Lily slowly followed him, then leaned against the doorway and watched as he stripped off his shoes and pants.
“Does it feel weird to you at all?” she asked. He glanced at her
“What?”
“All this. Two weeks ago, I was trying super hard to convince myself that I hated you.”
“Two weeks ago, I was trying super hard to convince myself that checking up on you would be a bad idea.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Turned out I was right – would've been a waste of time. You found me, instead.”
“If I shoot him and we get out of this whole thing alive, are you just going to leave?”
Boom. Bomb dropped. She hadn't meant to ask. Things had been going well, they'd reached a sort of negative space. They could talk and flirt, be friends. But the question had been lurking around in the back of her mind and she'd just blurted it out.
“You know what's weird,” he started, and his voice was so casual, it threw her off guard. “I thought absence would dull my memories of you. That you would fade out, bleed into all the background noise.”
“I tried to make you fade away,” she commented, and he smiled.
“Didn't work, did it? I would hear your laugh sometimes, or smell your scent.”
“My scent!?”
“Yeah. That lavender smell that's all around you, what is that shit?”
Lily was blown away.
“My lotion?”
“It's all I can smell sometimes. It would hit me out of nowhere. But worse than that – your eyes. I would close my eyes, and I would see you looking back at me. I'm a fucking idiot, cause I told you, remember? Just your eyes. Always your eyes,” he sighed.
“That's actually really romantic, Marc.”
“Isn't it, though?”
“But it doesn't answer my question.”
He sighed and moved away from the mattress. A case of water rested on a couple of empty boxes, and he pulled out a bottle. Guzzled down half the contents before stopping to take a breath.
“I don't know what to tell you. I'm not going to run away, but I don't know what's going on, either,” he finally said. “And how can you be sure? You've built up this thing with Kingsley, you're … partners. Shit, just watching you guys – it's like you don't even have to speak to each other, you just know what the other wants. You and I aren't like that.”
“You and I made a good team,” she reminded him.
“Princess, I nearly got you killed on multiple occasions.”
“Yeah, and you also saved me on multiple occasions.”
“Not the same thing. I'm just some bum, Lily. I barrel from one explosive situation to the next. I don't have some mansion in an exotic country, I don't know what silverware goes with which course. In fact, I don't even fucking care. And I will never wear a goddamn suit,” he said quickly.
“You think I care whether or not you wear a suit? Do you really think I'm that shallow? I was in Africa, too, you know. I busted my ass, I got just as down and dirty as you. I'm hearing a lot of excuses, De Sant. If you want this to end at Stankovski's death, then grow some balls and just say it,” she snapped.
“I'm not saying anything,” he yelled back. “You asked what I thought was going to happen, and I'm telling you I don't know. I'm telling you that you need to fucking think about what you really want. You've spent a lot of time with Law, and we're two very different guys. You two seem suited to each other. You're friends. You and me … we're just not like that, and you need to think about that before you decide siding with me is such a good idea.”
Lily almost laughed as she fully realized what was going on. Marc was jealous. Not that she might have slept with Kingsley or be romantically involved with him, or of their amazing team work, but that she was friends with him. Though of course, she hadn't been with Marc long enough to truly become his friend.
Then what are we?
“I think you and I could be good friends,” she told him. He smirked.
“I'm not real big on friends, sweetheart.”
He lifted the water bottle back to his lip and Lily started walking towards him. By the time she reached his side, he'd almost drunk the whole bottle of water. She yanked it out of his hand and sucked down the remaining liquid.
“Very good friends,” she informed him, then leaned into his chest, pressing flat against him. He looked at her through narrowed eyes.
“Hmmm. I'm intrigued. Explain what goes into being very good friends,” he demanded. She thought for a second.
“Well, they can talk to each other, and they can have arguments and fights, but they always make up,” she began. “They have each others backs. They don't lie to one another, and they don't disappear and leave behind shitty letters.”
“These people sound boring as fuck.”
“And they don't hit each other, or -”
“What if one of them is a really big bitch?”
“Then he should stop being a bitch.”
“Watch it.”
“And sometimes a very good friend might be -”
“These people still sound lame, you're not selling me on anything.”
“ - might be willing to suck the other friend's dick.”
“Sold.”
Marc wasn't a whole lot taller than her, but it felt like his mouth was traveling a ridiculous distance to meet hers, so Lily stood on her toes and met him halfway. She didn't even give him a chance to be sweet, she just shoved her tongue in his mouth and raked her fingers across his scalp. He hissed, and she gasped when his hands gripped her bare waist hard enough that she felt friction.
She'd been so mad at him Miami. And hurt, and upset, and all those adjectives that made a person want to cry. So he'd been sweet to her, and had touched more than her body. He'd touched her heart, something she'd worked very hard to lock away. Silly woman, what had she been thinking? He was a mercenary, after all. He could get to anything if he wanted it bad enough. So of course stealing a heart wasn't a problem for Marcelle De Sant.
But Lily didn't want sweet anymore. She was nervous and excited, and she was anxious, all the adjectives that made a person want to explode. She wanted the man who'd held her down in the back seat of a car. Bent her over a table in a cabin.
