“You don’t have to beg, my love.” He spoke against her mouth. “But I like it when you do.”
He drove into her without warning, dropping his face to her neck as she enclosed him in her warmth. He remained still as she stroked his back, his eyes closed, savoring the velvety embrace of her channel against his shaft, the feeling of coming home as she stretched to accommodate him.
She was already moving with him when he dragged out of her an inch at a time, pausing before he drove into her again, pushing all the way inside her until he came up against the wall of her cervix.
The waves on the beach were a matching ebb and flow to his penetration and withdrawal, to the grinding of her hips when he thrust all the way inside her.
She was doing what she did best — using his body to find her own pleasure, generating maximum friction against her clit. The knowledge of it made him harder, prompted him to drive into her faster.
He loved that she took her pleasure, that she wasn’t apologetic about anything she wanted or needed — in bed or in life.
It was a fucking turn-on.
In bed and in life.
Her obvious pleasure heightened his own, brought his orgasm closer to the surface. He moved faster, bending over to take one of her nipples in his mouth as he thrust into her, lapping as he withdrew, sucking hard when he pierced her again.
She moaned and locked her legs around his hips, opening wider for him, letting him sink even deeper into the sweet cave of her pussy. He pushed into her in a frenzy as he lost his hold on any semblance of discipline, his body consumed by its prime directive: release.
There was nothing but the refuge of her body, the emptiness when he withdrew, the completion when he drove into her again and again.
The orgasm rose in his veins like a raging floodwater.
He bent down to kiss her. “I’m going to come inside you, Aria.”
She opened her eyes to look at him and it was like seeing into infinity. “I’m going to come with you.”
They would do everything together.
He drove into her with a ferocious thrust, kept driving into her as her hips rose to meet his, her fingers digging into his back as she ground against him, reaching for her own pleasure.
Her cries echoed off the cliff face, were sent out over the water, carried to some far-off place as the pressure collected in his balls, ran up his shaft, so tight it felt like he was going to split his skin.
Then it was spilling out, pouring into her warmth as she clamped down on him. She was so tight as she came he could hardly move inside her, could hardly pull out and push back in through the narrow canyon of her pussy.
But he did. He thrust into her again and again, lost in his own ecstasy, in the power of hers trembling around him, both of them somehow adrift in their own experience even as they came together.
Even as their release felt shared.
It was a union made all the more rare for its impossibility.
He covered her neck and jaw with kisses, dipping his tongue into the honeyed well of her mouth.
“Are you cold yet?” he asked.
She laughed, the vibration of it moving like liquid honey though his body. “Not even close.”
“Good.” He rolled onto his back and tucked her into his side, pulling the blanket around her shoulders. “Because I don’t know how private the beach in Greece will be. We may not be able to do this there.”
They would stay at Locke’s private residence on the island of Kythnos. At first, Damian had disputed its suitability; the island was close to Athens, but it still required a ferry ride. He’d been convinced by Locke’s argument for Aria’s safety and his assertion that any hotel would be a risk, given Anastos’ varied business interests and contacts in the city.
“Then let’s enjoy it while we can,” she said, kissing his chest and resting her cheek against it.
He closed his eyes and listened to the waves rushing the beach, felt the comforting pressure of Aria in his arms, the exhale of her breath warm on his chest.
She was the most precious thing in the world to him. More valuable than any amount of money, even more valuable than the point he’d been making to his dead, abusive father all the years he’d been building the New York territory.
He didn’t want her to come to Greece.
He didn’t want to leave her behind.
He wanted to stay on this beach with her forever. To forget the vow he’d made to the Syndicate in spite of his burgeoning friendship with its leaders. To let the world spin on around them while they remained in the peace of each other’s arms.
But they would never have peace with Anastos and Malcolm in the world, and Aria didn’t want to cower in the house in Westchester, as much as he wished she would. He’d been surprised by her growing independence, not because he didn’t think she had it in her, but because anyone else would have been brought to their knees by all she’d been through. The kidnapping had been bad enough, but followed by her long imprisonment in Greece, the death of her brother, the gunshot wound that had almost claimed her life, it was a wonder she wasn’t curled into the fetal position, jumping at every noise.
Instead she’d risen strong. She’d been physically weak at first, thin and pale, but over the past few weeks she’d shown remarkable resilience and a fierce determination to hunt Anastos and Gatti until they were dead.
He stood in awe of her every day. She was a modern day Diana, a huntress on a mission to neutralize every threat against them.
Against him.
He couldn’t allow it, of course. He wouldn’t.
She would come with him to Greece, would stand by his side as long as he had a reasonable chance of guaranteeing her safety — and the moment she was in any real danger, she would do as he said and retreat to safety.
She would be angry. He was prepared for that. She would think it was because he didn’t trust her, but that wasn’t it.
He'd never trusted someone more.
But he’d never needed someone more — had never loved someone more — either.
He wouldn’t risk her. Not for anything.
If protecting her meant facing her wrath — and it would — he would accept it as the price of her safety.
