Nauti Angel

by Lora Leigh

  “Fuck . . . Angel . . . Baby . . .” Plunging inside her to the hilt he threw his head back, a throttled groan escaping as each heavy pulse of release shot from the tortured head of his cock.

  Agony and ecstasy didn’t come close.

  Duke knew he’d never find this again, never know anything this perfect, this complete with another woman.

  “Oh, baby.” He shuddered against her, caught his weight on his elbows, and fought to catch his breath, to find reality once again. “Sweet, sweet Angel.”

  She shivered beneath him, her hands gripping his shoulders, little cries escaping every few breaths as her flesh still rippled around his.

  “Don’t let me go. Not yet,” she whispered, the plea broken by her heavy breaths.

  About the same time he realized that sometimes breathing takes effort.

  “Never, baby.” Rolling to his side he took her with him, holding her against his heart. “I’ll never let you go.”

  FIFTEEN

  Angel woke, surrounded by warmth as she lay against Duke’s chest, sprawled across it actually. Her head rested against his heart, one arm flung over his hard abs, a leg thrown over one of his.

  She was draped over him like a clinging vine.

  And she couldn’t quite figure out how she’d managed to do that without becoming aware of it. She was a light sleeper; she woke herself if she shifted from her side to her back when asleep. But she hadn’t awakened when Duke had come to bed, nor had she become aware of shifting against him and flowing over him like she wanted to sink right inside him.

  A part of him.

  She’d never been a part of anyone before, she realized. She’d been so aware of the horror that losing someone could be, at such a young age, that she’d made certain to keep defenses in place so that she could never be hurt like that again. So that if she failed to protect someone she loved again, it wouldn’t destroy her as it had when she was three.

  Somehow Duke was slipping past any shield she could put up, though. He razed them, tore them aside, and touch by touch, he was beginning to own a part of her. The question was, did she own a part of him as well?

  Stroking her hand along his side, she remembered overhearing his conversation with Ethan about Duke checking in with Tracker. She was bothered that he didn’t tell her, because Duke had broken a rule he almost considered sacred: lying, even by omission. Not that she shouldn’t expect it in some cases. The lives they led required lies and omissions to everyone. Sometimes even to each other.

  Each of them had their own safe house, one the others knew nothing about just in case. After all, everyone was breakable under torture, Tracker was prone to say. If they didn’t know where it was, then they couldn’t tell. He believed in safeguards and backup plans, and extreme wariness.

  Yet Tracker had allowed Duke and Ethan into their personal lives. Duke and his brother had met the man and woman everyone believed were not just Tracker’s parents but hers and Chance’s as well. For the past several years he’d joined them during their two-week vacation in Bermuda.

  He’d seen baby pictures. J.T. and Mara had even told Duke of Angel’s childhood. They’d raised her in one war-torn area after another as they worked together. Homeschool lessons weren’t just reading, writing, and arithmetic but self-defense, shooting, and tracking. They’d recounted the more harrowing events of that life growing up in a world soaked with blood and violence at times.

  They had never told anyone else.

  They had never trusted anyone else.

  Tracker must have known who Duke was, she suddenly realized. He’d known all along that Duke was a Mackay, and if he had known that then he would have known exactly who Duke’s parents were. And he hadn’t told her.

  She was his second-in-command and he’d kept that information from her as though she didn’t need to be aware of it. Because if she had been aware of it, then she would have run. She would have done everything possible to avoid him and she wouldn’t have been part of the team when they were hired to kill Lyrica Mackay.

  Tracker sometimes saw ties, bonds, and potential events in the littlest things, but he would have seen something more than that in Duke. He would have seen the means to do exactly what Tracker and the family had been urging her to do since she’d remembered exactly who her parents were and what had happened when she was three. To go to her mother.

  For years she’d suppressed the memories of her mother, Craig, and Jenny. It had been normal for her to wake screaming from nightmares as a child, crying out at someone that they weren’t her father. They would never be her father again.

  She still didn’t remember what happened during the time between the explosion and the day she regained consciousness as Angel Calloway, though.

  Nearly a week had passed before Angel awoke, unaware of who she was, where she was, or how she knew that Mara wasn’t her momma.

  The death of Brutus, the war dog that had led her to J.T., brought back the memories. From her earliest childhood memory of taking her first step to her mother’s arms, to the second the missile had slammed into the hotel, exploding around her as she lay beneath the metal desk, aware that Craig hadn’t managed to get Jenny there with her.

  Things were fuzzy after that, clear in only bits and pieces. One of those bits and pieces was holding Jenny’s broken body against her own as her younger sister reached out for a mother who wasn’t there.

  Now Angel lay there in Duke’s arms, her fingers sliding against the fine mat of hair that grew beneath her head, and knew it had never mattered to her that he was the son of the man that sent that missile to destroy her life. She’d known many men and women born to parents who had loved them, raised them with care and laughter, only to retreat to the basements of their lavish mansions where their victims were brutalized.

  Kings, despots, dictators, generals, and wannabe leaders. They’d taught their children to be compassionate, strong, honest, because their children were their public face. They were how the world saw them, how they’d deflect suspicion against them.

