On the Way Home (21 page)

“I’ll just…leave these here.” He deposited the food and drinks on the nearest flat surface and bolted from the room.

“Well, shit,” Clint said in the following silence.

The strange airy feeling inside me popped, like a balloon, and a small laugh huffed out of me. That turned into a giggle. Clint gave me a repressive look, but then his lips quirked. Then he was laughing too, a big laugh with his hands on his knees. Laughing woke me up like nothing else could have done. Laughing did what pain and sleep and guilt could never do. Laughing brought me back.

Chapter Eighteen

Clint

I waited for what felt like hours, straining to hear anything coming from outside the room. Logically I knew only a few minutes had passed, but every second beneath the blindfold expanded in time, like a drop of water in a well.

My hands were free. I could just rip off the blindfold. My ankles were unbound. I could leave this room, find Della, and push her up against a wall. But the anticipation made the edge of arousal sharper.

My cock was tenting the front of my cargo pants. My faded army t-shirt, usually so freaking comfortable, felt like sandpaper against my nipples.
Find her. Take her
. But
s
he had promised the wait would be worth it…

A sound came from the door. I tensed as I heard Della’s familiar footsteps enter the room. How many times had I heard her enter, waiting with my face pressed against the headboard or pushed into the mattress. I had come to know Della well in the past few weeks, but she had come to know me even better. She knew how to make me squirm. How to make me beg. How to make me hurt so fucking good I couldn’t wait to do it again.

“Patience,” she said, correctly reading the frustration in my body.

I tried to relax. And failed.

There was something different today, a change in the cadence of her walk. My mind scanned through possibilities like the whirring of a slot machine.
Cha-ching.
She was wearing shoes on the carpet. I hoped they were her black stilettos. She wore them and pressed them to my skin, and I practically came on contact.

A whisper of air beside me carried her scent. There she was, so close. Then her hands were light on the back of my head, tugging the fabric, loosening the blindfold until it fell in my lap. I stared in shock at the sight that greeted me. In the upstairs bedroom of Della’s white house, she was wearing her blue stewardess uniform. Her hair was pulled into a tight bun. Her makeup was crisp, lips a deep ruby red. I let my gaze fall down over her slender hips and long legs. God, those legs. All the way to her shoes. Not black stilettoes. These were navy blue to match her uniform, shiny patent leather, shorter and more practical to walk in but no less sexy. More sexy, because they were part of her prim-and-proper uniform. She’d worn it just for me.

“Della,” I said hoarsely. I had to cram so much into that word.
You’re so beautiful. I’m head over heels for you. I love you.
Things I couldn’t say when she was looking at me like she wanted to eat me up.

She glanced down at her name tag.
DELLA,
it said in bold capital letters. “That’s right.” She smiled. “Can I get you something? Water? A soda?”

I swallowed, remembering those questions on a plane three weeks ago. My mouth was impossibly dry, desperate for something to drink. “No, thanks,” I said.

I didn’t want a soda. I wanted to lick the moisture from her skin, and from the look in her eyes, she had a plan to get us there. She smiled again. “I think I can rustle up some pretzels if you ask nicely.”

The way she said
pretzels,
I knew she wasn’t talking about food. She was talking about tying me up in knots, and it was too late, really. She’d made knots inside my body—around my heart and up to my brain. Tied in a bow around my cock. Invisible ropes that never chafed; they just reminded me who I belonged to. They would stay even when I was deployed again. Even when she was on a plane. Even when I sat in a chair in her bedroom and pretended to be a passenger.

 “I’m not very hungry,” I said. “But there is something you can help me with.”

Her eyes sparked with pleasure. “Oh, what’s that? I do aim to please.”

I suppressed a groan. The woman pushed all my buttons—every single one that made my body turn into flames. “The problem is I can’t get this seat belt working.”

We both looked at my lap, which of course had no seat belt whatsoever. My cock, however, thought this was a great time to pulse and leak precum into the army-green fabric of my pants.