He is a mercenary, after all …
Apparently, Marc got the hint. He swung her around and shoved her against the wall. She kicked off her shoes while he pulled off her sports bra. She tried to reach for his shirt as well, but he was already pushing and shoving her shorts over hips, causing them to puddle at her feet.
While she kicked the lycra away, he finally took his shirt off and she resisted moaning. She loved his body, how big he was, how built. Like nothing could get through him. Like he couldn't possibly get hurt.
“So all those months, you were just thinking about my eyes and the smell of lavender, huh?” she asked, leaning forward to kiss across his chest.
“No. Sometimes I thought about this amazing car I used to own, a '67 Chevelle, I -, HEY!” he ended in a shout when she bit down on him.
“Do you want to know what I thought about?” she asked. He pushed her away.
“No.”
He leaned in close, his mouth moving along her neck while his hands moved into the back of her underwear, gripping her ass. She writhed against him, wanting to be closer, faster.
“I spent a lot of time imagining different ways of killing you,” she told him anyway.
“Sexy talk, sweetheart.”
“Mmm hmmm. I thought about finding you, and tying you up, and torturing you, and collecting your bounty. Just to prove that I could,” she continued.
“I don't doubt that you could've.”
“But sometimes … sometimes I thought about this,” she whispered, working her hand down the front of his boxers. He groaned as her hand wrapped around the base of his cock.
“God, I thought about this all the time,” he panted, letting his forehead drop to her breastbone when her hand picked up spee
d.
“All the time?”
“Like a running loop, in my brain. That's probably why I was so shitty without you – lack of blood flow to my brain due to raging hard ons,” he said, and she burst out laughing. He chuckled as well.
“Wow, De Sant, I'm flattered.”
He jerked away from her abruptly, and before she could say anything, he was yanking her to the side. She stumbled into the pile of boxes and water, then felt him put his hand on her back, forcing her down. She fell flat against the case of bottles, bracing her hands next to her head.
“I thought about this,” he whispered, leaning close to her and running his hands over the sides of her breasts. “And this.” They swept down her back and over her ass, his fingers squeezing. “But most of all, this.”
As her underwear was dragged down her legs, she could feel him lowering himself till he was almost kneeling. Then he was slowly making his way back up, kissing the back of her calf, nibbling at her knee, giving small licks to the insides of her thighs. Then his hands replaced his mouth, and she gasped as his face moved in between her legs. One quick swipe of his tongue and she was done playing games. She gave a full body shudder and groaned.
“Yes, yes, this. Missed this so much,” she breathed. He stood up and slapped her on the ass before sliding his middle finger deep inside of her. She gasped and moved onto her toes.
“Did you? Did you think about this, during all those nights with him?”
She would've laughed, if she'd been able to catch her breath.
“All the time. I thought about you all the time,” she assured him, hiking her hips up higher for him.
“Even when you were fucking those other men?”
Um … what?
“What other men?” she asked, moving to prop herself up. His free hand went flat against her back and held her down.
“In Colombia. You said you'd been fucking men who were attracted to you,” he growled. She started laughing hard, which only made her even more aware of the finger moving inside of her, and she began to feel lightheaded.
“God, you're stupid, De Sant. There's been nobody. A long time before you, after you, whenever. Nobody else.”
“That would explain why you're so tense, sweetheart. Like a guitar string, your body is begging me to pluck out a tune,” he whispered, and then his hand moved away. She moaned at the loss.
“And what about you, Mr. I Love Lavender? You said you fucked all the prostitutes in Brazil,” she reminded him. He chuckled.
“I never said I fucked all of them,” he reminded her.
“Gross. On second thought, I'm good for the rest of the night,” she grumbled, and again tried to get up.
“Liliana,” he whispered her name, and as she felt his erection pushing against her, both his hands pressed down on her back.
“Oh my … god,” she let out a deep breath as his dick made itself at home.
“Do you really think that after feeling this,” he continued, and punctuated the last word with a sharp thrust, “I could settle for anything else?”
She wasn't given a chance to answer. He began fucking her like her question had pissed him off. She cried out and gripped the case beneath her, knocking some of the bottles to the floor. Then his hand was in her hair, pulling her ponytail free. Red locks fell around her face and his fist knotted into the hair at the base of her head. He jerked on the strands, forcing her back to arch and lift her up.
“God, yes, like that, please,” she begged, moving her arms to hold herself up. Once her elbows were locked, his hands immediately went to her breasts, squeezing and pinching.
“And this. Nothing compares to this. Your body, your skin, holy shit, Lily, there's nothing like it,” he growled from behind her.
It was so easy to forget. Lily had spent so long hardening her heart and her mind – five years. And then six months, working on her body. Making it faster, stronger. Even with Kingsley's joking, she had a tendency to forget about her own femininity. Her sexuality. No one could really reach her, and certainly no one ever touched her. It just wasn't allowed.
Until Marc.
He pulled her away and practically threw her onto the mattress, just like she wanted. He pinned her down and reminded her how much she wanted him, just like she needed. Pure filth poured from his mouth and she dished it right back, all while digging her nails into his sides, biting her way down one shoulder.
