Everything for Us (A Bad Boys Novel)

by Leighton, M.

  His words are delicious fingers that tickle my skin. Chills spread across my chest and down my abdomen. I feel my nipples tingle as if he were actually doing what he said. Hot, sticky honey gushes to the apex of my thighs.

  “I want to know what you like, how you like to be touched. And you’re going to show me. Bring your hands to your breasts. And touch them.”

  I’m long past being embarrassed. It’s either go big or go home. And I’m already here. So I’m going big.

  Raising my hands, I cup my breasts. His eyes follow my movements.

  “Squeeze them,” he commands, so I do, massaging them in a slow, gentle knead. “Now the nipples,” he says. “Pinch them, make them hard.” Taking the pebbles between my thumb and forefinger, I roll them until they are like firm buttons. “That’s right, baby. Now put one hand between your legs.”

  My face burns, but I’m only vaguely aware of it. I’m transfixed by Nash’s hot gaze. His eyes are black as sin and heavy lidded as he watches me. They follow one of my hands as it travels down my stomach to the achy spot between my thighs. When I move my palm over my damp flesh, his tongue sneaks out to wet his lips. My pulse speeds up in direct correlation. “Mmm, I love watching you make yourself feel good.”

  It’s incredibly erotic, listening to his words, touching myself with him watching, knowing he’s enjoying it.

  “Come lie down on the bed with me.”

  I’m so ready to feel his hands on me, I don’t even ask any questions. I simply walk to the bed and sit beside him.

  “Lie back,” he commands softly, his eyes never leaving mine. They’re dark and forbidden. Just like Nash himself. He’s inaccessible, unattainable. He’s everything that I shouldn’t want, yet I do. So I’ll take what he’s willing to give me.

  I lie back and I wait while his eyes rove over me again. “Bend your knees and put your feet on the bed.”

  I do.

  My skin is damp and dewy with desire, with the need for him to take me places I’ve never been before. I would almost beg for him to touch me as he watches. But he doesn’t. Instead, he gets to his feet and moves to stand at the foot of the bed, his eyes meeting mine from over my knees.

  “Spread your legs,” he whispers. I move my feet apart. “More.” I let my knees fall open a little more. “Mmm, perfect. Now show me where you want me to touch you.”

  A small part of me feels flustered and self-conscious, but if it will bring him to me, bring him into me faster, I’m willing to give him what he wants.

  I close my eyes and imagine that Nash is touching me. I slide one hand down my stomach and over the short hair between my legs. I pause there, a moment of insecurity overwhelming me. My eyes pop open and I see Nash watching my hand. In my stillness, his gaze rises to meet mine. It’s flashing and fiery and, without a word, it urges me on.

  Slowly, I move one finger down and push it inside me. Nash’s eyes drop to my hand again. I pull my finger out and massage my clitoris with it. I jerk against the contact. I’m so ready for him, if he doesn’t hurry, I’ll finish before we even get started.

  Desperation spurs me on. My fingers move in a mindless rhythm that pleases my body as my other hand finds my tight nipple again. The stimulation coupled with his eyes on me is sensory overload. I moan, unable to help myself. I see the muscle in his jaw tic as he grits his teeth. That’s when I realize that, in playing his little game, the victor has become the victim. He’s torturing himself.

  I grow bolder. I let my legs fall farther apart and I rub myself, my body writhing under my touch and his watchful stare. I slip another finger in alongside the first and I move them together, in and out.

  Nash’s lips part the tiniest bit and I hear his breath huffing between them. He’s just as excited as I am. That knowledge sends an electric pang of desire zipping through my body to land right beneath my moving fingers.

  With lightning speed, Nash moves forward and grabs my wrist, his fingers winding around it like bands of steel, stopping my movement. His eyes never leave mine as he tugs my fingers out of my body and raises my hand to his mouth. He rubs my fingertips back and forth across his bottom lip, leaving a streak of moisture there. I catch my breath when his tongue sneaks out to taste it. “God, you taste good,” he groans before he sucks my fingers into his mouth.

