by Naima Simone
She swallowed hard. Son of a bitch, he was huge. Two nights ago she’d had him in her hands and mouth, but damn, the size of him still made her belly flutter in excitement and her sex clench in anxiety. The long column of flesh speared from the gap in his jeans, the ruddy, mushroom-shaped cap so large and heavy, it seemed to weigh down the thick stalk. God, he was beautiful. Never in her life had she considered a penis attractive—kind of like how she felt about an avocado. Tasty but not the cutest fruit. But his…she dragged a fingertip up his length, savoring the satin-clothed-in-steel sensation even through the latex. His cock was perfectly formed, strength in flesh, desire in skin. He pushed denim and underwear farther past his hips, and her core quivered in anticipation. High and tight, even his balls were sexy.
Sexy balls? Lust had turned her into a raving nymphomaniac.
He dropped over her, hands gripping the couch arm, one foot planted on the floor, and the other knee depressing the cushion between her legs.
“How long has it been?” Strain tautened the skin over his facial bones, flattened the curves of his mouth. He cupped her cheek, brushed the pad of his thumb over the soft skin under her eye. “I’m on the edge here, baby, and I don’t want to hurt you. How long?”
“Since that morning. Three months.” Maybe a little longer since Jared and she hadn’t been beating headboards against the wall on a daily basis. Especially toward the end of their relationship.
His eyes narrowed. Without breaking their visual connection, he slid his cock between her slick cleft, coating his length in her moisture. His cockhead bumped her clit, and she sank her teeth into her lip, groaning and twisting, silently pleading.
“Ready?” he ground out, lodging the tip at her opening. She nodded, locking her fingers around his wrists. He acknowledged her response with a dip of his chin, then pushed forward. Inch by inch he entered her, withdrawing and thrusting a bit more of his length inside her. Her muscles quivered around his cock, working to accept and accommodate him. She burned, the slight sting of unused tissue blending with the ecstasy of being filled and stretched by him. Unbidden, her hips lifted, offering herself and begging for more of him even as she wondered if she could take more.
His erotic assault on her flesh was tender but relentless. He didn’t stop until he was buried deep, so deep within her she almost asked him to pull out. There was so much of him—and not just his size and width. But he was inside her, surrounding her, covering her. At that moment she knew—just knew—she would never be rid of him. He’d permanently imprinted himself on her sex, her skin, her body. From this moment forward, she wouldn’t be the same.
And even as desire pulsed in her, swirled in her belly, and tingled in her breasts, the knowledge scared the bejeezus out of her.
“Damn it,” he gritted out between clenched teeth. “Goddamnit, you feel so good. So tight, hot…” He withdrew, and she cried out at the drag of his dick over sensitive muscles and tissue. Not in pain, though—no pain. Just the most exquisite pleasure imaginable. Slowly, he plunged back in.
Correction.
That was the most exquisite pleasure imaginable.
She’d had sex before—bad sex, good sex, even great sex. But this—he pulled out, drove back in—this surpassed anything she’d ever experienced, ever felt. She wasn’t even sure this was sex. It was something else. Something amazing.
Something brilliant.
Something…breathtaking.
“You okay, baby?” He passed a hand down her torso, hip, and quivering thigh. “Talk to me, Fallon.”
She raised her arms, cradled his face between her palms, and met his blazing blue-green gaze. “Fuck me harder,” she ordered, voice hoarse with the cries she’d trapped in her throat as he’d buried himself inside her.
A fierce emotion glittered in his eyes seconds before he leaned back, cupped her ass, and set up a steady, hard ride. His heavy strokes rocked her, jolted her inside and out. A sexual symphony soared in the room: skin smacking skin, the suction of wet flesh releasing and accepting a thrusting cock, piercing cries, and low curses.
She came to their special sonata, splintering and flying before plummeting down into a blissful, beautiful darkness.
…
“Will you tell me about this?”
Fallon’s soft question whispered across his chest, a feathered caress. But it was the brush of fingers over the scars on his side that caused him to stiffen.
