Lance: A Hitman Romance (Santa Espera #2) (4 page)

His fingers are rough, yet gentle. The tips of them slide into me with ease and behind my closed eyelids my eyes roll into the back of my head. Everything feels so wonderful and I grab onto his hardness, feeling the warmth and the pulse of him, throbbing against my hand. He dips in farther, and then he finds my clit, that aching beacon of pleasure, and the combination sends me shooting out as I suddenly come against his hand.

Strong, sudden waves pump over me as this man’s lips press down hard against mine. He stifles my moans, my cries, and his strong arms keep me from falling to the ground. His fingers keep moving, keep drawing that deep, exquisite pleasure out of me. He keeps moving against my clit, making it sing, keep reaching into me, until it’s all I can do not to collapse.

When my breathing starts to slow down and I finally come down, I’m not surprised to find that my entire body is trembling. I’m only half-aware of the fact that his hands are leaving my body. His fingers brush against mine, down at his jeans, and then I hear a belt buckle and zipper being undone. It’s only a moment later that his thick, hard cock lands in my open hand.

I gasp. I can’t help it. My fingers wrap around this enormous thing in my hand and I begin to stroke him as he reaches into his jacket and takes out a square foil wrapper. Ripping it open with his teeth, he rolls out the condom over his entire cock and then leaves me to hold him while he slips a hand down between my legs again.

His fingers find my panties and pull them to the side. Keeping them there, he grabs onto both of my legs and, with surprising ease, lifts me up against the wall, pinning me there with his body. I utter a small yelp, but he’s keeping me in place. His cock is still in my hand, and when he settles me down I feel myself guiding it to where I want it to be.

My breath shudders when I feel the head of him touch up against my pussy. I have only a moment to register this before I’m lowered down onto him, and the two of us suck in a hiss of breath together as I feel him slide inside of me.

He’s so big, and it’s been so long that a sweet, exquisite pain rips through me before swiftly turning to pleasure. I keep going down, down, until he’s all the way in and my mouth hangs open against his as I revel in the unbelievable sensation of being completely filled.

Slowly at first, he begins pumping into me. My back grips the texture of the wall and I reach my arms up, wrapping around him, holding on for dear life as the two of us move together.

My lips leave his for a moment as our heads move side by side. I can feel his hot breath on my neck, deep moans issuing from his lips. He’s holding me with strong arms, his cock filling me entirely with every single thrust. I go back to him and we continue kissing as he starts to move faster, starts to fill me with greater urgency. It’s all I can do to keep my voice from moaning, or crying out in pleasure.

More voices, new voices, float over to us from the parking lot, and I open my eyes to see past him. He seems not to care, though, as he only moves faster into me. I have to work hard to stifle my moans. I see the people get into their car, talking happily, completely oblivious to the two strangers fucking mere feet from where they stand.

Just as their engine starts this man drives up harder into me and I finally gasp, my sounds being drowned out by the other. My fingers scrabble against his back as hot, molten pleasure flows all throughout me. His grunts are coming in harder, but he keeps his voice low enough that only I can hear it.

Still, his passion is there and feeling it only drives me on harder. We keep kissing and I feel myself tighten around him. He shudders, our tongues dancing together as his hips push up harder into me.

Oh God. My legs and body are starting to tremble. Inside I feel that pressure, that building, and it know it’s going to happen again soon. I can feel myself getting closer with every thrust, with every aching moan. Waves of heat radiate off the both of us and I tighten around him again, my clit like a signal flare, this man’s body taking me to places I haven’t visited in years.

It’s all I can do not to cry out. I stop kissing him only to bite down hard on my lip. But still the cries are coming out. He keeps going, his own moans louder. His thick and swollen cock is as hard as a rock as he pumps it up deep inside my pussy.

I suck in breaths, trying to get under control, but he just won’t let me. He keeps me going, and I’m a slave to him, I can’t make myself want anything else. Every part of me cries out for more and he gives it to me, he gives me everything I want of him and more. My mouth finally opens and a single cry leaves me just before he plants his lips on mine again, taking my cries in, giving me that release that my body needs to finally climb up and crest that ridge. And with that I’m off, and everything around me ceases to exist as I explode.

All that I know is pleasure.

The entire world could come crashing down and I wouldn’t have a clue. All I can feel, all I can taste and smell and hear is him, is this, is us. Every one of my limbs shakes like a leaf as I struggle to hold onto him, struggle to keep myself together. He lets out a hot and heavy groan as his cock drives up hard inside of me, and a moment later I feel him explode as well, his hardness spasming, his body tensing with every aching wave of pleasure.