  I feel the slick heat of his tongue rasping along my sensitive fingertips as he licks them. I feel the sensation all the way down to my core. I gasp in delicious surprise when I feel his teeth nip my fingertip. The muscles between my legs clench in wanton anticipation.

  “That just makes me want more,” he whispers. “And something tells me you want me to take more.” As he speaks, he moves to put one knee on the bed, insinuating his hips between my legs. Still holding my wrist, I feel his free hand work its way down the inside of my thigh to the unbearable heat at my center.

  He pushes one long finger inside me, stealing my breath. He moves it farther into me as he thrusts his hips forward. “Unzip my pants,” he commands gruffly, finally releasing my wrist. He moves another finger inside me, crooking them both as he pulls them out. “Right now.” My comprehension is slow, his words barely penetrating the sensual web that his fingers are weaving over me.

  Bending slightly at my waist, I reach for his zipper. The button is already undone and I can feel his hardness straining against the backs of my fingers as I pull the little gold tongue down.

  The material parts to reveal his long, thick shaft. Without even thinking, I reach inside and wrap my fingers around it—soft skin over warm steel. I hear the hiss of air through his teeth just before he pushes a third finger inside me. Hard and deep, he penetrates me as I squeeze his length.

  “I don’t have a condom, but I’m clean. I assume you’re . . . protected?”

  I can only manage a nod as my thumb slides over the moistened tip of him and he arches into my hand.

  He groans. “You’re gonna come for me, come like you’ve never come before. Then I’m gonna lick you until you come again. With my tongue inside you.”

  Removing his fingers from me, he widens his stance as he slides both hands under my hips and lifts them off the bed. Guiding his thick head to my entrance, he looks up to meet my eyes just before he pulls me roughly toward him, my body sliding wetly over his. With my legs wrapped around his waist and my back arched sharply off the bed, he plunges into me over and over again until I feel the dam break.

  I cry out, the pleasure more intense than anything I could ever have imagined. It completely overwhelms me, captivates me, transports me. I’m in a world where only Nash and I exist, only what lies between us. Only the passion that we share.

  Nash slows his rhythm to a deep grinding, the friction accentuating each wave of my orgasm. Before the spasms of my pleasure subside, he moves me back up onto the bed until my hips are once more supported by the mattress. He eases out of me and drops to his knees, hooking my legs over his shoulders and burying his face in the warm, pulsing flesh there.

  My body jerks at the first touch of his hot tongue. Gently, he licks at my swollen flesh until my orgasm has nearly died, and then he becomes more aggressive.

  Reaching around my leg, resting his arm on my stomach, he parts my folds with his fingers and draws the rigid nub at the top of my crease into his mouth, sucking on it and flicking it with the tip of his tongue. Once more, I feel the tension escalate. I fist one hand in the duvet and curl the fingers of my other hand in his long hair, holding hold him to me.

  “Ohmigod, Nash. That feels so good.”

  “Let me have it, baby. One more time. Let me taste it all.”

  The vibrations of his words stimulate me even further as he moves the fingers of his other hand to my core, thrusting one into me, pushing me closer to the edge.

  Putting his hands behind my knees, Nash rolls my hips up, toward my head, pushing my legs as far apart as they’ll go, opening me comp
letely to him and his wicked mouth. In and out he moves his fingers as he licks and flicks with his tongue, faster and faster.

  I melt into my second orgasm in slow, breathtaking waves. I feel my body squeeze his fingers. “Oh yeah, that’s it. Come for me.” Spreading me wide, Nash rubs my clitoris with his thumb as he thrusts his tongue inside me, lapping up every drop of moisture my body spills for him, for his touch. Just the thought of what he’s doing, of him wanting to taste me like this, is enough to renew the spasms of my climax.

  When my body is limp and nearly numb from pleasure, Nash crawls up onto the bed, between my legs. From between the slits of my eyelids, I see him guide his engorged head to my entrance. And then he’s inside me and I can’t breathe again.

