by Mazzy King
We’ve lost the tail. I should feel good about that, but it’s hard to concentrate.
It’s hard to think of anything but the lingering caress of his hand on my skin.
5
Saint
The night I met Lyra, I intended only to question her about Max Hendricks, see if I could flip her as a witness for our side, offer her protection and maybe a deal—some immunity for her cooperation. I knew she was gorgeous, but when she stepped out of the ladies’ room and I got an up-close look at her exquisite face and those haunting blue eyes, her delicate nose and those incredible, plump lips, everything I intended to tell her went out of my head and I uttered the only words I could think of in that moment.
You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
Not my finest moment as a detective. But as a man? I just saw an angel.
Then I did some extremely fast talking, that included me telling her who I was, who I worked for, that I knew who she was with, and that I could help her if she’d only take it.
That I’d take care of her.
It didn’t go over well. The brief moment we shared before I did the very fast talking shattered. At the mention of the words “Ridge City PD,” she backed away from me, shaking her head, her long, beautiful dark hair swaying.
I had to tell Gunner who was there with a few other undercover cops to put her in cuffs along with the rest of her crew—to avoid any suspicion. By the time Gunner’s crew descended on them, Max Hendricks had fled, and we ended up having to release those assholes because…no evidence.
That’s one of the shittiest parts of this job—knowing some people are every bit as guilty as you think they are, and not being able to do anything about it because of rules.
After that, I waited for the other shoe to drop. I waited for the attack to come, after Lyra surely ratted me out. But it never did.
She had my back.
As we pull into the attached garage of the house discreetly used a safehouse in a subdivision fifteen miles outside the city, I glance over at Lyra. She hasn’t said a word since we left the alley. I don’t know what to make of it, and I wonder fleetingly if I should’ve just kept my mouth shut. But, dammit, I have thought about Lyra every single night since that night at Triple Six. And walking into the garage tonight fully expecting to see Max Hendricks’s punkass and seeing her instead was like a thousand volts of electricity thrumming through my body.
And now, we’re going to be alone together, until I can figure out what to do with her.
The safehouse is small and tidy. We don’t use it on a regular basis, but every now and then an undercover cop needs to lie low here, or a witness needs some protection. I hope Lyra will become the latter—she can singlehandedly put Max Hendricks away for a long, long time, if she decides she’s willing to take that risk.
And if she’s not… I don’t want to think about those implications. Because none of the scenarios end well for her.
I make Lyra wait in the kitchen while I quickly clear the house. We have a state-of-the-art security system to make sure things are safe and quiet at all times, but you can’t be too careful.
When I make it back to the kitchen, Lyra has put the pancakes, cheese omelets, hash browns, and bacon from the containers Gunner gave me from the diner onto two plates and is rotating them in and out of the microwave.
She catches my eye and shrugs. “I’m hungry. I’m sure you are, too.”
I eye her in those tight, high-waist black jeans, black scoop-neck crop top that shows a tantalizing hint of cleavage as well as a flash of her tummy, and her heeled boots.
Yes. I am very, very fucking hungry.
She locates maple syrup in a cupboard and pours a generous amount over her pancakes, then passes me the bottle. She quietly digs into her food.
I do the same. I’ve eaten at that diner plenty of times, so I know it’s legit, but I barely taste anything as I watch her out of the corner of my eye.
Finally, I say, “Let’s talk about what happens next.”
She doesn’t meet my eyes as she licks syrup off the tines of the fork. Is she trying to torture me? “Okay. What happens next…Detective?”
The way she says that bothers me, like it’s a dirty thing she hates about me. I swallow.
“What happens next is you tell me everything I need to know about that operation of Hendricks’s, where he is, and how I can get him.”
“You want me to do your job for you?” She arches a brow.
My eyes narrow a little. “I did my job tonight—I got the star witness.”
Lyra’s creamy olive skin pales. “Witness? What part of they will kill me do you not get?”
I set my fork down and place a hand on her forearm. “What part of ‘I will take care of you’ do you not get?”