“I’m so glad you told me about that, sir. I have just the thing to help hold you down… In the event of an emergency, of course.”

“Of course,” I murmured in agreement. My breath hitched as she pulled out a wide black strap. It was made of a stretching material, designed for multiple uses. For tying wrists together or attaching large, willing men to antique headboards. It did look remarkably like a seat belt as she draped it over my lap and pulled it tight. Much tighter than a seat belt would normally go, but the restraint just made my dick throb.

“Oh no,” she said. “This won’t do. You aren’t safe at all like this.”

“What’s wrong?” I asked, sounding worried, playing along. “Can you fix it?”

Her voice was directly behind my ear, low and breathy. “I’m going to fix you right up. Just hold very still.”

I almost laughed at her playful seduction, but I was too busy trying not to come. It took all my concentration to hold back when she bound my arms beside my body—for my safety, of course. Then she realized that my feet were in danger as well. They needed to be secured to the legs of the chair.

“Unfortunately the windows must stay open for the convenience of your fellow passengers,” she said sadly, holding up the blindfold. “You’ll need this if you plan on resting at all.”

My eyes were covered, and then she was kneeling in front of me. “Della, please. Please.”

“What’s this?” The lightest touch stroked along the bulge in my pants. “A wet spot here. Did you spill your drink?”

I groaned again, my breath coming more shallow. “I don’t know.”

“No, you won’t be comfortable that way. Here, let me wipe that up for you.” Her finger circled the tip of my cock, spreading the precum all around, pressing more of it into the fabric.

She made a dismayed sound. “Oh no, it’s getting worse. You’ll catch a chill, all wet like this.”

As if to prove her point, I shuddered and bucked my hips against her hand, my cock desperate for more contact. Desperate for her.

Thank God she was never cruel. She knew how much I needed her in that moment, and she opened my pants and took out my cock. I panted as she stroked me once, twice.

“This is the problem.” Her voice was authoritative now. A bit relieved, since she’d found the origin of all that wetness. “See, here? You’re leaking.”

Her finger swirled around the tip of my cock, and I choked out words I couldn’t even recognize. “Baby. Help me.”

“I’m going to help you, sir. That’s my job. But you’ll need to call me Della. Professionalism is vital on the job.”

“Yes, Della,” I gasped.

“Good. Now I’m going to do my level best to clean up all this wetness. And you’re going to be a very good boy for me and stay quiet, aren’t you? You don’t want to disturb the other passengers.”

The sound I made was a cross between a grunt and a whimper. Then her tongue touched the tip of my cock, and I moaned long and low. “Della,” I muttered, in agony, having to stay quiet instead of shout my ecstasy.

“Shhh,” she said. “I’m just cleaning up this mess. Look how much of it you have. And even when I lick some up, more comes out of the tip. What are we going to do about that?”

She licked me, over and over, while my thighs shook and my abs quivered. I was rocking my hips in the chair, threatening to break it apart. Then her mouth encompassed me, all the way down to the base, and I couldn’t hold back anymore. I was bursting, I was broken in pieces, but I forced myself to stay quiet while I shattered.

“Della. Oh,
Della.
I’m coming, baby,” I whispered as I pumped come into her mouth.

She cleaned me up with long licks that turned into leisurely pumps. I didn’t know how much time passed on that chair, in that blindfold, but my soft dick turned hard again. She licked and sucked and bit my chest until I was begging her to let me go, to touch her. I wanted to eat her out, but when my dick was hard enough, she climbed on top of my lap and impaled herself on my cock.

I shuddered at the feel of her swollen flesh.

She sighed in clear pleasure. “I used my mouth on you. I sucked your dick, sweetie. Didn’t I?”

“Oh, Jesus. Yes. So good.”

“Then why don’t you return the favor, hmm? Use your mouth on my breasts. Suck them.”

Thank fuck.
I’d never touched her breasts before now. Never licked or sucked or bit them. Because she’d never ordered me to. But now I was released, and I tasted her soft flesh and sucked her tight nipples.

