex.
After a long stretch of just lying there, pressed against each other with sweat drying and breathing returned to normal, Vera’s fingers lazily trace across the snake once again, and she softly says, “I think that's the first time we've ever fucked in a bed.”
Seth laughs against her shoulder, a cocky, indolent sound. He plants a kiss on her skin, and says, “Just wait for the second time. And maybe the third. Who knows—we have all night.” She lifts her head to look him in the eye, searching his gaze for something, deception perhaps. Whatever it is, she breaks the eye contact before she says, “Mmmhmmm, and just for tonight, I will pretend that you're mine.”
He pulls her back to him, kisses her forehead, and says, “Tonight, I am.”
Chapter 31. Graystone Apartments. New York City. December 3rd
It's Raining When She Steps Out Of The Elevator. The lobby is empty—only one security guard reading a paper who flicks a lazy glance in her direction.
He will tell Seth. And Seth will be furious.
Emma's expression tightens and she turns to the door, the empty street. No town car waits for the young queen and she smiles, barely there. She hears the clerk's panic as she pushes into the cold city. She tucks her head down. Dressed down in a pair of skinny jeans, a thin black sweater and a long leather coat, her distinctive hair tucked into a knit hat, she blends easily into the masses on the street. Eyes prick the back of her neck, but she keeps moving, ignoring her security detail and all the ways this could go wrong. As soon as she turns the corner, Emma hails a cab and climbs into the dirty backseat. A heavyset black man is watching her with curious eyes and she says quickly, "New York Bank and Trust."
His eyebrows climb and he nods, flicking on the meter as he eases into traffic.
Emma tucks her coat around her and stares out at the city. It's that dim waiting period after the cold settles and before the holidays begin—everyone moves with a brittle efficiency, intent on their small world, and eager to ignore the faces next them. New York is a city of mass and anonymity, and she loves that just now, one of its favorite daughters can hide there.
It takes longer than she anticipated for her phone to ring, the musical tone exclusive to Seth. The cabbie flicks a look at her in the rear view mirror as she silences it and sends Seth a short text.
Then she turns the phone off and pockets it, returning her gaze to the passing city as they inch their way through traffic to the bank.
When the cabbie finally pulls to a stop, Emma is already moving, pulling a bill from her purse and passing it to him. “Keep it,” she murmurs as she climbs out of the taxi and steps toward the bank. For the first time, she feels a flash of hesitance and fear.
It seemed like a good idea, in the warm safety of her apartment, with only questions to keep her company. But here, the wind pressing against her thighs and an imposing columned structure looming over her, she has a hysterical fear that it wasn’t—that in a list of bad moves she’s made recently, this might top it.
Her hands dip into her pocket, and she shivers as the wind kicks up, an icy mist from a nearby fountain spraying her. She clutches her phone in one hand and the key in the other. Seth, furious and ready to protect her, or answers that no one else can offer.
Another gust of wind buffets her, and she pushes into motion.
The bank lobby is all smooth marble and dark wood counters and disapproving glances from the bankers. She’s startled—those looks are so rarely directed at the Morgan daughter. But then she remembers she is dressed down. Her hair up and face scrubbed of makeup, she could be anyone or no one, a high school waif wandering in from the cold. She swallows her smile and tugs her gloves off as she approaches a reception desk.
“Can I help you?”
Emma fights not to snap at the woman’s sharp, nasal question. She drops the key on the counter and smiles pleasantly. “I’d like to access my safety deposit box. Twelve oh seven.” It all happens quickly after that. She’s ushered into a small office off the main lobby and given a cup of coffee to wait with. As she sips it, she tugs her hat off and her gold-red hair tumbles free in a decadent cascade.
“I’m so sorry to keep you waiting. My name is Justin March.” The man is thin and officious, and old enough to be her grandfather. Emma likes him immediately. There is something genuine about him that eases her rattled nerves.
“Can you tell me the number again?” he asks, and she repeats it, even though that number is what kicked off the flurry of activity. Mr. March frowns at her. “Ma’am, I’m afraid that box owner is dead.”
She nods. “I know. He was my father.”
March shakes his head, “No, ma’am. It belonged to Gabriel Morgan. He didn’t have a daughter.”
Her heart stops. The banker is still talking and she knows she needs to listen—but she can’t, can’t make sense of this.
“Ma’am?”
Emma jerks, startled, and stares at him. “Your ID, ma’am?”
She fumbles for her wallet and slides her driver’s license across to him, sitting back silently as he goes to work on his computer. And then he smiles. “Mr. Morgan had listed you to access the box, ma’am. If you’ll come with me?”
She doesn’t quite understand what’s happening as Mr. March escorts her into a dim corridor and a small room. There are wall-to-wall locked doors, numbered neatly, little blankfaced rows of secrets. A hysterical laugh is building in her throat and she coughs, struggling to hold her composure.
Gabriel knew and he left her something. In a place that she was closest to her father, he left her the key—literally—to all the answers. She stands awkwardly in the doorway, watching as Mr. March opens a door and slides out a long black box that he carries to the table. He looks at Emma expectantly and she summons her shy smile, the family façade as she comes to stand near him. “Do you need anything at all, Ms. Morgan?”
“No,” she whispers.
He nods and makes a few noises about her privacy, and then he’s gone, and she is left staring at a long black box.
Why here? Gabe had an alliance with Remi Oliver, and safe houses around the city. He could have hidden this anywhere. So why here, where they didn’t own the banker, where
their name carried little weight?
Her lips tighten and she puts it together, too quickly. Because those things kept the secrets safe—kept her safe. Because here, no one could touch it. Not even their allies and family.
“Secrets piled upon secrets,” she mutters bitterly, and sits. Her key slides in easily and she opens the box.
There is a small stack of photographs and she reaches for them, because they are easier than the black, leather-bound journals. These are safe—Caleb and Seth and Emma at a family dinner, Seth, his head bent over hers on the steps of the Hampton house, Caleb, looking impossibly young, pushing her on a swing she can’t remember. Her father holding her, sleeping on his shoulder. Her father and Gabe, smiling into the camera. Tinney, lifting her to blow out candles. Gabe and Tinney and Emilio smoking cigars, basking in the sun near a pool. Every photo a memory, every memory happy. She shuffles through them faster, and her heart twists painfully when she realizes that there is nothing but this. Photos and her father’s words. Nothing from her uncle.
She reaches for the top journal and her hands shake, brushing against a small bookmark.
There are two words on the slip of paper. Everything in her goes still and brittle, staring at it, and she wishes suddenly that she wasn’t here alone. That she had allowed Seth to protect her, this one time. I’m sorry.
The journal is lying open, waiting for her, and she forces her gaze to it.
He knows. I knew one day, one of us would make a mistake. I didn’t think it would be me. It was a slip of the tongue. A mixed date, and the fear on Miriam’s face. Gabe isn’t so stupid that he didn’t put it together.