When her orgasm jumped on her by surprise, she bit down hard enough to make him yell. Hard enough to leave a welt. And as she wound herself around him, her muscles contracting and spasming as he pounded himself to orgasm, as well, she couldn't help but wonder …
Maybe I'll still get to leave my mark on him, too.
DAY TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTY
After Marc fell asleep, Lily snuck out and headed back into the room at the front of the house. She pulled the table and chair right up to the window, then turned off the generator. She used a pen flashlight and looked over the blueprints.
Kingsley was right, the apartment was where they'd have to hit. Hopefully catch Stankovski unaware. If they went in early, they could maybe catch him still in bed. Of course, there would undoubtedly be guards. The boys would go in first, clear a path for her. She would move in directly for the kill.
She frowned as the beam of light landed on the bedroom. What to do about Mrs. Stankovski. After hearing Marc's horror story, Lily didn't feel too bad about murdering the woman's husband in front of her. The woman had also no doubt used her affair with Damiano to feed harmful information to the Russian mob boss, double crossing her lover. She was a bad person, probably on par with her husband. Shooting her would be doing the world a favor.
But ultimately, Roksana hadn't done anything directly to Lily. She hadn't even been in Moscow at the time of Lily's sister's death. Sure, she'd tortured Marc, but Lily wanted to torture Marc about half the time, too. She couldn't justify it in her mind, not the way she could with Stankovski himself. So Roksana would have to be subdued in another manner.
There was the sound of a bottle breaking, and Lily glanced out the window. Two men were arguing loudly about something, shoving and pushing each other. She sighed and looked back down at the plans.
If they weren't in the actual apartment, it would be necessary to lure them down to the ground level, or possibly the second floor. But the third floor, with all the offices and hiding places, would have to be avoided. She didn't want to get stuck in a shoot out in downtown New York. She hadn't gone through hell and back just to end up in some prison.
No. It would be in-out. They would get there. They would take out the guards. They would tie up Mrs. Stankovski.
And then Lily would put a pullet in Anatoly Stankovski's brain.
After everything I've been through, this will seem like a walk in the park.
Kingsley finally showed up a couple hours before dawn. He found a plastic fold out chair and brought it upstairs, then they chatted for a while. Talked about past jobs and funny memories. Didn't once mention Stankovski or the fact their time together was rapidly coming to an end.
All this talk of what will happen with me and Marc, but what about Kingsley? Poor man deserves better than the two of us.
They talked until she couldn't keep her eyes open anymore, so she said goodnight and headed back to the room where Marc was still sleeping. It was freezing in the house, no heat, and she was still only wearing her work out gear, so she shimmied under the blanket Marc had wrapped around himself and she pressed herself against his back. Sleep wasn't far behind.
She woke up much later, to the sound of the tarp being rumpled around. Then there was the feeling of the mattress dipping, the feeling of someone moving around. She was laying on her stomach, facing a wall.
“What time is it?” she whispered through a yawn.
“Almost nine,” Marc's voice whispered back, and she felt him press against her side.
“Jesus, why did you let me sleep so late?”
“You need all t
he rest you can get.”
She kept staring at the wall and concentrated on listening to the sounds in the house. There was a creak from down the hall – the old chair, in the front bedroom. Then the sound of a lighter flicking on; Kingsley was still in there.
“Marc,” she breathed out his name. There was a pause, then she felt his fingers on her back, tracing down her spine.
“Hmmm?”
“This all ends tomorrow. Some how, some way. All those days in Africa, all those months afterwards. I just got you back, and we'll be done tomorrow,” she blurted out. His hand pressed down flat on her back, his palm warm.
“Lily,” he sighed her name, and she shifted around, moving onto her side so she could face him. “We weren't done six months ago. We won't be done tomorrow. Let's get through this, and then we'll ...”
His voice trailed off, and Lily finally smiled at him.
“We'll wing it,” she said softly. He smiled back.
“Yeah, sweetheart. We'll wing it.”
His eyes were so blue against his dark tan, and she kept staring into them as he leaned close, only closing her own eyes when his lips met hers. Whatever they were, friends, partners, lovers, they weren't prone to intimacy. Not in Africa, and especially not now – it felt wrong, in front of Kingsley. Unprofessional. They may not have been getting paid, but they were on a job, and they were a team. So the entire time between Miami and New York, they hadn't touched each other. Sex the night before had been a frantic act, trying to work out their tension and feelings for each other in a very short amount of time.
Even just a little kiss, a welcomed act of affection, made her forget where she was for just a moment. Just for a second, she wasn't vengeance and rage and cold anger. She was just Lily.
Whoever she is ...
“I'm scared,” she breathed against his mouth. He moved his hand to her chest and shoved gently, forcing her onto her back.
“That's good. Scared is good. It means you're aware that this is dangerous,” he replied, sliding over so he was laying on top of her.
“No, I'm not scared of that,” she shook her head while he grabbed the edges of the blanket they were under and pulled it up over their heads, covering them completely from view.
Out of Plans (The Mercenaries #2) Page 20