We ride together, the two of us driving each other along. And when it’s over, when it’s finally over and I feel myself coming down as he comes down alongside me, our bodies slow down and it’s only then that I remember we’re still alive.

Our lips part. I pull my eyelids apart to see him looking at me. Looking
into
me. And another shiver runs all over my body as I wonder who this man could possibly be.

He lowers me down, and I feel his cock leave me, the result being a strangely empty sensation. When I’m back to standing on the ground — and when I’m certain my legs aren’t going to give out underneath me — I start to adjust my clothing as I watch him take the condom off and drop it on the ground. His cock, shiny and wet and still hard, sends a thrill of desire through me as I stare at it. But then he tucks it back into his jeans and it’s gone.

But, maybe not for long …

“Um … you know,” I say, my heart beating hard in my chest, “I’ve never done this type of thing before. And that was really amazing. Um … would you like to come back to my place?”

I’m looking in his eyes as I ask this, and I watch as something flashes over his face. My brow furrows a bit. I can’t quite tell what the expression is … something familiar. But then he opens his mouth and he answers me.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “But … I can’t.”

“Oh,” I say, swallowing my disappointment. He said he didn’t want to before because … but that doesn’t matter. As much as I haven’t done this before, I’m certainly not a stranger to how these things work. “That’s fine. I just thought …”

“I know,” he says, and an awkward silence comes over us. “… I’m sorry.”

A silence comes over us, but we’re still looking at each other. And then, suddenly, he leans down and he kisses me, and right away I can tell that this kiss is different to all the other ones before it. I close my eyes and my arms reach up to wrap around him, and I feel his hands slide around my back as he holds me too.

But then the kiss ends and when I open my eyes I see he’s already walking away, his back to me, his hands tucking into the pockets of his leather jacket.

I watch him go, watch his retreating back become dimmer as he goes out of my life forever. And when he’s finally gone I take a deep breath, let it out, and then turn back to the parking lot, ready to find my car and drive myself home.

Katie

The clock ticks by slowly on the wall.

I’m sitting in my leather chair, legs crossed, pen and notepad in hand. Across from me, staring off as he speaks, is Gregory Handel, former Fire Marshall. He’s been recounting one particular house fire he got called to ten years ago, moving his hands as he talks.

“I mean, I’d seen bigger ones,” Gregory says, painting the scene in front of his eyes. “But this monster … she was fierce. Like nothing I’d ever seen before.”

A flutter goes through my heart as his words remind me of what happened last night. Not for the first time I think back to that man, pinning me against the wall, his strong hands all over my body. That thing between his legs … just thinking about it shoots a pulse between my legs. Clearing my throat, I adjust myself in the seat and focus on Gregory again.

In truth he’s told me this story before, during his first session here. But even so he once again describes the burning framing, the intensity of the heat, in exquisite detail. I jot the details down on my notepad, not about the fire itself, but about the way his eyes light up, how he moves his hands, and the excited look on his face.

I give the clock on the wall a surreptitious glance and it tells me it’s five minutes to two. Almost time for the session to end. Outside in the foyer I hear Amin’s music — Iron & Wine this time — float in softly through the door. Once Gregory’s left I’ll have two hours before my next appointment. Two hours where I can go over some notes, maybe do a little reading. Or maybe I can just lock my door and quietly take care of this little problem down between my legs. Thinking about last night is making me unable to concentrate, and I have a feeling it shouldn’t take long for me to deal with it …

“… don’t you think?”

I blink, being brought out of my thoughts and back to the room where I see that Gregory is staring at me. I clear my throat, subconsciously telling myself not to blush.

“I’m sorry?” I ask.

“I said, anybody would be scared in a blaze like that, don’t you think?”

I clear my throat again. It’s gone dry.

“Of course,” I reply. “Most people would fear for their lives.”

“Most people,” he repeats, saying the words slowly, as though testing them out. I swallow, trying to moisten my throat.
I could really use some water.

“Yes, most people,” I go on. “And how did you feel? Running into those flames?”

But just as Gregory opens his mouth to answer, a raised voice in the foyer makes us both turn our heads to look.

It’s Amin, and he sounds stern. I look at Gregory and find him staring at the door, his eyes wide. When I look back at the door my heart beats faster and I know I just feel nervous, but it’s not a scared sort of nervous. It’s something else.