  And more than once it had been those very children who had aided in the apprehension of those parents. She, Tracker, and Chance had helped rescue several of those young people. They’d helped protect others and seen the struggle that eventually created men and women whose sense of purpose and determination were far stronger than any monsters.

  Seeing those past examples had given her a unique understanding into Duke and Ethan, but especially Duke, she thought. He was the oldest, the one who bore the weight of his parents’ crimes the heaviest because he had been unable to protect his younger brother from their parents’ actions.

  And now he was trying to protect Angel from them as well.

  God love his heart—as Dawg was known to mutter—he was always trying to protect her from something.

  A small smile curled at her lips at the thought of that. From the second he’d forced himself down that narrow shaft to join Tracker and Chance after they’d found her, he’d seemed to feel like it was his duty to make certain nothing else happened to her.

  Of course, that had been rather extreme, even for her life, she knew. Caught in the memories of her childhood, hysteria taking hold of her, she’d been fighting the rubble and the heavy beam holding her pinned to the cement floor rather than working to be free of the weight.

  Twisting, clawing at the rubble, animalistic screams and growls tearing from her chest, she’d lost her mind and Angel wasn’t certain, even now, that she would have found herself again if Duke hadn’t forced his way to where Tracker and Chance were breaking their backs trying to keep her from being crushed.

  It was a battle they’d been losing, too. They couldn’t calm her down, couldn’t force her to listen to them, to find her sanity and help them free her. Not until Duke’s voice had snapped across her senses like a steel-tipped whip. The strong, deep tone, unknown, but ringing with authority, had sl
iced past the growing horror and given her a second, a small fraction of time to gain a desperate fingerhold on reality.

  Just long enough to make her see the predicament she was in and use her head rather than the fear driving her.

  He was there. Nothing would happen to her as long as she listened to him, he’d told her with such an undertone of certainty and force that she’d had to believe him. In a calm, steady voice, he’d quickly talked her through describing how she was trapped, then he’d briefly outlined what they were going to do.

  They were running out of time, he’d told her, refusing to lie to her. And if she didn’t get herself free, then the rubble settling into the basement would take not just her, but her brothers and him and his brother. They were there for her; now she had to make her escape happen.

  Keeping her attention on him, he’d counted to three, then he, Tracker, and Chance had forced every shred of strength they had into their backs and legs to shift the beam that tiniest bit needed for Angel to twist her ankle and jerk it free of the smaller rubble the steel beam had held in place.

  As she dislocated her ankle beneath the piece of twisted metal to get it free, Ethan had been there to drag her out and he’d kept dragging her through the narrow tunnel they’d used to get to her. A tunnel collapsing around Duke, Tracker, and Chance even as they clawed their way through it after releasing the beam.

  How could a woman hate a man that risked not just his life, but the brother he’d always tried to protect as well, to save an eighteen-year-old mercenary with more issues than a long-running tabloid?

  Shifting against Duke, she ran her finger along the line of dark curls that ran from his chest to his abs, her gaze caught by the fiercely erect shaft rising along his lower stomach.

  “You’re awake,” she murmured.

  “I’m exhausted,” he growled. “You’ve been lying there thinking so hard I swear you wore me out. What the hell’s going through that complicated little mind of yours?”

  She couldn’t stop the little giggle that escaped. He’d always claimed to know when she was thinking too hard. He’d frown at her and tell her to “stop that,” she was making him tired just watching.

  “How do you always know?” she asked now, her finger playing at the indent of his navel, just above the wide, fiercely throbbing crest.

  “That you’re thinking too hard?” he questioned. “Hell if I know. But it makes me tired. Find something else to concentrate on,” he demanded, lust darkening his voice, deepening it to a sexy baritone that had her creaming.

  “Like what?” she asked with affected innocence as she moved against him, watching as her fingertips skirted the head of his cock to stroke the bend of his thigh.

  “You really want me to go there?” He grunted, laughter teasing his voice. “You’ll blush.”

  “You don’t like it when I blush then?” Yeah, right. She knew better.

  “I love it when you blush,” he growled. “When you get flustered and don’t quite know what to say. Your eyes get darker, that hint of blue gets brighter, and your whole face turns the color of a pretty peach. I told you I was fond of peaches.”

  She flattened her hand along his thigh and dipped to the inside with her caresses when her attention was snagged by something else.

  “Duke?” She sat up, staring at the heavy sac beneath his cock before turning back to him in surprise. “Do you wax?”

  She was going to bust a gut laughing. She couldn’t help it.

  He frowned back at her, the dark green of his eyes gleaming beneath that heavy veil of lashes.

  “Fuck no!” he exclaimed. “No one’s putting hot wax anywhere near my balls, Angel. You should know better than that.”

  He wouldn’t lie about it, but there wasn’t a single curl down there, and she’d seen enough men naked in her line of work to know that portion of their anatomy could rival any woman’s when it came to the thick mat of curls they carried there.

  “I use that damned girly-assed hair remover.” He chuckled then. “Works wonders.”

  “Why?” She couldn’t help but touch him, wondering why she hadn’t paid attention before.

