Hit Me (The Bailey Boys #2) (8 page)

Imelda lowered her head, pressed her cheek against that broad chest, found the tiny stub of a nipple and flicked at it with her tongue.

He picked her up.

Turned, and placed her on the bed.

When he lowered himself his face was against her belly.

The scrape of stubble sent stabs of pleasure coursing through her body.

The drag of teeth.

One hand slid up the inside of a thigh, and came to rest hard against her, fist tight, knuckles hard so that every slight movement was magnified – pressure against her pussy, the roll of a knuckle across her clit.

She had never been like this with anyone else... never reacted so quickly... never felt the sudden rush of approaching climax steal up on her with such surprising rapidity.

She clung to his hand, stayed him, rolled her hips against his pressure in such a way that she rode the peak without ever quite cresting it.

When she looked down his eyes were on her, meeting her look.

And slowly, he moved his head down until his chin pressed against her soft mound through the lace of her panties.

Down, until his lips pressed through the fabric against the lips of her sex, squeezing and caressing them.

So many touches, points of contact! Lips and tongue and chin, fingers and knuckles... So many sensations, it was hard to tell what was pressing where and then fingers hooked into her panties, pulled them aside, and wetness met wetness – his tongue, parting her, running along that wet groove, finding the opening and driving deep.

Instantly, she was right at the edge again, and this time she knew she wasn’t going to be able to hold back.

Tongue deep, lips against her labia, against the hood of flesh that shielded her clit, sliding wetly. Fingers against her, squeezing her lips, sliding inside her as his tongue moved up to push at that hood, tease the hardness, circle it, flick across it in a rapid, delicate patter.

She clung to his head, holding him hard against her as her back arched, her thighs involuntarily clamped around him, and her head threw itself back.

She cried out loud, so loud they must surely hear in the bar below.

Everything tightened, released, tightened again. A clenching deep in her belly, a quivering of muscles around those fingers deep inside her.

Another wave of tightening. Her heart hammering, her breath shallow, fast.

And then, finally, her legs relaxed, her spine slumped, every muscle in her body subsided a little.

She reached for him, barely capable of movement. Drew him up the bed until he lay with her, her head on his chest, her arm trailing across his waist, her leg across his thighs.

Clinging to him.

Knowing she had momentarily lost sight of why she had come here, that he was meant to be a means to an end, not the end itself.

It was a whirlwind. A wave of craziness.

For someone like me, a planner, a thinker, an assessor of risk, it was like nothing else I’d ever known.

I don’t do spontaneous. I don’t do relationships or complications. I don’t do unpredictable.

And yet all those things summed Imelda up perfectly.

She was exactly what I didn’t do.

Not until now, at any rate.

§

I lay there, with Imelda’s near-naked body wrapped around me.

My erection was straining against the tightness of my jeans. She must surely feel it, where her leg was draped across me.

Hungry for her, like I’ve never been hungry for a woman before.

And yet... we lay there, an oasis of calm. Her body in my arms, the taste of her on my lips, in my mouth. The memory of the way her whole body had flinched and shuddered in orgasm, a truly animal thing.

This was a moment that might draw itself out forever.

Another period of being perfectly in tune, like that night at Los Momentos when we had sat and talked for maybe an hour but it felt like we could have gone on forever.

I couldn’t work out what she had, what attracted and compelled me. It had no name. No easy way to sum it up.

But up until now there had been a gap in my life that was the same shape. A gap that this
thing
, this being in tune, this sense of connection, now filled.

§

She moved against me.

Maybe we’d dozed. Maybe I’d just lain there thinking mushy bollocks and wondering what was happening to me.

But she moved.

That thigh, draped across me. A tightening of the muscles, a pressing against my hardness that almost made me groan aloud.

The slight roll of her hips, pressing her pussy against me.

She turned her head so her chin rested on my ribs. Looked up at me, dark eyes peering through a curtain of hair.

