“You think Cain has him?”
Puck bobbed his head side to side. “Possible. Likely, even. But Duke…our boy can hold his own. I’m more worried about the poor, soon-to-be-dead motherfuckers who took him. Duke’s a pretty boy, but he’s no pussy. He’s got an ugly temper.” He gestured at the cockpit. “Thresh keeps his shit under control. He’s cool as a cucumber, your man. But Duke, now? He’s hot-headed, liable to pop at any moment, especially if you put his back to the wall. Corner someone like Duke? It won’t be pretty.”
“You’ll find him,” I said. “Thresh says you guys are like family to each other, and I may not have known Thresh very long, but I know him well enough to know he doesn’t leave people behind. He doesn’t let them down, and he won’t stop until those he considers his own are all safe.”
Puck nodded. “Got that right. None of us are the kind of folks you’d write home about. We’ve all got blood on our hands and skeletons in our closets, and some of us have ’em right in the foyer, know what I mean? But we got one thing most don’t: loyalty. Fuckin’ uncompromising, no man left behind kind of loyalty. And Thresh is the epitome of that. He’s literally carried members of this team out of a bad situation on his back, while wounded, fighting his way out. And now these fuckers have his best friend? This shit is gonna get real fuckin’ gnarly, real fuckin’ fast.”
There was a long pause. When Puck spoke again, I wasn’t sure he meant his words for me. “But yeah, I’m worried about Duke. I just hope we get him back in one piece when this is all over.”
So did I, if only for Thresh’s sake.
After another few minutes, Thresh exited the cockpit took his seat beside me, and jerked his thumb toward the cockpit, addressing Puck. “Boss wants you up front, Stubby.”
Puck grinned. “No he don’t, you just want to be alone so you can neck this saucy little minx, here.” He stood up, winked down at me. “Not that I blame you.”
Puck swaggered up to the cockpit, whistling a merry tune. Within seconds, the engines revved up to a roar and I was pushed back into my seat as we took off.
Thresh stared after him, then turned to me. “Puck can be an acquired taste,” he started.
“HEARD THAT!” Puck shouted from up front. “I’M WHISKEY, BITCH!”
I laughed. “I like him.”
Thresh seemed relieved. “He’s a good guy. Or, well, he’s a good guy to have on your side, may be a more accurate way to put it.”
“So, did you and Harris come up with a plan for rescuing Duke?” I asked.
Thresh nodded. “Although I’ve got a feeling we’re more rescuing Cain’s goons from Duke rather than the other way around.”
“That’s what Puck said.”
“Duke doesn’t fuck around, and he doesn’t have an off switch. But we’re not taking any chances. I guess Anselm got a lock on his last known position, and an eyewitness to his abduction. So at least we have somewhere to start.”
I unbuckled as the jet straightened out to a cruising altitude. “Well, I’m not sure what help I’ll be during the operation or whatever you call it, but if the last twenty-four hours have been any indication, you’ll need me on hand to patch up—what was it you called them? Oh yeah, your little boo-boos.”
Thresh grinned at me. “I’ve got a boo-boo you can kiss right now.”
I sat up in my chair. “Yeah? I didn’t know you’d gotten hurt.”
His grin turned hot, rife with dirty promise. “I didn’t get hurt, babe. It’s just been a few hours since I’ve had you, and all the adrenaline has me horny. So I’m feeling a little…achy…if you know what I mean.”
“If we’re going after Duke,” I said, “you’re gonna need to be at the top of your game, I’m guessing.”
Thresh smirked at me. “I would say that’s an accurate statement.”
“Well, you can’t go into a dangerous situation feeling all…achy…now can you?”
“Nope.”
“I’m gonna have to help you out, then, aren’t I?”
“I think you are, babe,” he murmured.
My heart hammered in my chest as I reached down to unzip him, then tugged his jeans down to his knees. I slid down to the floor, took his erection in my hand, stroked him to writhing readiness, then wrapped my mouth around him, took as much of him as I could, then backed away.
“Holy shit, babe,” Thresh grunted. “I didn’t mean now…goddamn—”
I grinned up at him, pumping at his root. “You’ll just have to come quickly, then, won’t you?”
I felt daring, felt wild and crazy, going down on Thresh in this tiny little jet, his friend and boss just a few feet away, on the other side of a door. The thought turned me on, knowing they could come out any second. The old fear, the paranoia…it was gone. I wasn’t the old Lola again, no, I was someone better, someone stronger. I was more ravenous than ever, and I had a man who could not only handle me as I am, but who challenged me, pushed me, and could match my insatiable sexual appetite.