“What are you thinking about?" she asked him.
“You," he said.
“What about me?”
“How much I fucking love you," he said, kissing the top of her head.
He wasn't lying.
He wasn't lying.
Seven
Aria stepped into the house, her eyes drawn to an expanse of sea so blue, it looked like a painting. The contrast of it against the pristine plaster of the interior walls and the pale terra cotta tile almost hurt her eyes.
“It’s not very big,” Locke said. “I’m afraid I usually come here alone with Elle.”
She’d met Elle in passing after she and Damian had come in from the beach during their one night in La Jolla. The other woman was a perfect match for Locke, with strawberry blond hair, a smattering of barely-there freckles, and a peaceful aura that mimicked Locke’s own.
She could easily see the two of them living barefoot on a beach in Bali. She could just as easily see them here on the island of Kythnos in Greece.
“It’s beautiful,” Aria said, stepping onto the terrace.
They’d risen early that morning and boarded a private plane. By now, she was used to charter flights, used to chauffeured cars and luxury houses and a scowling Cole who either followed them or paved the way in front of them according to some kind of threat assessment she didn’t understand.
But even she’d been surprised when Locke had told them to buckle up as he made his way to the cockpit of the small jet.
He’d piloted the plane next to Derek, a giant of a man with fair hair cut so short she would have taken him for military if she hadn’t known better. It had been one of the smoothest plane rides of her life, and she couldn’t help wondering about Locke Montgomery and the other tricks he had
up his sleeve, a question that had been partially answered when they’d climbed aboard a waiting boat in Athens. That, too, had been piloted by Locke, and they’d sped past the ferries making their way to the island, the water like a million crystalline sapphires under the boat.
It would be easy to think Locke Montgomery was some kind of meditating beach bum, but she’d seen the house in La Jolla, the shooting range with its impressive inventory of firearms and enough ammo to hold off the ATF. She’d seen the room on the first floor lined with computer monitors and equipment that looked like it had been lifted from an NSA black op.
Had seen him pilot the plane and expertly maneuver the boat.
There was something about him, something coiled in the way he carried himself, the easy grace of his movements, the piercing eyes that seemed to see things no one else could see.
Underestimating him would be a mistake.
The fact that the leaders of the Syndicate had recommended Damian work with Locke was another layer of reassurance. She didn’t know them well, but they’d made appearances when she’d been in the hospital, always bearing gifts and the comforting strength that seemed to be a hallmark of the Syndicate’s men.
No wonder they wanted Damian for New York. She’d felt the same comfort from him the moment he’d stepped into Velvet for his first meeting with Primo.
Comfort and raw sensuality — another thing the Syndicate’s men had in spades.
They were birds of a feather. It was a wonder they hadn’t teamed up sooner.
“There's a guest house in the back,” Locke said, breaking into her thoughts as he spoke to Damian. “Derek and Cole can bunk there. You and Aria can take the bedroom at the back of the hall.”
“Thank you,” Damian said.
She turned to the sound of his voice, catching a note of regret in his voice she didn’t understand. His expression was impassive as always, and she made a mental note to ask him about it later when they were alone.
“I’m going to check in with some of my sources in Athens before dinner,” Locke said.
Damian nodded. “I’ll do the same.”
Aria knew they’d done preliminary digging prior to their departure from La Jolla, knew that both Damian and Locke had called in favors from trusted sources to get the lay of the land in Athens.
“When do we get to work?” Aria asked.
A strange gleam appeared in Locke’s eyes. “Tomorrow.”
She nodded. “Good.”
Any other time she would have sought the opportunity to lay on the beach with Damian, to feel his body, slick like a seal’s, against hers in the water.
This wasn’t any other time. They had work to do, and she was ready to have it done.
Locke’s gaze lingered on her face before he turned to Damian. “We’ll strategize over dinner.”
Eight
Damian sat back in his chair and took another drink of wine, his eyes finding Aria’s in the candlelight. They were sitting outside a tiny restaurant, an assortment of bistro tables and chairs right on the sand, so close to the water it had sometimes lapped over their feet as they’d eaten fresh octopus and crumbly feta, yeasty sourdough with olives picked from nearby trees.
He’d hardly noticed Locke and Derek, even Cole.
He’d had eyes only for Aria, looking rested in spite of the long flight that morning. She’d pulled her hair into a sleek ponytail, her white sundress highlighting her delicate face, the full lips that always looked like he’d been kissing her — that always made him want to kiss her.
Kythnos was magical, like Capri without all the baggage he and Aria would probably always have with the island in Italy. He hoped they would have a chance someday to reconcile their past there with the future. Before her kidnapping, it had always been one of his favorite places.
After they’d gotten settled in the house on Kythnos, he’d done some follow-up with his sources, then spent the afternoon making love to Aria with the glass doors open to the private terrace off their room, the gentle rush of the sea chipping away at the cliffs below. He’d realized as they laid there that the ocean had been ever-present in their journey — the stormy sea of Long Island when he’d first given her refuge from the city, the ageless ocean off Capri, the cove in La Jolla.