She drew her leg back, twisted so she could take her weight on her knees.

And one hand ran down over my ribs, my abdomen, her touch making the muscles quiver in response.

Where before had been strange calm, now... now there was a storm beneath the surface, dams waiting to burst.

Her hand reached my belt, fumbled with it and then fed the end back through the buckle, freed it.

The buttons, one by one, until my jeans were parted and her hand could slide inside.

That first touch, fingertips against the base of my shaft. A stab of fingernail, a thumb sliding underneath so the hand could coil around me, tighten, gently tease me upright, clear of the waistband of my shorts.

She paused, studying me. All I could see was the back and side of her head, that glossy dark hair hanging down over my belly.

The flat of her hand, bearing down. The soft wetness of lips, of tongue, gliding across and then enclosing, taking in deep.

She moved so she was kneeling between my legs, her eyes peering up to meet mine. Both hands wrapped around my shaft, twisting and pumping. The head of my dick squeezed between those lips, tongue swirling and sliding. So many sensations...

I gripped the bedding, fists tight, every muscle tensed.

She started to bob her head, eyes still locked on mine. Taking me steadily deeper, until I hit the back of her throat. Swallowing, so her throat constricted around me, she took me in even deeper, a new tightness. Then she drew her head back up, until I was almost spat out, and all the time, those hands squeezing and twisting and pumping.

I wasn’t going to be able to take much more of this.

I had to have her.

I pushed up onto my elbows, reached one hand forward, touched her cheek then slid my fingers into her hair, tightening, drawing her head away.

Drew her into a kiss, my back straining as I leaned forward to reach her, to taste my own salty sweetness in her mouth.

I moved quickly, swooping forward, taking her weight easily as I flipped her onto the bed beside me, face down, and that perfectly formed peach of an ass high in the air.

A couple of seconds and I’d shucked my jeans, and then I kneeled, poised behind her, my knees either side of hers.

She arched her back, looking under her arm at me. No talk, but in my head the words she’d used earlier.
¡Hazme el amor! Make love to me, Lee Bailey. Fuck me.

One hand on her ass, I took my dick into the other fist and started to pump as she watched. The wet head of my dick slapped against her ass as I worked the shaft hard and fast and my eyes devoured the view before me.

Just as I was about to come I flipped the tiny slip of fabric aside from her pussy and drove myself inside her for the first time. One long hard, almost brutal, thrust until I was buried balls-deep in her and she was crying out again – surprise and I don’t know what else as her silky wet softness folded itself around me.

I held myself deep, motionless, not wanting the tiniest movement to take me over and then, slowly, I drew myself back until I had almost completely withdrawn.

I paused then, met her look, waited for that almost imperceptible nod, and then drove deep again. Slower this time, savoring that sliding sensation, the softness, her wetness.

Drew back and thrust.

¡Hazme el amor! Make love to me, Lee Bailey. Fuck me.

Again.

Both hands gripping her ass now, the dusky Mediterranean flesh gone pale around my fingers from the pressure.

Fucking her fast and deep, all control gone now, all delicacy and sensitivity.

Just need.

Just the purest physical hunger.

Until she cried out and I paused, deep in her, felt that tightening and fluttering deep inside as she came again, and that was all it took.

I gave one last thrust and then held myself fully inside her, felt that delicious surging sensation building from deep inside me, the throb in my shaft, the abrupt release as I filled her with my juices.

Another throbbing pulse. A slight softening. A thrust, as if I might somehow drive deeper.

And then, finally, a change in the tensions in our bodies, a slumping, a realization that we were done for now. That we must somehow move, disentangle ourselves, before we could subside into each other’s arms once more.

§

She left the next morning, saying she had things to do, although with Imelda it was never clear what ‘things’ she did. How did she live? How did she get by? She’d told me about her past, about the con tricks and simple thieving on the streets of the Canary Islands and then here on the mainland, but I had no idea if that was still what she did.