Maybe she sensed his instinctive reaction to jerk away and roll out of the bed. To escape her inquiry and the memories they elicited. She tightened her arm across his lower abdomen and wedged her leg between his thighs, anchoring herself to him. If he moved, he would have to pry her off himself.
And he was just too damn tired to try.
Tired from fighting the overwhelming need for her. Tired from the uncertainty and doubt of the last few days. Tired of avoiding the dark period in his life that had changed him forever.
Pressing his head into the pillow, he fixed his gaze on the exposed beams of the bedroom ceiling. He swallowed, his arm like a lead weight around her shoulders.
“We were on a routine presence patrol through Kandahar. It was just like every other drive through the city. There were four of us in the Humvee. Khalil drove, Trevor rode shotgun, and Marcus was beside me, joking back and forth as we always did. Though I scanned the streets and buildings, my mind was already on the Red Sox-Yankees game back at the rec room. Then we turned down a street. There was nothing out of the ordinary—at first. I think we may have all sensed it at the same time—the empty street, the quiet. The feeling that something was…off. But by then it was too late.”
The whistle of a rocket-propelled grenade shot out of a tube. The searing heat of the blast. The rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire.
His heart hammered against his sternum as if he were back in that dusty street once more, the odor of cordite burning his nose.
“It was an ambush. In seconds they had our Humvee overturned and had us pinned down. We were surrounded. I’d only managed to crawl from the vehicle when bullets caught me in the side and back. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t do anything but lay there and bleed out into the dirt.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, and for a moment his breathing grew shallow, the oxygen seeming to become trapped between his heart and his lungs. A small hand cupped his face, and he tipped his head down, met the compassion in a soft gray gaze that glowed bright even in the moonlit dark. The tenderness and understanding strengthened him even as it caused a curious tightening in his gut.
“Then Marcus was yelling in my ear, ordering me to fight. Telling me I wouldn’t die on him. He dragged me behind the Humvee, out of the line of fire. Later, when I woke in the hospital, I found out he’d saved Khalil’s life, too. Right before he took a hit to the neck. He died saving our lives.”
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
“Marcus wanted to be a doctor; it’s why he joined the Army, so they would pay his way to college. As I lay in that hospital bed, all I could think about was how the world had been deprived of a brilliant mind. Who knows what he would have eventually accomplished in the field of medicine. The wrong man had died.”
Fallon shot up off the bed, straddling him, both her hands cradling his face. Her gentle touch belied the fierceness of her frown and in her voice. “Don’t say that,” she hissed. “Don’t ever say that. The only thing that kept me from storming that ICU regardless of your wishes was the fact that you were alive. That you were still in this world. I’m sorry for Marcus—I really am. But I’m not sorry you’re here—”
“Shh.” He reached for her, tangled his fingers in her wild curls and drew her down until her face hovered above his. Lifting his head, he brushed a kiss over her lips. “I used to feel that way, baby. After a while, I realized that I dishonored my friend’s memory with those thoughts. As you saw, the scars are extensive. And deep. Though the bullets missed my spine by centimeters and nicked a kidney, the damage was significant. And after I healed, the a
mount of scar tissue limited my muscular movement. I still have back spasms. Since the Army wouldn’t allow me to reenlist, I had to find a new purpose for my life, and I found it with GDG. But I still wear Marcus’s dog tag to remind myself of the sacrifice. Of why I can’t return to that pit I was in.”
“He would’ve been proud of you,” she murmured, and the words lodged in his throat, blocking anything he might have said in reply. The pads of her thumbs grazed lips, cheekbones, the skin under his eyes. “I have no doubt he considered your life worth his then, and he would today. You’re such a good man. A worthy man.”
Shane inhaled a breath, a knot he hadn’t been aware of, loosening and unraveling in his chest. For the first time in four years, he felt…lighter. Freed. Maybe it was finally speaking about that night. Maybe it was confronting the pain, fear, and loss.
Or maybe it was the woman above him. The woman he’d trusted with his truth when, other than the debriefing after the ambush, no one else had managed to pry the events out of him.