Finally Amin breathes a loud sigh and a few seconds later a knock comes at my door. Amin opens it up just enough to poke his head through and look at me. He isn’t smiling.

“Katie? We have a situation.”

“Amin,” I say, “I’m in the middle of a session.”

“I know, but there’s somebody here who wants to see you and he doesn’t have an appointment.”

“So make one for him.”

“That’s what I
told
him, but he said he wants to see you now. He looks,” Amin glances at Gregory, and then pokes his head in a little farther and lowers his voice. “He looks scary.”

My heart skips a beat.
Scary
. That’s how I described that man from last night. But I just shake my head again, getting rid of thoughts of him. Instead I furrow my brow. Really, in a business such as mine you tend to get some people who assume you’re available at their beck and call, like a pill they can pop in their mouths at any point. These people usually come in without an appointment, but they’re typically of the frightened and stressed out variety; desperate, and searching for help.

“Do you want me to call the police?” I ask Amin in an equally low voice. But he shakes his head.

“No, no, it’s nothing like that. He doesn’t look
crazy
scary or anything, he just looks … scary.”

In the chair across from me, Gregory takes in a breath through his nose. I see him push out his chest and bristle himself.

“Does he need taking care of?” he asks Amin, but I cut in before Amin can respond.

“Thank you, Gregory, but that won’t be necessary.” To Amin, “Okay. Tell him to wait in the foyer. I’ll see him when I’m done with Gregory.”

Amin still looks unsure, but he nods and closes the door and a second later I hear him explain the situation over the mellow-sounding music. When I turn back to Gregory, he’s still bristled and is staring at the door.

“It’s fine,” I say. “This type of thing happens every now and again.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to help?” he asks, turning to me. He has that excited look on his face again, and I remind myself to jot that down. “I’ve dealt with some of these guys. They can be real loonies.”

I merely smile.

“I’ve dealt with them too, and it’s nothing I can’t handle. But actually, our session is just about up,” I indicate the clock on the wall. When Gregory looks up at it his excitement drains away and I stand up from my chair. “But come back next week and finish telling me the story of that house.”

Gregory gets up as well and I show him to the door. When I open it and he steps out, I see Amin at his desk, looking annoyed. He turns to me and I hold up my hand with my fingers splayed, mouthing, “five minutes,” before shutting the door.

So I have an unscheduled client. It’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before. Usually they just want somebody to listen while they let off some steam. Rant a little. Half the time I don’t even charge them. Still, it’s better to be prepared in case this particular person will need some legitimate help.

I walk over to my chair and pick up the notepad, jotting down my last note before ripping Gregory’s sheet out and taking it to my desk to be filed away. Once that’s done I fish a plastic bottle of water out of my purse and crack it open, downing the cool, refreshing liquid. The water cuts through my parched throat like … well, like a new river through a desert. When half of it is gone, I recap the bottle and place it on my desk.

I turn around and look over my office. I want to make sure everything’s in order. It’s a beautiful day out but, as usual, my blinds are slanted down at just the right angle. My desk isn’t messy but it looks used. The chairs are positioned just right from one another. Oh, the Kleenex coming out of the box isn’t protruding enough. I walk over and fluff it up, to make it look more appealing. I’ve found that this helps encourage clients to take one if they need it, which in turn encourages more crying, which in turn encourages more talk.

Once I’m certain that everything looks good, I smooth out the front of my skirt and walk to my door. I open it and Amin looks up. I don a welcoming smile as I peer around the corner to see my unexpected client, ready to call him in.

Oh my God. There he is.

It’s the man from last night. He’s standing in my foyer, looking at a picture hanging on the wall. His tall frame fills the room, with his broad chest and large muscles. When he turns to look at me I see him freeze in place for a moment. Our eyes lock and an eternity stretches where neither of us says or does anything.

And then I realize that Amin is watching us, and I open my mouth, forcing sound to come out.

“Hi.”

He doesn’t say anything, but a smile comes up over his lips. I swallow and find my throat dry again.

“Um, if you’d like to come in, I can see you now.”

Still smiling, he begins towards me and I pull my head back into the office. As I do I see Amin’s wide eyes, but I turn away before my cheeks get a chance to blush.

Okay, it’s okay. Don’t freak out. He’s just here because he wants to see a therapist. This is all one gigantic coincidence.

Opening the door wider for him, I walk back to my chair. I hear him enter the office behind me.

