by Jo Davis
His balls tightened and he thrust up into Jeri with rapid strokes. Flesh slapped on flesh, bodies seeking and taking. Enjoying each other. So wicked and so fine.
The orgasm sizzled in his balls and he couldn’t hold off. He shot hard with a shout, pumping furiously into his partner, and she joined him a second later. They rode the waves, and he remembered poor Jackie, trembling on the precipice because he’d gotten distracted. He latched on to her clit, working the nub, and it sent her flying in the throes of her own release.
Drinking greedily, he thrust and sucked until the woman moved off him and collapsed. They lay replete, grinning like fools, covered in sticky chocolate and cum. He hadn’t felt so relaxed in days; this was exactly what he’d needed to get rid of that weird tension he’d been experiencing around Bastian. He was simply starved for pussy—nothing more.
“Shower, sleep, and then rounds two and three,” he suggested. They ran giggling for the huge shower, and he followed, feeling pretty damned pleased with himself.
His world—at least the part regarding his orientation—was right again.
Life could go on.
Close to dawn, Michael awoke wrapped in fresh sheets and warm females. They were spooned together with Jackie in front of him, Jeri behind. His cock had awakened first and rode Jackie’s ass, and it apparently liked the way she was rubbing her rear against his lap. Half-asleep and not wanting to spoil the spontaneous moment, he carefully reached over her for one of the several condoms he’d left on the nightstand.
Fumbling, he opened the package and managed to cover himself. Smoothing a palm over one butt cheek, he dipped his fingers into the crevice between her thighs, urging her to spread for him. “Come on, sweet thing,” he whispered into her hair. “Let me in.”
“Oh yesss . . .”
She pushed back and he slipped into her pussy from behind. Gripping her exposed hip, he sheathed himself to the balls and began to move. Fucked her with languid strokes, increasing the tempo until his release gathered and shot from his balls. They shuddered together and went still, basking.
He fell asleep still inside her.
Bastian’s ears were bleeding.
Groans, sighs, and thump, thump, thump. All goddamned night long. Out of all the people in the house who didn’t sleep last night, he was the one who’d had the least fun. One word from Michael and things could get ugly, fast. With any luck, the asshole and his new friends were still comatose.
Shower and coffee. Lots of coffee, the only morning food that mattered.
Dressed in one of his best dark blue suits, white shirt, and tie, he jogged downstairs, a man on a mission. Fill the travel mug, be nice to Simon and Mrs. Beasley, and get the hell out of Dodge. Simple.
Would’ve been a great plan if Michael and two dazzling beauties weren’t huddled around the breakfast table, laughing, sipping orange juice, and nibbling croissants, having a splendid time. That Michael wasn’t an inconsiderate lover who kicked his bed partners to the curb at sunrise didn’t make Bastian feel one fucking bit better.
“Homicidal” is the word of the day, brought to you by the letter H.
Jesus. His attempt to sneak past the alcove where they were gathered was foiled by a friendly chirp.
“Oh, hello! Michael, introduce us.”
Bastian stopped in the doorway and faced the group, stifling a snarl.
“Yes, who’s your friend? God, he’s a cutie!”
So were the women, a fact he’d appreciate so much more were they not adorably rumpled and glowing from multiple climaxes. Bastian skewered Michael with a withering stare, and the man’s smile dimmed. Bastian remained silent, content to let him fumble.
“I, um, these are my . . . this is Jeri and Jackie,” he said weakly, waving a hand at them. “Girls, this is my best friend, Bastian.”
He had to admit, they were pretty cute, and gazing at him in open curiosity with guileless expressions on their identical faces. Despite his hurt, he didn’t have the heart to be rude to them. “Ladies, my pleasure.”
The one with red streaks in her hair swatted Michael’s shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell us you had a supersexy best friend in the house? We should’ve invited him to play!”
Bastian raised a brow at Michael as if to say, And why didn’t you?
A flush colored Michael’s cheeks. “Well, I—”
“Maybe Bastian doesn’t like the group scene, dingbat,” her sister said. Then she gave Bastian a speculative, hungry look. “Do you?”