  He stretches me so tight, he pauses to let me adjust before he withdraws and plunges into me. Wetly, he pulls out and thrusts again.

  His lips find mine and he groans into my mouth. I swallow it along with my own sounds of abandon. I taste the salty sweetness of my body on his tongue. It sends a thrill through me that this was what he so wanted from me—my essence, the evidence of my pleasure.

  His lips are rough on mine. Hungry. His hands are callused on my breasts. Urgent. His body drives deep inside me. Desperate.

  My entire world is on fire. I can’t tell if I’m nearing my third orgasm or if he’s just managed to rekindle the embers of the last one, but I feel my body clutching at his, milking it, begging for its release.

  He tears his mouth away from mine long enough to whisper into my ear. “Tell me I can come inside you. I want you to feel it.”

  His words strengthen the contractions of my body around his. More than anything, I want to feel him come inside me. “Yes,” I pant shallowly.

  With a growl, I feel him stiffen as the first hot spurt of his orgasm fills me. Two more thrusts and then Nash slows his rhythm, grinding his hips into mine, rubbing me both inside and out, liquid heat spilling into me and out of me at the same time. The sensation is violent in its intensity. I dig my nails into his back to keep from falling off the edge of the world.

  “Mmm, that’s right, baby. Feel it.”

  His words are like gasoline on an already raging fire. They’re a physical touch that keeps me on the crest of swell after swell of my climax.

  SEVENTEEN

  Nash

  I knew sex with this woman would be satisfying. The depth of satisfaction I feel right now—lying on top of her, still inside her, our damp chests clinging together—is just a testament to how much I needed this.

  Badly.

  Very badly.

  I fully expect my desire for her to start tailing off. It always does. No woman holds my attention for very long, and it’s always strictly sexual while it lasts. Besides, I still have a feeling Marissa will remember one of these days. And when she does, when she realizes what happened, she’ll hate me. As well she should. It was a pretty shitty thing to do.

  I guess it’s a good sign that I’m starting to feel bad about it. Guilt is a nuisance, but maybe the presence of it means I’m starting to remember what humanity feels like. It’s been lost to me for a long time, living among the animals. The criminals. The lowest of the low.

  But I could do without the return of guilt. It figures that it would be the first sentiment to pierce my thick scar tissue, the only one sharp enough to penetrate my years of emotional exile.

  Marissa wiggles beneath me, situating, settling in for a long snuggle. My immediate inclination happens inside her. Blood rushes to my soft head, turning it semihard. I’m ready to go again, which is not unusual for me at all. I have a very healthy sexual appetite and short recovery time.

  No, it’s my second reaction that I find strange and bothersome. The muscles in my arms actually twitch and I nearly pull her in closer to me. That is very unusual.

  Maybe it’s just the fact that I haven’t had any in a few weeks. Yeah, that’s gotta be it. I’ve just missed women close. Any woman.

  That rationale doesn’t make me feel any better. It doesn’t make me any more comfortable with it. And still, I don’t like it.

  Extricating myself from the tangle of our arms and legs, I roll to the end of the bed and get to my feet, zipping my pants. “I’m thirsty,” I say casually. “You want something?”

  Marissa is sitting up in bed now, her arms curled around her torso, covering herself. Her expression isn’t as much wounded as it seems to be puzzled. I’m okay with puzzled. It’s the wounded part that bugs the shit out of me. I hate it when women get all pissy and hurt because I’m not the warm and fuzzy type. You’d think they’d figure that out within ten minutes of talking to me, but they don’t. That or they all think they can be the one to change me. But that’s just not gonna happen.

  “Um, no. I’ll, uh, I’ll use the bathroom and get ready for bed, I think.”

  I nod and make my way to the kitchen, leaving her to all her girly rituals.

  I grab a beer from the fridge and take it to the sofa, intent on doing some brainstorming, going over my plans in case the Dmitry situation doesn’t work like I hope. Of course, even if it does, all the other pieces would have to fall together perfectly, too. And that doesn’t happen very often. So it behooves me to have as many other options as I can think of.