Her muscles tightened around my dick, and I groaned. Then her pace sped up and I couldn’t hold on to her breasts without hurting her. I kissed her neck and buried my face in her hair as she rocked her hips on top of me. Faster and harder, she slammed herself down on me until she shuddered and moaned and clenched around my dick with enough force to milk me all over again.

When our breathing slowed, she got up and took me out of the restraints. She tried to massage my arms, to make sure I was okay, but I wouldn’t let her. Her hand wasn’t fully healed yet, and damned if I was going to risk her comfort or her health so that I could get a rubdown.

In bed, I pulled her close, tucking her head under my chin and holding her tight against my body. I loved being dominated by her during sex, watching that sexy body move, doing whatever wicked thing she wanted me to. But I also liked to protect her.

I wanted her to feel safe next to me, her smaller body against my larger one, her sweeter nature against the hard-hearted training of a soldier. I knew she thought of herself as a cold person, a cruel one, but I’d never met anyone who met my needs before her. I’d never met anyone who gave me her house, her body. Her hopes for the future. There was no woman more kind and generous than her, and I counted myself lucky to be the one to serve her.

“You okay?” I asked with a contented sigh.

“Never better.” Her voice was thick with sleep. “Thank you for asking.”

I smiled, feeling my eyelids shut. The world narrowed to her and me. “Anytime, Della.”

“And thank you for flying.”

THE END

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On the Way Home
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Now turn the page for an excerpt from my dark sexy thriller
Don’t Let Go
…

Don’t Let Go

“Beautiful. Poignant. Complex. Haunting.”
– Leila DeSint, author of the London Brown series

Junior FBI Agent Samantha Holmes is assigned the case of a lifetime, along with an enigmatic new partner, Ian Hennessy. She’s determined to prove herself to the bureau legend, but late nights and stolen moments lead to more than respect. They lead to desire, and soon she’s fallen for the one man forbidden.

Together they hunt for the FBI’s most wanted man. A criminal. A psychopath. But when they get close, Samantha may end up prey instead. She must face her dark past to stay alive—and to protect the man she loves.

“The chemistry between these two burns hot. The heat they create is utterly, darkly seductive. Combined with the emotions behind it, watching these two souls, broken beyond repair, find an unusual solace in each other… enthralling. Erotic. Breathtaking.”
– Romantic Book Affairs

Excerpt from Don’t Let Go:

There were lies people told you. Like when the case worker said,
You’re going to love your new home, Samantha.

Then there are lies you tell other people.
My father passed away.
That was what I told people, even though he’d just turned fifty-two in a supermax prison. It was easier that way. Lies smoothed the way so we could go on pretending. They were the lube of life, and we all got a little messy in the process.

But the darkest lies were the ones you told yourself. They lurked in the shadows of your subconscious, undermining you and twisting your perceptions. They hid the answers in plain sight, right when you needed them most.

Spread out on my desk were piles of surveillance photos and notes taken over the past twelve months. I found it impossible to imagine that countless field workers and researchers had managed to miss his completely. Which meant this muddled collection of reports contained the information we needed. Hiding in plain sight.

Every image, from airport security cameras to public transportation cams to satellite imagery, showed a man with his head bent, facing down or away. As if he knew exactly where the cameras were, eluding us once again. The man looking the other direction, he could have been anyone. He probably
was
anyone, considering the pattern of times and locations didn’t add up. Carlos Laguardia wasn’t in a Chicago eatery known for mob connections one day, and then a Paris subway the next, and then a Florida University after that. We were grasping at straws—carefully planted straws designed to misdirect.

Only one image was different. A grainy black-and-white photograph showed a man standing still with people milling about him. Blurs brushing past a dangerous criminal. A monster. They’d run screaming if they knew all the things he’d done. I had chills just reading about it in this air-conditioned cubicle at the highly-secure FBI office.