“About time…ah…” She panted, her head hung between her arms while she rested on her chest with her ass in the air. He brought his palm down hard on her ass. Fuck if that didn’t make her moan again. He squeezed the rest of the lube onto his cock and slicked up.
Dixon pushed into her and damn near gave up before the head of his cock forced through her resistance. He froze. Her body trembled between his hands and a fine sheen of perspiration broke out all over her body. He held her hips, willing himself not to move no matter how much the tight heat of her ass begged him to do so.
Finally, he heard the words he’d been waiting to hear. “Move.” Thank fuck. He dropped down over her back and pressed forward, taking clues from her body when to stop. When he was fully seated, he used the hand that he’d lubed his cock with and reached between her legs. He split her sex and stroked her clit. His free arm wrapped around her hips and snugged her against him before he dropped a kiss between her shoulder blades.
“Are you going to fuck me, or what?” her husky voice challenged, not that he needed much enticement.
He trusted her to know her own fucking body. He pulled out and slid back, in slow, measured strokes while his fingers continued to torment her clit.
He was close, so fucking close. She was fucking tight and hot. Sweat poured off him and squelched between them. As far as he was concerned, the best sex in the world was hot, sweaty and borderline violent.
She pushed up onto her hands and then started to meet his thrusts. “Yes, harder!”
Dixon grabbed her hips and pulled her back into him as he thrust forward. His orgasm was right there, a sharply defined line, and he was barreling toward it faster than the speed of sound. He leaned forward and wrapped his hand around her neck, pulling her up and back into his chest while drilling into her. He tightened his hand around her neck, not to choke her, but to let her know the power he held. He tipped her head and hissed, “I own you.”
She shook her head, panting the word no, over and over. Dixon used the hand not holding her neck to grab one of her nipples. He squeezed and rolled it. She gasped.
He growled, “I own you. Go ahead and fight me. You want it that way and so do I.”
He saw stars when she came. Her body clenched and milked him. He slammed through his orgasm and tried to control their burn as they melted into the bed.
He slid off her and gently removed his cock from her body. The slightest of whimpers escaped her. Dixon pretended not to hear. This woman would not want him to witness any weaknesses.
He pushed her damp hair off her shoulders. She rolled her face toward him and narrowed her eyes. He lifted his eyebrows in question. Instead of answering she rolled off the bed and headed for the bathroom. He grabbed a pillow that had somehow managed to fall onto the floor and propped his head up. He could hear the water in the bathroom running as she cleaned up. She emerged several minutes later with her dress on. She stepped into her heels and grabbed her cape from the chair, upending his stack of clothes. She headed toward the door.
“Joy,” Dixon called, stopping her. She looked back at him. “How do I contact you?”
She turned fully and gazed at him. “Why?”
“Because what we have started here is something I want to continue.”
Her brows drew together. “Why?”
Dixon blew out a breath of air while he considered whether or not to tell her the truth. Fuck it, what did he have to lose? “Because maybe we're both fucked up, but our fucked up works together.”
She stood in the door for several long moments before she recited a string of numbers.
He smiled as she turned to leave. “I pegged that ten this time, didn’t I?”
She glanced over her shoulder and made a point of running her eyes over his body. “So fucking needy. Honestly, you barely reached a seven. Next time, you better bring your ‘A’ game.”
His laughter followed her out the door.
Chapter 6
“Operator Two-seven-four.”
“Sunset clearance, zero operative.”
“Standby, zero operative.”
“Archangel.”
“He’s back. Something has…changed. Less grunt work, more interaction with the other side of the operation.”
“He’s being brought on board.”
“Perhaps.
“Has he made contact with the freelancer?”
“Once, but…”
“What is your concern?”
“I don’t know. Something is wrong.”
“Can you substantiate?”
“Negative.”
There was an audible pause before Archangel cleared his voice and dropped his command, “Check in as scheduled unless something happens.”
“Of course.”
“Where have you been?” The old man snapped as soon as he entered the office.
Dixon straightened to his full height. “Doing what you asked.” He strode forward with the signed documents. The legalese had nearly made his eyes bleed, but he’d reviewed the documentation and obtained the signatures from the very unwilling business owners. The packet of photos that he’d dropped on their desks had shut them up–quickly. His father had taken great pains to document shit that needed to be reported to the cops. His gut rolled at the contents of the envelope. The date and time stamps were what killed him. They were taken three days ago. He could have prevented it had he known what was being set up. He could have stopped those fucking predators. He heard Jeremiah’s voice in his head. It wasn’t you that allowed it to happen. It was your father. You can’t stop events you are unaware of.
His father sighed and shook his head. “I can see through you. You can’t hide anything from me.”
Dixon stood motionless. He had no idea what his father was talking about, but that didn’t mean jack-shit. The man could rave like a banshee or lash out with deadly intent at the drop of a hat.
“Your moralistic slip is showing. I thought I taught you this lesson before.” His father opened his top desk drawer and pulled out two pictures. “Pick one.”
Dixon glanced at the two photographs. “What do you mean?”