It didn’t take long, not with my mouth around him, my hands on him. I brought him to orgasm within minutes, swallowed everything he had and then demanded a kiss from him.
He gave me the kiss, and then touched his lips to my ear. “Just you wait till I get you really alone, babe.”
“Oh yeah?” I smiled for him, met his pale, intense blue gaze. “What are you gonna do?”
“I’m gonna get you on your hands and knees,” he answered, “and I’m gonna fuck you so hard for so long you won’t know where one orgasm begins and the next ends. I’m gonna do it bare, no stupid condom between us, and when I’m done, I’m gonna pull out and come all over your big beautiful ass.”
I writhed, picturing it, wanting it. “Is that a promise?”
He bit my earlobe. “Damn straight it is, Doc.”
“Good, because that sounds like the best thing I’ve ever heard.”
“And then…” he whispered, “I’m gonna hold you the whole night long, and we’re gonna wake up and make love so slow it’ll be noon before we’re done.”
I blinked at him. “Make love, huh?”
He nodded, serious, vulnerable. “Make hot, sweet, messy love.”
“I lied,” I whispered, “that’s the best thing I’ve ever heard.”
Keep reading for a sneak preview of:
DUKE
An Alpha One Security novel
By
Jasinda Wilder
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exiled
A Madame X Novel
from Berkeley Romance
By
Jasinda Wilder
You seem to think that that’s the end of it. You stand up, cross the room with quick, angry strides, pour a measure of scotch from the decanter. Down it in a single swallow. Pour; swallow. You repeat this twice more, until you must lean on the table, glass under your palm, breathing hard. A third of the contents of the decanter is now in your belly.
“And that’s the story of Jakob Kasparek.” The storyteller’s cadence is gone. The distant, vacant expression is gone. The mask is back in place. “Anything else you wish to know?”
“Where is Logan?”
You do not even bother to glance at me. “The morgue, I would presume.”
“I don’t believe you.”
You shrug. “No matter to me whether you believe it or not. He’s dead and you’re mine.”
“I am not yours.”
You gesture to the door. “Then leave.”
I am at the door in three strides. The knob is in my hand; I twist it and the door opens. But I cannot leave. Not because I am yours, but because there are still so many questions.
“If Jakob Kasparek has vanished, then how is it he signed me out of the hospital, rather than you, Caleb Indigo?”
A silence greets that question.
Something else you said has been percolating in my mind. “You said I have been yours since I was sixteen, Caleb. What does that mean?”
More s
ilence.
“How old am I? Why did you tell me I was mugged, when I was really in a car accident? Why did you tell me I was eighteen when I went into the coma? How long was I in the coma?” I’m stalking closer to you with each question. My voice rises with each question. “What is the truth? What is the truth about me, Caleb? Or Jakob, should I say?”
You fly across the intervening space in the blink of an eye. Your huge powerful hand grips my chin, my throat. Tips my head backward. Your other hand curls around the base of my spine and jerks me flush against your body.
“Jakob Kasparek is no more. He is no one. He does not exist. My name . . . is Caleb.” Your voice is ice, sharp as razors and deadly as a viper’s venom.
Your fingers crush my jaw, pinch my windpipe. I am pinioned against you. Helpless. And then your lips crash against mine. Roughly, at first. Angrily. Violently. With shocking, lip-bruising force . . .
You kiss me.
With mesmerizing, hypnotic passion, you kiss me. Rough becomes gentle. This, perhaps more than the kiss itself, stuns me. The tenderness is exquisite. You kiss me delicately. Skillfully. You kiss me, and you kiss me, and I am breathless. Your tongue whispers against my lips, slips gracefully between my teeth and tangles with my tongue. Your palms play against my back and your fingertips dimple my flesh, sliding lower.
What is happening?
Your sorcery, it is not this affection. This is some new magic. Some new witchcraft.
The kiss, your kiss, Caleb, it is like nothing I have ever felt in my life. You kiss me as if you’ve been waiting for all of eternity to kiss me, as if you are starved for my lips, thirsting for my mouth. You clutch my back and hold me to you as if you are terrified to lose me. And your hand, clutching and crushing my jaw, loosens. Gentles. Glides up, over my cheek, past my ear, and into my hair. You lean into me, until I am bent backward over your palm, and I am held up by your strength alone.
There is no breath, with this kiss. No thought. Nothing. Just this kiss.
“God, Isabel. Isabel.” You whisper this against my lower lip. It is a breath only, so low I might have imagined it.
It is a plea, that whisper. A broken, pain-barbed plea.
What does it mean? I cannot begin to understand.