“Whatever you’re thinking,” Fallon whispered, linking their fingers together and pressing the backs of his hands to either side of his head. “Don’t.” She rose off him, notched his semihard cock at her entrance and sank low over him, surrounding his flesh in her soft, damp heat. Biting her lip, her lashes fluttered before lifting and meeting his gaze. “Don’t think,” she ordered, undulating her hips, riding him. “Just feel. With me.”
And he did.
Chapter Fourteen
It felt like three years had passed since Shane had last talked to Tristan face-to-face instead of three days. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel of the firm’s Escalade he’d swapped out in place of the Range Rover. He’d arrived at the police department an hour early to scope out the location and allow his team—Maddox, Ciaran, and Alex, an ex-SEAL sniper, employed with the firm—plenty of time to settle into position. Fifteen minutes remained until eleven o’clock. Plenty of time for his mind to wander to the woman he’d left exhausted, sleeping in his bed.
He’d had sex with Fallon.
Christ on the cross.
His fingers curled around the wheel, the leather squeaking in protest under his stranglehold. Even with his decision to propose the no-strings-attached sexual bargain to Fallon, sex with her had been unexpected, incredible, mind-blowing. When he’d tracked Fallon down in the living room yesterday afternoon, fucking her on the couch for hours on end hadn’t been on his agenda. Losing himself in her addictive taste, her sweet scent, and hot, tight flesh hadn’t been planned, but damn, once he’d pushed inside the haven of her pussy… Nothing else had mattered. Not his job. Not his reservations.
But now, with miles and hours between them, the truth struck him like a lightning bolt to the chest. He’d been so damn arrogant, so sure of himself. Even after sipping the intoxicating sweetness between her legs, he’d believed he could have her and walk away without a gluttonous craving for more. But one stroke inside her, one bite of her nails in his skin, one scream of his name in his ear, and all his confident assurances went up in a blaze of need, lust, and pleasure. He’d damn near tried to kill himself last night. On the couch, the floor, and later in his bed. He couldn’t get enough. Not of her arms around him. Not of her uninhibited, honest response to his touch and raw talk that seemed to rock her desire higher. Not of her body that molded to his so perfectly, she could’ve been created for him.
How quickly he could become lost in her. How quickly she could swamp him, blind him. Make him compromise the life he’d planned for himself. Make him forget how wrong they were for each other.
A voice crackled in his earpiece at the same time he spotted Tristan emerging from the police station.
“Tris is headed your way,” Maddox informed him. “We’re tracking him. Watch your six.”
“Copy that.” He clicked the mute button, then exited the vehicle, halting in front of the bumper. He deliberately shoved all thoughts of Fallon behind a vault in his mind and slammed the door shut. Every bit of his focus had to be on this meeting ahead of him. Still, he mentally ran down the email he received from Rafe this morning. The night before, Shane had told Fallon there was other currency besides money to bribe a man. On a hunch, Shane had Rafe check anything in Tristan’s account having to do with Joy, his friend’s fiancée.
Jackpot.
Within moments, Tristan approached him. The silence between them was tense, heavy—unnatural. The ugly presence of the uneasiness stirred the embers of anger in his gut. He despised the poisonous seeds of mistrust that shouldn’t exist.
“Tristan.” He glanced down at his friend’s empty hands. “I thought I was supposed to be looking at mug shots and giving a statement.”
“What’s going on?” Tristan demanded, voice soft but with a vein of underlying steel. The same flint glittered in his gaze. “Ciaran isn’t telling me anything. You’re not talking. And our agreement was to stay in contact, to work together. But there’s more here, isn’t there? More than protecting Fallon.”
Shane studied his friend’s face, searching. They were never ones to mince words with each other, and he didn’t intend to start a new trend now.
“The leak of Fallon’s identity. How Michaels’s gang knew the exact date of his pretrial hearing. The location of my house. You’re the common denominator. The first two we can chalk up to police stations leaking like a sieve. But only four people knew Fallon was with me: Ciaran, Maddox, Khalil, and you.”