Her crystalline eyes slit, but she doesn’t pull away from me. “You expect me to just take you at your word. I know what you cops are like—you say whatever you have to say to get what you want.”
“Why are you protecting him?” I demand. “I know you don’t love him. And he certainly doesn’t love you, considering what you’re doing and the fact that you could’ve been killed tonight.”
“You don’t know a thing about us,” she returns, but I don’t buy that bravado for a single second.
“Lyra,” I say gently, “what does he have on you?”
She lowers her gaze. A tear drops from her eye onto her napkin. I want to brush it away, but I don’t move. Slowly, she reaches for the neck of her top. I try to keep the flare of warmth from rushing through my body straight to my dick as I catch sight of even more of her delicious, creamy cleavage, but then a line of puckered skin beneath her right collarbone appears. It’s jagged.
“This is one of the scars you can still see that he left on me,” she whispers, not meeting my gaze. “The bruises faded. But the mental scars are still there. He’s…blackmailing me, Saint. And he’ll kill me if he finds out the cops want me to cooperate.”
Involuntarily, my fists clench. Any man who abuses a woman is the scum of the motherfucking earth in my book, and Max Hendricks just managed to become even more of a piece of a shit. I didn’t think that was possible, but the scar on Lyra’s chest opens up a whole new can of worms.
“When I find him, I’m going to make him pay,” I say quietly, and the dark tone of my voice makes her look up at me finally. It even frightens me. “He will never touch you again, Lyra.”
Her chin quivers for half a second, and then she swallows and straightens. “Why do you want to help me so much, Saint? Why do you care? I’m a car thief. I break the law. I deserve to go to prison.”
“I see more in you,” I tell her. “I saw it the night we met. I see it now. I told you, I felt something that night. Something I can’t shake. I can’t shake you. And I don’t want to. You don’t want me to. I know you don’t.”
She swallows hard again, and the movement of her throat drives me insane. She turns quickly to her plate as if to distract herself, lifting a bite of soggy pancake to her mouth. A droplet of maple syrup escapes her lips and rolls down her chin, her neck.
Deliberately, I lean toward her, running my silky fingers through her hair. The droplet pools in the hollow of her throat before slipping between her breasts.
“Let me get that for you,” I whisper.
She draws a shaky breath, but her eyes are blue fire. She feels it—that magnetic pull that fell over me the night I saw her at Triple Six. That undeniable, invisible bond that manifested between us, as if it was established ages ago and roused itself when we finally, finally, saw each other.
She knows I want her.
And she wants me, too.
It’s so wrong. It goes against the badge. I can’t fraternize like this. It could cost me my job.
But despite her choices, she’s a woman in need of saving.
And I’m the only man for the job.
I dip my head and use the tip of my tongue to find the literal sweet spot between her breas
ts, then follow the sticky trail up her chest, detouring to pay homage to the scar there. Then I glide over to the base of her throat, then up the graceful column of her neck. I swipe my tongue over her pulse in the underside of her jaw, kiss her chin, then hover just a breath away from her lips.
“Saint,” she murmurs in the millisecond before she’s in my lap and in my arms.
We devour each other’s mouths as if they’re our last meals. Her lips are soft and plush against mine, sweet from the syrup, and so, so hungry. I greedily take from her lips over and over before coaxing her mouth open wide and reaching in deep with my tongue. My dick goes rock-hard inside my jeans, and I feel the little center of heat from her, placed directly over my lap. She swivels her hips, grinding against me hard.
“I want you,” she whimpers against my mouth.
“Then take me,” I whisper against hers.
I scoop her up and carry her upstairs to the bedroom. I try to remember she has no other clothes with her and carefully peel them off her petite, curvy shape. Under her black ensemble she wears black lace panties and a matching bra that positions her delicious breasts just right. I strip out of my own clothes before crawling over her body.