“Pick a motherfucking photograph!” his father screamed, spittle flying.
Dixon dropped his eyes to the two pictures. One showed a vibrant young woman holding a baby. She was smiling and happy. The other was a photograph of a handsome man in his mid-thirties in a snowsuit on skis—her husband? His head was thrown back, and he was captured in mid-laugh.
“Which one?”
Dixon shook his head. “No.” He wasn’t a child any longer. The sick fucker wasn’t sucking him into this again.
His father jumped to his feet? “No? Did you tell me no?”
Dixon stood his ground and nodded. Once.
His father picked up both photos and carefully placed them back into the drawer. “Very well, you may go.” The words were said in a polite congenial tone. The motherfucker was certifiable. Dixon left the study, went back to the small office he’d been given over two weeks ago and grabbed his keys, coat, and gloves.
“You should have picked a picture.” Smith’s form blocked his door. He was studying his shoes or the wood flooring, but one thing was certain, he wasn’t looking at Dixon.
Dixon put on his coat and buttoned the front. “Yeah, and why is that?”
The man lifted his eyes to Dixon’s, the sadness he let Dixon see was almost overwhelming. “Next time, choose.” He turned slowly and walked down the hall.
Dixon turned off his light and headed out of The Residence. He’d wanted to text Joy or call her, but he assumed his telephone in the office was being monitored. The cell he carried was provided by his father. There was no way he’d enter that number or any number of importance into anything the bastard could track. Not when the son of a bitch allowed sick motherfuckers like the shit he dealt with today to walk free…all for the bargain basement price of a run-down building in a shit sector of the city.
He did the walkaround of his ve
hicle and ducked down to look under it. A pair of small high-heeled boots stopped at the passenger’s side door. He rose and looked through the window. Joy cocked her head at him and then looked at the door lock. He hit the key fob, and they both opened the doors at the same time. His gun was drawn. She laughed and used the ‘oh shit’ bar and the hydraulic running boards to climb into the SUV, shutting the door behind her. Dixon glanced up and down the street before he holstered his weapon and slid into his seat. He punched the start button so he could crank the heat. It was fucking cold. Thanksgiving was in a couple weeks. There had been a deluge of snow that had melted into filthy grey clumps after being shoved along the curb.
“I need a date.” She brushed an invisible piece of lint from her fur.
“I thought you didn’t date.” He slid his finger over the touchscreen, sending the heater into furnace mode.
“I don’t.” She turned in her seat. Long strands of diamonds hanging from her ears caught the fluorescent lighting from the streetlights. “I’m working. I need plausible deniability. Being single at this event would draw attention that I do not desire.”
“How very romantic. Of course, I’d love to be your date for the evening.” He stared at her, taking in the mink coat she wore and the diamonds that fell from her ears. “I’m assuming I need a tux?”
“Of course.” She lifted her bag and slipped off her boots, pulling out a pair of incomprehensibly high heels. She glanced at him and then to the road. “Well hurry up, or we're going to be late.”
Dixon chuckled gave her a two fingered salute. “Roger that, your wish is my command.”
“See, everything goes so much smoother with that attitude, Quick Draw. Keep it.” She half stood up as he pulled away from the curb. With a quick shimmy of her hips, the length of her dress fell to her feet. The white material shimmered in the passing streetlights. “Watch the road.”
Dixon snapped his eyes forward and corrected his steering to avoid the ass end of a car that hadn’t been properly parallel parked. She sat down again and reached for her bag. “What do you know about art?”
“I know what I like. I favor realism. An abstract is okay if the colors are to my liking. I have a friend who collects art. I like most of it, but he could tell you the artist, the creative period they were in when they painted it and why it is valuable.” He chuckled at the length Justin King could go on about an artist. “I could regurgitate that information if I needed to do so.”
“Awesome. You do the talking if we have to interact. I think pictures in the bins at craft stores are art.” She flipped the visor down and ran her finger along the bottom of her lip. “Oh, there is roadwork being done about a block from your apartment building. You might want to circle around to get into the parking lot. It would be easier than waiting for the flagmen to get off their asses and let us through.”
Dixon swung his eyes to her and lifted a single eyebrow.
“What? Like I wouldn’t follow you and check you out after you suggested we work together? What do you think I am? An amateur? That is hardly flattering.” She settled back into the seat and lifted her chin regally.
“Did you happen to pull my tux out and send it to the cleaners for me?” The woman was bold, he’d give her that.
“No, but I did take it out of the garment bag and steam it for a bit. When was the last time you wore that?” She reached down and picked up the massive bag, again shoving it between them and dropping it to the floor in the second-row seating.
“Shit…a wedding almost five years ago.” He hadn't worn it in Aruba. Everyone wore chinos and polos because that was what Zane and Jewell requested. So, yeah, five years ago when Doc and Keelee got married…fuck, he hoped that bastard still fit.
“Well it is Armani, so vintage isn’t a necessarily a bad thing.” She waved dismissively. “Hopefully no one will notice.”
They rode in silence until his apartment building came into view. Dixon pulled into his parking slot and put the vehicle into park. “Are you coming up or waiting here?”