Did she rely on Markov financially in some way? Did that explain why he treated her like a possession?

I showed my face in the bar eventually. Jess and Dean said nothing about Imelda’s sudden appearance the previous night. They didn’t have to.

I bought shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt from a tourist shop, borrowed a pair of running shoes from Dean and did a few miles on the beach. I ran fast. I had to clear my head.

I needed to think.

Needed to work out what this was and where I wanted it to go.

Sounds dumb, but it was all new territory for me.

And then I realized it was pointless trying to work it out, because I had no idea what
she
wanted. I suspected she didn’t know either, was just going with the flow of events and enjoying each thing that happened between us as if it might never happen again.

Like I say: I don’t do spontaneity.

I don’t get it.

§

They came to the bar early that evening.

The Russians, or whatever they were.

Three of them. They looked ex-military, but then most Russian gangsters do, and I knew a lot of them were. Square heads and jaws, mean eyes, the scars they wore like tattoos, a part of the tribal uniform.

They all wore light summer jackets to hide their shoulder holsters when they were on the street. Once they entered the bar they weren’t too bothered, though, and let their jackets hang loose, their hardware on display.

They didn’t do anything at first, just found a table and sat, ordered drinks from Óscar.

They spotted me straight away. If Russian gangsters have a look then I guess I do, too. Right then it was a
Don’t fuck with the Bailey Boys
kind of a look.

I went over with their drinks.

One of them was a little older, mid-thirties, perhaps. Top dog.

I met his look, and said, “You paying now or shall I start a tab?”

“It is on the house,” he said, in a measured tone. Not aggressive, just stating a fact. “We appreciate the kindness.”

I glanced across at Óscar behind the bar, and said, “This one’s on me, Óscar. It’s taken care of.” Then, back to the Russian: “Sorted. But that’s the last favor you’ll get from me.”

I didn’t like the smile that twitched at the guy’s mouth. There was an arrogance. It was the look of a man who, in his head, owned this place already. Him, or whoever was pulling his strings.

“We don’t need your protection,” I said. “And we’re not looking for partners. Enjoy your drinks.”

Casually, I turned and walked away.

Dean was there now, behind the bar with Óscar. I guessed he’d already told Jess to lie low.

“It’s fine, bro’,” I said quietly. “It’s under control. They’re not going to kick off. The place is full of tourists. They’re just making a point.”

But I’d forgotten one of the key things Fearless had tried to get across to me. Everything was
more
here.

Faster.

Bigger.

More intense.

More violent.

I glanced back at the Russians, and that’s when they kicked off.

The guy was still staring at me, that ugly smirk on his face.

The older one. The top dog.

And he had a fucking gun in his hand.

The background noise in the New Duchess fell away to abrupt silence, as if someone had flipped the mute button.

Everyone was looking.

I still didn’t think anything would happen. People don’t do that. Just walk into a bar and pull a gun.

Not in London, at least.

But here...?

More of Fearless’s wisdom came back to me then:
Back in London you knew the people, knew the rules. You had a reputation. Out here you don’t have any of that.

Back in London no one would have casually pulled a fucking gun on me.

And then I saw the muscle twitch in his hand, the tensing of his trigger finger, and then the sharp retort of a single shot ripped through the silence.

For a split second I thought he’d fired it straight at me. Then, when I realized I was still standing, I thought he must have shot Dean, but no.

Behind the bar were shelves stacked deep with bottles. More bottles fitted with optics sat upside down in racks. It was just like any English pub.

Now, one of the bottles was shattered, and the place reeked of spilled rum.

Another shot, and the Famous Grouse whisky was gone.

Another: the Gordon’s.

All around, people shouted and screamed, scrambling for the exits.

I turned to meet the gunman’s look.

Fearless had been right. I didn’t get it. I didn’t understand the rules out here. It was hard to really grasp how this was a place where gangsters could walk into a bar and start shooting and no one thought that was out of place – as long as the gangs kept it among themselves.