  A groan rumbled in his chest as she cupped the heavy weight, her fingertips rubbing against the rougher texture of his sac.

  “Damn, baby, you’re killing me,” he groaned, his thighs tensing as she caressed him.

  “Tell me why?” She laid her lips against his chest, tongue peeking out to taste his flesh as she began to lay teasing kisses down a slow path lower.

  “Why?” He breathed out, his voice rougher now. “Because the drag of my mission pants are hell if I don’t. And you know I don’t wear briefs.”

  No, he did not. But she knew Ethan had once stated he didn’t either. And she knew Tracker and Chance didn’t. They said the briefs could become uncomfortable in the snug pants they wore on missions.

  “I like it.” She blew a little breath against the head of his cock as she kissed her way closer.

  “You don’t know a difference,” he pointed out, groaning again before he could finish the sentence. “At least, you better not.”

  She smiled but refused to say. Her fingers played against the rapidly tightening sac and heavy spheres they contained. Cupping, rolling against them, memorizing the feel of them as she kissed her way to his thigh.

  “Not a good idea.” His fingers suddenly clenched in her hair. “I don’t have much control right now, baby.”

  “Poor baby.” Her lashes fluttered at the little sting as she tugged at his hold, moving to her destination despite the pressure against her scalp. “Keep pulling my hair like that and I might lose mine pretty soon.”

  She loved the feel of his fingers tugging at the strands while they touched. The sting and release, the little pain mixing with the surfeit of pleasure.

  “You like that?” He sounded as though he was pushing the words past clenched teeth.

  “I do.” She gasped at the sharper little sensation that was there then gone as he pulled and released. “Oh God, Duke. I really like it.”

  She nipped at his thigh as she moved between his legs, needing to pleasure him, to show him the same hunger that he always showed her. A hunger she fought, one that terrified her at times, but one she couldn’t keep ignoring.

  “Angel, sweetheart,” he groaned, the warning in his voice clear as she lowered her head and licked over the slightly ridged flesh of his testicles. “We’re going to get critical here. You know I’ll get nasty. Especially this morning. Come up here and let me fuck you nice and easy . . .”

  A gentle nip to the flesh she was caressing with her tongue had his whole body stiffening. His cock jerked and just as quickly his hard, broad fingers gripped the base firmly.

  “Oh, that looks so hot,” she whispered, staring up at the sight, letting her lips caress the flesh as she watched him hold the heavy shaft.

  His cock was fully engorged, bisected with heavy veins, the flared head darkened to a purplish hue.

  The hand still locked in her hair tugged and released, and as she watched, he stroked up the heavy shaft and back down with a firm grip.

  “Keep playing, baby,” he urged her with silky warning. “I can take the heat if you can.”

  She could feel the heated, dazed fascination beginning to overtake her senses. Everything she’d ever read, seen, or been told merging in her mind in her desire to pleasure him, to see if he could indeed take the heat. She knew she couldn’t, but she was sure as hell going to try.

  “Suck at them,” he ordered, his voice hardening as he used the grip on her hair to urge her head lower. “Let me feel it.”

  She whimpered, lips parting along the side of the tense sac, sucking one of the spheres inside her mouth, her tongue measuring it, lashing against the flesh covering it, then probing with a firm caress.

  Repeating the caress to the other side she could
feel her juices spilling between her thighs, dampening her folds, preparing her for him.

  “That’s it, pretty girl,” he groaned, his hips lifting in response, his fingers stroking the fierce stalk above her. “That sweet, hot little mouth. Now come up here.” He tugged at her hair again. “Suck my cock just a little bit, baby, while you keep driving me crazy there with your fingers.”

  His hold tightened in her hair, dragging her up his body, her lips trailing, tongue stroking along the iron-hard shaft until she reached the flared, helmet-shaped crest. A tiny pulse of pre-cum beaded at the slit as the head flexed, drawing her tongue first.

  She lapped at the bead of moisture, relished the salty man-and-storm essence of it before rolling her tongue over the sensitive crest.

  She moaned as he pushed the thick head against her lips, parted them, and slid inside. It was so damned arousing, the way he was holding her, the pull of her hair, the submissive quality of the hold, and the feel that he was taking her mouth.

  She swirled her tongue over the wide head, aware of his body tightening further, and the hoarse groan that filled the air.

  She could barely breathe for the erotic excitement building inside her as he filled her mouth with the head of his cock and her senses with pleasure.

  “That’s it, sweetheart,” he rasped. “Suck my dick as deep as you can. Deep, Angel. Fuck, you make me crazy.”

  • • •

  Duke knew he was losing control. He ground his head into the pillow, fighting to breathe as he watched her, her gaze slitted and staring up at him as he held his cock up to her hot little mouth.

  She sucked him in tight drawing motions, her tongue rubbing against the underside, her fingers cupping and playing with his balls in sensual enjoyment. And it was killing him.

  Darts of fiery sensation lashed at his cock, his balls. Up his fucking spine. Every part of his body was being assaulted by ghostly lashes of pleasure that were damned discomfiting but too good to stop.