Tristan’s eyes blanked in shock, his lips parting. The color leeched from his face seconds before it poured back in like a flood, carrying fury with it. “You actually believe I would set you up to be killed? For Fallon to be murdered? I love you like a brother, but right now I’m trying not to beat the shit out of your sorry ass.”
Shane remained quiet in the face of Tristan’s rage. It sickened him to suspect his friend, but with Fallon’s life at stake he couldn’t afford to willingly wear blinders. Not even for a decades-long friendship.
“Ray Alturo.”
“What?” Tristan snapped. “The jeweler?”
“Yes, the jeweler.” Shane crossed his arms, studying Tristan’s face with a narrowed gaze. “A year ago, you bought a ten-thousand-dollar wedding ring from him. One, that is a lot of money to spend, especially on a cop’s salary. And two, Ray Alturo is suspected of laundering money for the Lords of War drug trafficking. Why are you having any dealings with an associate of the man who is trying to kill Fallon?”
Something flickered across Tristan’s face. Surprise. Uncertainty… Guilt?
“Joy saw a ring there she really loved, and I bought it for her. Nothing more than that,” he explained, his voice wooden, flat.
“And the fifteen-thousand down payment on the three bedroom, South End row house last month? More mysterious money you’re throwing around. Can you explain where it’s coming from?”
“You’ve been investigating me?” Tristan demanded, the emotion brightening his green eyes unmistakable: rage. “Are you serious?”
Shane nodded. “Dead serious,” he said grimly. “Now tell me how a Boston detective can afford to shell out twenty-five thousand dollars in a year when that’s nearly a quarter of what you make in a year.”
A muscle ticked along Tristan’s tightly clenched jaw. “I could, but it’s none of your business. And would it make a difference? It seems you’ve already made up your mind that I’m on the take.”
“If I’d already decided you betrayed her and me, I wouldn’t be here.” But the relief and certainty that his friend was innocent and above suspicion was absent. The nauseous knot in his stomach had tautened until it twisted his gut into a mass of doubt, mistrust, and anger. “I came here for answers, but I don’t have any. All you’ve given me are half-ass explanations that you wouldn’t accept from a suspect you were interviewing.”
“So I’m a suspect now?” Tristan sneered. He scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck, loosing a harsh crack of laughter. “Of what? Having extra money? Th
at wouldn’t convict anyone either.”
“No,” Shane agreed, lowering his arms and advancing on Tristan until only inches separated them. “But add the release of Fallon’s identity—the case you’re lead detective on—Michaels’s escape, and the attack on my house—a location that you were one of only four people who were aware of Fallon being there—and it makes credible circumstantial evidence.”
Tristan shook his head. “I didn’t—”
A loud squeal of tires cut off Tristan’s statement.
“Incoming!” Maddox barked in Shane’s earpiece. “Get down!”
He didn’t hesitate; Shane dove for the ground, grabbing Tristan and dragging his friend down with him.
“What the hell?” Shane growled. “Who did you tell we were meeting today?”
“No one,” Tristan barked. “I didn’t have anything to do with this.”
A series of pings thudded against the Escalade’s hood, and the windshield shattered above them, shards of glass raining down on top of their heads and backs.
“Shit!” Shane withdrew his gun from its shoulder holster. A swift glance revealed Tristan had done the same. “Report,” he snapped at the same time Tristan removed his radio from his belt clip and yelled, “Shots fired!”
“Four total.” Alex’s calm tone reverberated in his ear. From his position on the roof of a nearby building, the sniper had an eagle-eye view of the parking lot. “One on your left. One at your six. And two on your right.” A beat later and Alex amended, “One on your right now.”
Hell yeah. The ex-SEAL had evened the odds.
Envisioning where his men were positioned, he pressed the earpiece again. “Maddox, you got the one on my right. Ciaran, the left is yours. I’m circling around to take the one at my rear.”
“Copy that,” his friends rapped out simultaneously.
“And Alex?” Shane gestured to Tristan, flagging his intention to round the vehicle and for him to meet him at the back of the SUV.