I rotate us so that she’s on top of me. I cup her glorious round, soft ass and push her hips down, so her lace-covered pussy grinds against my thick, nine-inch cock that’s already leaking with excitement. I undo her bra with a snap of my fingers, then cup her breasts in both my hands. They dangle in my face and I devour her nipples the way I did her lips until they’re hard little diamonds on my tongue and she’s moaning. She reaches down to stroke my cock, squeezing just right at the tip, and I growl.
I yank her up until her pussy hovers over my mouth, then I lick the crotch of her soaked panties. She squeals, grabbing the headboard to brace herself. I tease her through her panties a little more until she softly cries my name. Then I whisper, “Sorry,” and rip her panties off.
There’s nothing between me and her lush, wet pussy now, so I pull her hips down to my face and eat her with abandon.
She moans loudly, working her hips and riding my mouth. Splashes of her juice trickle down both sides of my face as her pleasure peaks higher and higher. I want her to ride my tongue until she comes all over my mouth, so I grab her ass and hold her firmly in place.
Lyra suddenly swivels around so she’s facing the other way, and leans forward. I know what’s about to happen, and yet I’m totally unprepared for the sensation of her warm, wet mouth enveloping my cock. I growl into her pussy, curling my toes, redoubling my efforts as she sucks with tight, leisurely pulls of her mouth.
Her hips buck against my mouth, and I can tell she’s close. Her mouth around my dick grows desperately fast, and there’s nothing I can do to stop me from exploding in her mouth, shooting my hot, creamy cum down her throat as she groans loud and low in her chest and soaks my face, her body shuddering as she reaches her own climax. I don’t know what’s better—coming with her mouth around my cock, or her pussy in my face.
I turn her around and gather her in my arms, then claim her mouth. My cock immediately jumps to attention as I touch her pussy and find it soaked.
“Are you ready for me, Lyra?” I ask.
“Yes,” she whines. “I want you to fuck me, Saint. I wanted you to fuck me the night we met. I just wanted you.”
I bite my lip, containing a snarl of possessive pleasure. “How do you want it, baby? Tell me.”
“Fuck me hard from the back,” she whispers, but it’s every bit a command.
“You asked for it,” I breathe against her mouth.
In a flash I raise up to my knees and pull her back by her hips. She spreads her legs wide and arches her back. When she tosses her head, her long, dark hair sprawls over her back, and I have to take a moment to just appreciate the beautiful sight before me—her round, pert ass stuck in the air, her swollen, wet pussy waiting for me, and her hair, just begging to be pulled.
I line up at her opening and start gently working my way through her folds. “Holy fuck,” I grunt. “You’re fucking tight, baby.”
“Give it to me, Saint,” she says in a breathless moan.
I push all the way in, taking a second to keep my shit together at the feel of those tight, tight walls pulsing around my thick cock like a vise. Then I run my fingers through her hair, wind it up around my fist, and tug.
“Yes!” she cries softly, her head tilting back. “Mm, fuck me, baby!”
I drive my cock into her, slow and hard, one hand on tight on her hip, the other tightly wound in her hair. She gushes around me with every thrust.
“You’re so fucking big,” she gasps, arching her back and shoving her soft, delicious ass against me.
“You were made for me,” I tell her, continuing my torturous pace. “Just like I was made for you.”
Gradually, I kick up the speed, but make sure I’m still fucking her hard and deep the way she clearly wants. I’ll do anything she asks. I’ll give her anything she wants. I’ll do anything for her.
“Lyra,” I murmur, feeling hot tingles of pleasure shoot down my spine and center themselves in my balls. “I…love you, Lyra. I’ve loved you since the second I saw you.”
“I love you, Saint,” she moans. “Oh, yes, I’m coming!”
Her pussy clenches around my cock even tighter, and I feel the wild, fluttering pulses as her pleasure seizes her. Her back bows as if her orgasm is too much, sobbing out her cries of insane, mindless pleasure.
“Lyra!” I grab her hips in both hands and pull her flat against me as I come as deeply inside her as possible. I want to mark her as mine. I want to claim her. She’s my Lyra, I’m her Saint…but for now, I want to sin.