You break the kiss and stagger backward as if wounded. Your eyes are shadows. Haunted. As if for the first time in all the years I’ve known you a curtain has been pulled aside, and I am suddenly truly seeing the contents of your soul.
For a moment, then, you are Jakob. A young boy abandoned to fate, abandoned to the cruel streets of New York. I see the truth in the tale you told. You wipe your mouth with your wrist, brow wrinkled in confusion. Eyes coruscating with agony. You are sixteen-year-old Jakob, the whore-boy. The drug addict. The plaything.
And it is Jakob who kisses me once more. Who with hesitancy and tenderness unzips my dress. Plucks open my bra. Slides off my panties. It is Jakob who divests himself of his clothes. Who presses his skin against mine.
I am wrapped up, woven into a spell, tangled in the fabric of a lie engineered out of truth. It is Jakob who lifts me off my feet, carries me to my bed. Lays me down.
Who kisses me,
and kisses me,
and kisses me . . .
It is Jakob.
And God, Jakob is something I cannot resist. He has Caleb’s power, skill, and relentless hunger, but with a tenderness and vulnerability only Jakob could possess. Confusion and hatred and loathing and disgust boil in some secret cauldron within my soul, but Jakob’s fiery touch sears it away. I know this touch. It knows me. Knows my body, knows how to bring me to writhing need with but only the whisper of a fingertip against me, just so.
Jakob, Caleb, the names tangle. The vulnerability in your eyes is at war with shadows. Violence is an oil slick across the gentility in your features.
Fuck, I am lost. I am drowning.
You stare down at me, and you let me see something in you. Some hint of a soul. And it is a soul at war. A soul in pain. You kiss me with that pain, and it is jagged. Your breath is rough and ragged as you lave kisses over my breasts. As you finger my opening and drive me to moans as only you can. You drag a thick finger through my wetness and caress me to orgasm, and you kiss me as I whimper. While you are kissing me, while I am whimpering and clenching and writhing and shaking, you thrust your hips, and you enter me. And when your hip bones clash against mine, you break the kiss and you fix your embattled, pain-racked eyes on mine. Your eyes do not leave me as you push into me. Do not leave mine as you withdraw. Your face takes on the expression of a man in utter agony. As if you are ripping away a mask surgically implanted on your skin. As if you are ripping open your soul and letting me see the gaping wounds life has left in you.
You make love to me as if it hurts to do so. As if the pleasure of being inside me is too much, and thus is pain. Exquisite torment. An agony of ecstasy. That term is much bandied about, but when it really occurs—a true agony of ecstasy—the reality of it is hellish to witness. Such overpowering bliss, it is an overload. A too-long hit of pure oxygen to dying lungs. A feast of rich food on an empty, starving stomach.
Your hips piston against mine. You are levered over me, staring down at me as you drive in and out of me like a madman, like a man possessed. I hold on to you and try to pierce the wildness in your eyes, try to see into you, try to catch some glimpse of who you are and why you’re doing this, what it means.
You moan, brokenly. Tortured groans. Your manic, fucking thrusts falter with intensity, and you release inside me. You are not blinking, not even breathing now, thrust deep, spasming. Hips fluttering.
A groan escapes you. The sound of a shredded soul.
Your forehead lowers to mine.
You are gasping, each outbreath a grunt, a moan, a groan.
“Isabel.” That whisper again.
As if my name is an incantation. A prayer to an unknown god.
A time without measure, seconds, minutes. I do not know.
And then you lift your head, seek my eyes. Looking for something.
“Caleb?”
You flinch as if struck. Shudder.
And then
you
kiss
me.
Slow. Deep. Sweetly, even.
You touch my face. My cheek. Fingertips fluttering over my eyelids, tracing the contour of my nose. Memorizing.
You pull away, and look at me once more.
And then I watch as the mask clicks into place. I can almost hear the clink-snick of the armor plates touching and fusing.
And I wonder . . .
Did I speak the wrong name?
Jasinda Wilder
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1: FANCY
Well…fuck.
This sucked.
Woozy from the crowbar I’d taken to the back of the head, which of course came with a splitting headache straight from Satan’s own asshole, I was disoriented and felt sluggish. Chemical sluggishness though, which suggested someone had either roofied me—and if it was a woman, she shouldn’t have bothered; I’d have fucked her without the drugs—or someone had tranked me. Which wasn’t the brightest idea, TBH. Because I was slowly coming out of it, and what with the headache, and the fact that I was hungry, didn’t exactly spell rousing games of charades and shuffleboard, once I got my bearings and figured out who I had to hit.
Thresh: Alpha One Security: Book 2 Page 23