Uh-oh. Caught like a three-legged antelope in a race with a lioness. He was in love with Michael, not dead. His best friend looked ready to disappear. . . . And suddenly Bastian was enjoying himself.
He gave her a wicked grin. “Which sister are you?” he asked the one who’d posed the question.
“I’m Jackie.”
“Actually, Jackie, I love group scenes. I love sex, period, with both women”—he shot Michael a pointed, heated look—“and men.” Let them assume what they would.
Jackie beamed. “Oh, wow!”
“Damn, I’ll bet that’s hot!” Jeri’s wide-eyed gaze bounced between him and Michael, brimming with speculation. And lust. “Can we watch? Please?”
The flush on Michael’s face deepened to the color of an eggplant. Bastian turned on the full force of his charm, taking evil delight in his friend’s discomfort. He’d feel bad later. Much later.
“Oh, I think our friend here might be a teensy bit shy about that sort of thing. He’s still in the closet, you know,” he said in a conspiratorial voice.
The girls nodded in tandem. “Hey, no problem,” Jeri said. But neither of the sisters could hide their disappointment.
“I’m not in the closet,” Michael said stiffly. His protest was ignored.
“Perhaps another time?” Bastian suggested in answer to Jeri’s suggestion. He glanced at his friend. Was it possible for a person’s head to explode?
“Sure!” they squealed together.
“Michael has our number,” Jackie informed him.
“I’m sure he does.” He gave them a wink. “Unfortunately, I have to run. One of us has to bring home the bacon, so to speak. Until next time?” He blew a kiss at Michael. “Later, sweetie.”
The women chorused their enthusiastic agreement while Michael sat in angry silence. And no wonder, with the ideas Bastian had planted in their pretty heads about their living arrangement. Michael was visibly furious that he’d insinuated they not only had sex, but were a permanent couple who played around.
Bastian couldn’t care less, especially after listening to those two vocalize their appreciation of Michael’s prowess all frigging night long.
Stalking through the kitchen, he bypassed the coffeepot and headed straight out the door. Fuck it; he’d drive through Starbucks. And order a triple-caffeinated, hot caramel mocha with four sugars and whipped cream. He’d stop by the gym after work and attempt to kill the calories, along with his frustration.
Turning out of the gate, he soon lost himself in mulling over the strain of living with Michael now that the man was almost recovered. He didn’t know how he’d be able to take another night like last night, but he wasn’t about to leave before Dietz was captured or killed. Preferably the latter.
He was so engrossed in his current misery, the vehicle following several cars behind him almost didn’t register. A silver sedan, nondescript, too far back for him to see the emblem on the grille or read the license plate—Wait, there is no front plate. It had been keeping pace with him for a few miles, never gaining, always leaving cars between them. An innocuous sedan among many, meant to attract no attention. An innocent motorist or a tail?
As planned, he drove to Starbucks, but decided to park and go inside rather than using the drive-through. Under any other circumstances, he might believe he was being overly cautious. The awful memory of Michael bleeding out on the ground cured that notion. If he was being followed, he’d know soon enough.
As Bastian pulled in to the Starbucks
parking lot, the silver car turned in to a McDonald’s he’d passed about three businesses back, and got into the long drive-through line wrapped around the building. Bastian got out of his car, locked it, and strolled inside, the picture of a regular guy stopping for his daily jolt before heading to the nine-to-five. Not a care in the world.
The Glock resting in the holster underneath his suit jacket told a different story. He hadn’t been quick enough to save Michael from the assassin’s bullets, and could have just as easily been the one dying because he hadn’t seen danger coming. Never again.
Ten minutes later, he walked out carrying his caramel mocha and a small paper bag containing a cheese Danish, and casually glanced toward the McDonald’s. The silver car was almost to the pay window, if it was the same one. “Time to boogie,” he said under his breath.
Sliding into his car, Bastian set his drink in the holder, the bag on the passenger’s seat, and got under way. As he left the parking lot, the silver car abandoned the line, headed for the exit, and eased into traffic, once again keeping several car lengths between them.