We collapse in a heap. I’m utterly boneless, but she creeps off to use the bathroom and clean herself and brings me a towel to do the same. I only have the energy to drape it over my exhausted cock and pull her into my arms.
For now, we’re safe. For now, a dangerous gang of car thieves isn’t on our tail. For now, Max Hendricks doesn’t want Lyra—my Lyra—dead. He can’t hurt her, ever again.
I kiss her temple, listening to the contented, sleepy noises she makes in the back of her throat.
I’ll make sure of it.
6
Lyra
When I wake up the next morning, it’s to Saint sitting back down on the bed, smiling at me, a steaming, grande cup from Starbucks in one hand and a croissant in the other.
“I guessed,” he said, handing them to me. His soft lips brush my temple. “Good morning, by the way.”
“Thank you,” I murmur, my cheeks heating. How can I possibly be embarrassed around him after the night we had? I mean, I rode his face for a good five minutes straight until he made me come my brains out.
My lower half tingles as I remember the way his hand felt in my hair, wrapping tight as he impaled me with his huge cock, and tugging with just enough force to make me thrill at the feeling of total submission to his dominance. Dominance that showed little cracks in his power based on the way he gripped my hip with his other hand, his grunts of intense pleasure, the way he roared my name when he came deep inside me.
To distract myself, I sip my drink, which turns out to be a vanilla latte. “Mm. It’s good.”
He eyes, teething his lower lip. “So are you.”
“Don’t bite your lip like that, Saint,” I warn him in a low voice.
One corner of his mouth turns up. “Or what, baby?” And because he’s a shit, he bites it again.
I carefully set my latte and croissant down on the nightstand. Then I launch myself at him and shove him down on his back, straddling his hips. I lock his wrists down against the bed.
“You have the right to remain silent,” I murmur, kissing down his neck. “Any lip-biting you do will be held against you in bed with me.”
He moans when I tease his earlobe with the tip of my tongue. “I don’t think I can do the silent part with you, baby.”
I sit up straight
on top of him, still naked from the night before. He runs his hands up my belly and ribs to cup my breasts and play with my nipples. Beneath me, I feel his cock harden through his jeans.
“You’re a goddess,” he whispers, watching me grind on him. “A queen.”
“Then that must mean you’re my king,” I whisper back. “Saint, I want you. Make love to me, now.”
With a growl, he flips me on my back with practically no effort. His gaze is fixed between my thighs as he quickly strips off his shirt, jeans, and boxer briefs, freeing his enormous cock. The sight of it in daylight awes me—how did I ever take something so big?
“I’m hungry,” he whispers, grabbing my hips and tilting them up. “I’m eating you for breakfast.”
He lowers his mouth to my tingling, aching pussy and licks me thoroughly, suckling on my clit and sliding his whole tongue through my wet folds. I moan loudly, my eyes roll back in my head. There’s something about a man who eats pussy and loves it—he’s a keeper.
I grab a handful of his hair and work my hips against his mouth. “Saint!”
“That’s it,” he murmurs, heat blazing in his eyes. “Fuck my mouth, Lyra.”
I do just that, using his mouth and tongue until I’m coming hard, my body shuddering all over. When I can move, I get on all fours facing him, and, making sure my ass is tilted up in the air, I take him in my mouth, squeezing my mouth and cheeks around his girth and jacking the base of him. One of his hands winds in my hair, while the other caresses my upturned ass. He fingers my pussy as I suck him, hissing out little breaths of pleasure.
Then he gently tugs on my hair. “You’re gonna make me come, and I need to be inside you,” he tells me. He lays me on my back and spreads my thighs, then positions himself at my opening and works himself in slowly, a little of him at a time. I rest my hands on his chest, staring up at him as he gazes down at me.
The look in his eyes brings on an intense, tidal wave of emotion.
“I love you,” he whispers, rolling his hips against me. His cock slams deep and slow, filling me to the brim and hitting everything I want hit.