“Waiting. You have ten minutes.” She turned her head and blinked at him. “Well? Go!”
Dixon laughed and opened the door. There was never a dull moment around that woman. He shut the door and sprinted up the stairs to his apartment. Evidently, he had a date tonight.
Dixon presented the gilded invitation Joy had provided him and escorted her into the long white tunnel of the art gallery’s entrance. Her mink and his cashmere top coat, scarf and gloves were spirited away in an instant. A passing waiter offered them champagne which they both accepted and neither drank. A prop for the evening. They strolled down the corridor, occasionally stopping to look at the art. Through his peripheral vision, he saw her studying people rather than the canvases. Her eyes bounced from person to person.
Dixon turned to move them further along. Her hand at the inside of his elbow guided him across the grand hallway to a smaller painting near a cluster of people. Dixon recognized several men and one woman immediately. The men were current New York senators, both had been prominent in the local news of late. The woman was a legendary television reporter. Joy spun so her back was to the group. Dixon put his arm over her shoulder and gazed at the painting while she obviously listened to the conversation. The current debate centered around the upcoming legislation in the spring session. Joy smiled up at him and started toward another painting. He fell into step with her and continued on. They traversed the exhibit, and Dixon lost count of the times she directed him away from or toward a certain painting. She asked his opinion and at times seemed enthralled by his responses. At other times he knew her attention was elsewhere. He could have told her he liked the purple and pink elephants in one landscape they were viewing, and she wouldn’t have heard him. Her eyes darted around the room, searching.
“What are you looking for?” He turned her around when she applied pressure to the inside of his arm.
“Inconsistencies.” She smiled up at him. “What are you looking for?”
Dixon winked at her. “A good time.”
“And this isn’t it?” She lifted her hand and made an elegant sweep toward the painting.
He took a sip of his champagne and grimaced. He flagged down a waiter as he passed. He took her glass from her and set both warm, flat, wine flutes on the silver tray. He took her hand and tucked it through his arm. “No, this doesn’t do it for me.”
“Such a shame, because I’m afraid I’m busy later.” She gave him a delicate shrug of her shoulders. “But I’m free now.”
“Now?” Dixon cast a glance around the gallery. There had to be at least two hundred of New York’s elite in attendance. Movie stars, models, political leaders, and the uber-wealthy, mingled and talked about the three artists that comprised the showing. From the conversations, he’d heard there was a bidding war on several of the paintings.
“Come with me.” She pulled him with her to a small door at the very end of the long hall. She glanced over her shoulder before she opened it and slipped in, tugging him after her.
“Getting busted for trespassing would be a bad thing," he whispered after the door shut.
She shushed him and lifted her gown before she took off at a fast clip down the corridor. Yeah, something told him he wasn’t here to get lucky. He followed her as she wound her way through the maze of offices and warehouse space behind the gallery’s storefront.
“Here.” She motioned to the door. “Open this.” She slipped him a set of lock picks, and he took them from her. He didn’t have gloves on, and he’d be damned if he was leaving fingerprints or any trace evidence. He reached into his pocket and grabbed his linen handkerchief. Using it, he removed a hefty pick from the set, inserted it in the top portion of the lock barrel, and then used a more pliable pick to work through the tumblers. The bolt moved, and he rotated the handle of the door using the hanging portion of the handkerchief to cover his palm. She scooted through the door, and he followed. The office wasn’t anything spectacular. He stood guard by t
he door and watched as she searched the drawers, finally pulling a thick folder from the bottom right-hand drawer.
She flipped through pages quickly before stopping and reading one. She shuffled through several more before plucking one out of the stack and folding it several times. She lifted her gown and stuck the paper into her garter belt on the inside of her thigh. After adjusting her skirt, she replaced the file and held out her hand, waggling her fingers at him. He narrowed his eyes and handed her his handkerchief.
She meticulously wiped the few surfaces she’d touched before handing it back to him. They slipped out of the room and headed back to the front of the gallery. Dixon heard the footsteps the same time she did. He spun her into the wall and slammed his lips onto hers as he grabbed at her skirt as if trying to lift it.
“Hey, you can’t be back here.” The shrill sound of a surprised woman broke them apart.
“Oh, sorry. The door wasn’t locked, and we were just…” Joy didn’t finish the sentence, rather she giggled like a teenager and hid her face behind her hand as if she was mortally embarrassed.
“Right, I get it, but seriously, this portion of the gallery isn’t open to the public. You need to leave.” The woman moved to the side of the corridor and pointed toward the door they’d entered several minutes ago.
Dixon lifted away from Joy and adjusted his coat, giving her time to smooth her jacked up gown. He nodded to the woman as they passed by. They meandered arm in arm through the display gallery and back to the main entrance. Their coats were exchanged for the tickets Dixon provided, and his SUV pulled up at the valet station as they walked out of the building.
Dixon swung his head to Joy after assisting her into the SUV. “Where to?”
“Head east. I’ll tell you where to drop me off.”
Dixon Page 5