“Bingo,” he muttered. “Now the question is, Who are you?”
Could be Dietz, one of his henchmen, or anyone. Bastian had dozens of agents working scores of cases at the moment, all of which he was responsible for in Michael’s absence. Taking out a SHADO leader would be considered a coup for any of the country’s most wanted, not just Dietz, and he’d do well to remember that.
The fact that the general public didn’t know of SHADO’s existence didn’t mean shit. Many who comprised society’s underbelly did, and that’s what counted.
He was more than halfway to the compound and had turned onto the two-lane road several miles from his destination when the sedan made its move. In the rearview mirror, he saw the vehicle rapidly closing the distance, making no attempt to be discreet now that they were on an isolated stretch with help minutes away. Minutes that could prove fatal.
Whipping out his cell phone, he placed a call to the emergency command center at SHADO, taking some comfort in the fact that those guys were ready to roll twenty-four/seven. The voice on the other end of the line was a godsend.
“This is St. Laurent,” the man said in greeting, tense with concern. “Chevalier?”
“Yeah, it’s me. I’m about six minutes out, got a visitor comin’ up my tailpipe and not in a good way. Silver sedan, no front plates. Must have something special under the hood to catch my Porsche. I need backup, Jude, five minutes ago.” The car continued to close the gap, and Bastian pressed hard on the accelerator.
“You got it. Hang on.” The blind agent—one of the casualties in Dietz’s grab for power and money—exchanged a few brief words with someone on the other end, then returned. “Okay, we’ve got you on tracking. Stay ahead of the target and our team will intercept.”
“Tell them to hurry, man. Things are about to get nasty.”
With that he closed his phone and tucked it into his suit pocket—
Just as the sedan rammed him from behind. Cursing, he fought to control his lightweight sports car as it fishtailed. While he had his hands full, the driver whipped to the left and put on a burst of speed, bringing the sedan even with his car. Bastian grabbed for the Glock under his jacket and palmed it. Glanced over to see the other driver already had his hand cannon pointed at Bastian’s window.
“Fuck!”
He ducked as the window shattered in a spray of glass. Felt his car get rammed again, jerking to the right. Sitting up, he intended to pop off a shot out the broken window, only to see that he was already on the shoulder of the road, barreling toward the culvert beyond. No time to correct the wheel. Only time to suck in a sharp breath as the car met empty air.
The engine whined and the nose dipped. The front end met the earth first in a teeth-jarring impact, then the back. The vehicle bounced and slid sideways, and he was along for the ride. Tossed by the whim of fate.
He barely had time to register the warm liquid flooding his mouth as the car tilted, rolled. Once, twice. A third time, more glass shattering, metal screaming. His head struck something, but the pain didn’t register. Only his desperation to stay conscious, or he was a dead man. Because he had no doubt the driver of the sedan would come down here and pump a bullet in his brain.
The Porsche slid to a stop, resting on the roof. Bastian, heart racing, struggled to remove his seat belt. The bastard would be down here in moments to finish him. And where the hell was his gun? The latch gave and he scooted to an upright position, wincing at the bloom of pain in his ribs and head, searching for the weapon that was nowhere to be found. He had to get out of here or he was going to be slaughtered like a pig.
The front windshield had a bigger opening, so he crawled through on his stomach, ignoring the jagged teeth that tore at his nice shirt. Footsteps crunched through the foliage, easing down the incline toward the car, and he crawled faster. From his assailant’s hesitation, he wasn’t sure whether Bastian still posed a threat and was approaching with caution.
Free of the car, Bastian sat up and got his bearings. Not easy to do with his head swimming. The car had come to rest in the undergrowth in a wooded area, something he could use to his advantage. Position and the element of surprise were all he had. Hopefully, the bastard would believe he was still in the wreck long enough for Bastian to get the drop on him.
Quickly, careful not to make noise, he limped for a nearby copse of trees and ducked behind a large one. Sweat trickled down his face and he swayed on his feet, wondering when his backup would show. Now would be good.