“You can clo-” I begin to say, but the door shuts and I turn around. “-se … thank you.”

That smile is still on his face, but now that we’re alone he looks shrewd. He’s looking around my office, his eyes alight, curious.

“Would you like to take a seat?” I ask, indicating the chair.

His eyes dart to mine and my heart skips a beat.

“Sure,” he says, and he walks over to the leather chair, sitting down. I sit down in my own, my throat still dry. I cross my legs, conscious of the fact that his eyes dart down to them as I do.

“So,” I begin. “This is certainly a strange situation. For both of us. But perhaps it would be best if we just forgot what happened last night and start fresh instead. What’s your name?”

“Lance,” he says, and despite what I just said the sound of his voice only reminds me of his grunts last night, his hot breath on my neck. I swallow again.

“Lance,” I repeat, nodding. “Well, it’s very nice to see you again. My name is Doctor Katie-”

“Simmons, I know,” he interrupts. That smile has broadened over his face and I feel myself getting nervous under his stare.
Is it because he’s caught me off-guard? Or because I can’t stop thinking about last night?

“Of course,” I say with a forced smile. “My name is on the door-”

“Doctor Katie Simmons, graduated with a Bachelor of Psychology from Columbia and a PhD in the same field from Yale. Began practicing eleven years ago, was in the field for three years before taking a sabbatical for one. Then you began working again seven years ago.” He levels his gaze, and there’s something more to that smile now. “And in those seven years you became one of the most celebrated psychologists in the city. And also the most humble.”

I keep my face impassive. Is he trying to intimidate me?

“You’ve done your homework,” I tell him. “You got that from my website, I presume?”

“That, and other sources,” he says. He takes his eyes from mine and glances around the office again, casually, almost lazily.

“And what other sources might those be?”

“Little birds,” he responds, and my eyes narrow just a bit. He points to the windows. “Diffuse light. To give a sense of security and comfort? That’s pretty clever.”

“I thought so,” I say, my throat still dry. I would kill for that water, but I need to make sure Lance and I establish just who’s in charge here. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here, Lance?” I ask. He turns and looks at me again.

“Why?” he asks. “So you can pretend to listen while I sit in this comfy chair and cry about how my dad used to beat me when I was a child?”

“I’m sorry,” I say, confused, “did I say something to offend you?”

Lance shakes his head, leaving my gaze again. “I don’t need this.”

“Need what?”

“Therapy.”

“Well then,” I say slowly, “why are you here?”

He looks at me again and that smile comes over his lips, and for a moment I think — maybe hope — that he’s going to stand up and walk over here and kiss me. But then he looks away.

“A friend thought I could use it,” he says. “He recommended you. Said you were good.”

“I’m even better when I know a little more about you,” I reply. He smiles at that.

“Come on,” he says. “I think you got to know me pretty well last night.”

The smell and taste of him flood my senses, but I shake it off.

“Last night was … interesting, to say the least,” I tell him. “But I want to make it clear that I was not in my right state of mind last night, and that what happened will never happen again. Is that understood?”

He only smiles.

“Never say never,” he tells me, and inside I feel a twinge. “But I know you’re no stranger to reading people. In fact, I’m willing to bet you’ve already got a few theories running through that pretty head of yours about me. Don’t you?”

I have to smile.

“I do,” I say, glad he finally recognizes whose turf he’s on.

“Well then,” he says. “I’d love to hear them. But before you begin, do you want me to grab you that bottle of water? You seem a little parched.”

I blink at him. I thought I’d hidden my dry throat well.

Well, if that’s the way we’re going to play it, then hand me the bat.

Without speaking, I get up out of my chair and walk to the desk, grabbing the bottle of water and bringing it back with me. Sitting back down, I unscrew the bottle cap and take a swig, feeling the water cut through the dryness in my throat. Lance is watching me, his elbow on one arm of the chair, his chin resting in his hand. He’s got that smile on his face again.

“Better?” he asks as I place the bottle down on the coffee table. I only glance at him before picking up the pen and notepad again, straightening back up. I cross my legs beneath my skirt and take a relaxing breath. We both look at each other.

“Okay,” I say. “My theories about you. Well first, it’s obvious that you’re a big guy. You’re strong.”

“I think you should know that better than anyone,” he japes. Ignoring the comment, I go on.

“You’re not just bulky, though. You’re a specific type of strong. The type you have to work at. I think it wouldn’t be wrong to assume that this is a large part of your life, your strength, and your dedication to maintaining that.