It had been a soundtrack to their struggle and loss.
And yet, he still found the sound soothing, and no more so than when Aria was safely in his arms. She’d eventually fallen asleep, and he’d lain awake, stroking her hair, his eyes on the horizon beyond the terrace. For those moments, at least, it had felt like the world stopped spinning. Like time itself had hit the pause button so he and Aria could catch their breath.
It was a dangerous glimpse at bliss, one he didn’t dare entertain until they’d eliminated Gatti and Anastos.
“How do we start?” he asked, his eyes on Locke.
Locke wiped his mouth, reached under the table for the backpack he’d brought to dinner. Damian assumed it contained weapons — an insurance policy on the off chance Stefano had heard about their whereabouts in Greece.
Still, he wasn’t all that surprised when Locke removed two fat stacks of cash, neatly bundled like they’d come straight from the bank, and shoved them across the table toward Damian.
“The Greek economy offers us a unique advantage in smoking out Stefano,” Locke said. “I suggest we start by using it.”
“Makes sense,” Damian said.
Even Anastos’ most loyal soldiers would be tempted by plentiful cash in the current climate.
Damian reached into his jacket pocket and removed a folded map of the city.
“I’ve split Anastos’ known territories into manageable areas. If we split up and take one a day, shake the bushes, we might get lucky.”
“We don’t need luck,” Locke said.
“I hope you’re right,” Damian said.
They didn’t have confirmation that Stefano was in Greece, and even if he was, they were relying on the failings of others — namely the greed or disenchantment of Anastos’ men — rather than on something they could control.
Damian preferred being in control.
He’d survived his father’s abuse, had reimagined his father’s tainted legacy, had found Aria, by depending only on himself, and while he was coming around to trusting Farrell and the other leaders of the Syndicate, that trust was nowhere near extending to the rest of humanity.
People were unpredictable. It was one of the reasons he liked numbers and money: two plus two always equaled four.
“It’s a statistical probability that one of Anastos’ men will flip on him,” Locke said. “The economy sucks and Anastos has lost ground in New York. That’s the harbinger of death for his operation. Word on the street is that New York is just the beginning — the Syndicate is back, and they’re going to retake their territory piece by piece. Anastos’ men will either want to make nice with Nico and the others by playing along, or they’ll want to get out while the getting is good. Either way, they have no choice but to play ball. We just have to give them an excuse.”
“Which is where the money comes in,” Aria said. “None of their fellow soldiers will blame them for taking it.”
“Exactly,” Locke said. “They need cover to justify flipping. We’re going to give it to them.”
“What if we get killed along the way?” Cole said.
Damian felt a flash of guilt at the question. Cole didn’t yet know that Damian was going to order him to stay with Aria on the island while Damian, Locke, and Derek worked Athens for Anastos.
Cole wouldn’t complain. He was Damian’s underboss; he would do what he was told.
But he wouldn’t like it.
Locke grinned. “That’s what makes it exciting.”
Cole’s expression was unreadable. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know that Cole wasn’t a fan of Locke’s devil-may-care attitude.
Damian couldn’t blame him. Cole’s number one job was preventing Damian’s death. They had managed it
so far through strategic planning and cold hard calculation.
Damian didn’t mind admitting it was disconcerting to move to a game of roulette when you were used to playing chess.
But Anastos and Gatti were playing their own game of chance. Playing chess with them would be like trying to engage a professional gambler as a code breaker.
They were not the same animal.
Damian didn’t like it, but they had to meet Anastos and Gatti where they were — in the storm of their chaos, on the crest of their rogue wave.
“Locke is right,” Damian said. “This is the only way. We’ve tried everything else. We’ll play offense, take them off guard by fanning out across the city, throwing around a lot of cash.”
“And if we run into trouble?” Cole asked.
Damian looked at him. “We’ll deal with it. Won’t be the first time.”
Cole nodded, his eyes straying briefly to Derek, who had been silent through most of dinner. Damian understood — trusting Locke was one thing, but what did they know about Derek? His bio from Locke had been brief — an ex-private contractor for Blackwater who’d defected when things got bad in Iraq, an expert marksman, proficient in four types of martial arts, frequently off the grid to surf around the world.
None of it told Damian what he really wanted to know: could he trust Derek with his life?
With Aria’s?
He fucking hoped so, because he didn’t have a choice.
He hated not having a choice.
They went over a few more details, paid the bill, and headed for the car that had brought them into the little village on the island. It was too far for Aria to walk, a detail that gave Damian comfort when he thought about her on the island without him while he searched for Anastos. Cole would be with her, but Aria was strong-willed; Damian wouldn’t put it past her to make an escape to town when she got cabin fever and Cole was looking the other way.
Locke had set up his house exactly the way Damian would have done. It was private, fronted on one side by the water, far enough from town that getting there or back required a car.
Through the Fire (New York Syndicate Book 3) Page 4