The footsteps circled his car slowly. Taking a chance, Bastian peered around the tree trunk and saw a big man taking stock of the car. Dark hair, swarthy complexion. Smooth skin. Not Tio, then. Dietz’s right hand was an ugly, pockmarked son of a bitch. This guy appeared pretty average, except for his size. And the big-ass gun in his palm.
The man bent to peer in the driver’s window . . . and spied a torn, bloodied piece of Bastian’s shirt clinging to a shard of glass in the front windshield.
Shit! Before the man could straighten, Bastian launched himself across the distance. The man spun, bringing up the weapon, and fired. Bastian hit him in a flying tackle, slamming him into the side of the car and grabbing the hand with the gun. They hit the ground tangled together, each fighting for control of the weapon. Teeth bared in a snarl, his nemesis struggled to turn the muzzle of the gun on Bastian, but he managed to get some leverage, banging the man’s wrist into the hard-packed earth until it gave with a sickening snap.
The assailant howled, releasing the weapon. Bastian wasted no time scooping it up, pushing the muzzle under the man’s chin.
“Game over,” he hissed. “Who do you work for?”
“Fuck you.” The shithead spat in his face.
“You wish.” He gave the guy a feral smile. “Dietz send you?”
“Who?” The man’s eyes cut away, mouth tightening.
“Lying asshole. We’ll see how you like being our guest indefinitely.”
A sneer marred his face. “I’ll make bail before the tow truck gets that piece of shit you were driving out of the ditch.”
Bastian laughed. “You think we’re cops? Boy, Dietz left out a few important details when he handed you this job—or you failed to ask the right questions. You’re not going to jail, moron. You just disappeared down a black hole, never to be seen or heard from again. Hope you watered your plants and fed the cat.”
“What’re you talking about?” Bastian yanked him to his feet, spun him, and pushed him face-first into the side of the car. “What the fuck? I have rights!”
“Do us both a favor and shut up unless you have something useful to say.”
The sound of a vehicle stopping on the road above, shouts, and many feet tramping down the incline in their direction was music to his ears. He didn’t relax until a hand clamped on his shoulder and a low voice growled in his ear.
“Got him, boss.”
Bastian mov
ed back, limping, his body beginning to throb, his injuries making themselves known. The man who’d spoken, an agent named Lawrence, jerked the would-be assassin’s arms behind his back and cuffed him. As he led their prisoner away, another hand landed on his shoulder.
“Bastian? You okay? We heard a shot.”
He turned to see Blaze Kelly, a good friend, onetime lover, and a damned fine agent, frowning at him in concern. “Went wide. I’m fine. Think I’m gonna need a ride to the office, though,” he said, waving a hand at the totaled Porsche. His joke fell flat. Suddenly he didn’t feel so good.
Blaze steadied him. “Jesus, man, your head is bleeding. We’re taking you to McKay, getting you checked out.”
“I’m okay, really—”
“Let’s go. Just don’t vomit in the Hummer.”
He gave Blaze a lopsided smile. “No promises.”
“That’s what I was afraid of.” The big agent wrinkled his nose as he helped Bastian up the culvert. “You smell like chocolate and coffee.”
“My caramel mocha, which perished in the wreck along with my breakfast.”
Food was the exact wrong thing to mention at that moment. His stomach heaved and he dropped to his hands and knees, retching.
“Well, shit,” Blaze sighed.
Indeed. This morning had started out in the crapper and had, unbelievably, gone straight to hell. Definitely room for improvement.
Then again, he was alive. Five points back in the plus column. He’d need all he could get before he brought down Dietz like the rabid dog he was.
Michael was balls-deep in Jeri when the phone rang. He groaned, not paying too much attention to the noise. Either Simon or Mrs. Beasley would pick up, and they knew better than to disturb him when he was entertaining guests.
He’d barely achieved release, emptying himself into her sweet pussy, when a firm knock sounded at the door. Restraining a growl of irritation, he eased out and patted her on the rear. “Go away,” he yelled toward the door.