  My mind is whirling away on the different pieces and players in the grand scheme of this tangle when an image of Marissa moaning beneath me rises up to distract me. I push the thought aside in favor of the faces of the Russian mafia members that I’ve seen. Within two minutes, I’m thinking of her again, of how soft her skin is and what her neck smells like.

  I take another long pull from my beer bottle, examining it closely and feeling guilty all over again. Over what I did so long ago.

  Damn, she’s gonna be pissed.

  Maybe she won’t ever remember. Maybe she’ll never find out. I don’t know why I even care, but I kinda hope she doesn’t. It’s not like I set out to make her hate me, like I want for that to happen.

  The swelling of my dick behind my zipper is making it impossible for me to think, so I drain my beer, put the bottle in the trash, and head back toward the bedroom.

  Let’s see how willing she is to play along now.

  When I get to the door, she’s just pulling back the covers to get into bed. She stops and looks at me. We stare at each other for at least two full minutes before she drops the covers and turns to fully face me.

  I cross the room slowly and stop in front of her, giving her one last opportunity to change her mind. I thread my fingers into the hair at her temples, gazing into her beautiful blue eyes. When she shows no hesitation, no sign of resistance, I take her lips in a kiss that’s meant to consume. The problem is, within seconds, I’m not sure who is consuming whom.

  * * *

  I rub the thick, soft towel across my chest and down my arms, drying water droplets and thinking about how rested I feel. I don’t think I’ve slept that good in months. Maybe years.

  Good sex’ll do that to a man.

  I dry my abdomen, making note of the red line where I was stabbed. It doesn’t bother me at all this morning and looks to be healing perfectly. I continue drying.

  The muscles in my arm flex, drawing my attention to the winding, scroll-like tattooing that covers my right arm from elbow to deltoid. I think of the significance of each band of swirling art and I hope that maybe, just maybe the days of not knowing if I’ll live to see my next sunrise are over. Maybe I’ll never add another layer of tats to my arm.

  For some reason Marissa pops into my head. She’s so different from anyone I’ve had in my life for the last seven years. She’s like a reminder of what life could’ve been, what it should’ve been for me. And it’s nice to experience a little bit of that, even if it is too late and only an illusion. My life can never be what it was meant to be. My future is set to some extent. Inevitable. Unavoidable. Unchangeable.
>
  I growl at my thoughts, at the trapped feeling I’m getting. I don’t like inevitable. I don’t like anything I can’t control.

  I’m partly relieved when I hear voices. On the one hand, they’re a welcome distraction. But on the other hand, I feel uneasy when I hear a man’s voice, one I don’t readily recognize.

  I dress quickly and make my way out to the living room. I’m not at all pleased to see Cash’s friend Gavin sitting on the couch across from Marissa, relaxed and chatting away like he belongs there.

  When I stop at the coffee table, arms crossed over my chest, Marissa glances up at me, causing Gavin to look up, too.

  “Good morning, mate. Looks like Doc got you all squared away,” Gavin says. I couldn’t hear the hint of his accent from the bathroom, but now I can. It’s not thick, but it’s there.

  His demeanor is friendly. But I still don’t like him.

  I grunt in response. “What the hell are you doing here so early?”

  “I was on my way to the club. Thought I’d stop by and check on Marissa.”

  It aggravates the hell out of me that he’s not intimidated by me. He’s nearly as big as I am, so I wouldn’t expect my size to make an impression, but I’m a lot rougher than Cash, and I would think a guy like this might sense danger. And steer clear of it. He’s treading on thin ice right now. I’m not sure why his presence here irritates me, but it does and he ought to be smart enough to sense it and get his ass out of here.

  “Well, you have. And as you can see, she’s fine. I’ve been with her. I’ll keep her safe. No reason for you to be concerned about her anymore.”

  Gavin’s sharp blue eyes narrow on me. He makes no response, nor does he make any move to leave, which only further aggravates me.

  Marissa clears her throat, drawing our attention to her. She smiles brightly. “Who wants breakfast?” she asks as she rises.