Hit: A Thriller (The Codename: Chandler) (8 page)

My body tightened, chills fanning out over my body.

“So responsive.” He followed with his mouth, warmth chasing the alcohol’s cool, first soft with his tongue, then sharp with his teeth.

An involuntary squeak issued from my throat.

“You like that, don’t you?” He dipped his finger again and started playing the game with my other breast.

At this rate, it would take him forever to finish his drink and start to feel the effects of the flunitrazepam. But with his mouth doing delicious things to me, I was having trouble convincing myself a small delay was a bad thing.

“It killed me to see Bratton’s hands on you when I knew you were meant for me.”

As if to prove it, he skimmed his fingers up my side, over my chest, and cradled the back of my head in his hand. Then he claimed my mouth.

His touch was gentle. His kiss was not.

He pressed hard against me, hungry, demanding, as if he wanted everything I had to give and still it wouldn’t be enough.

I tangled my tongue with his, the kiss more fight than tenderness, more desperate than loving. I fitted my body hard against him, every inch, and clawed his tie free with one hand. The buttons on his shirt came next, until we were finally standing skin to skin.

Next I went for his pants. My drink still in one hand, his fly took longer than I liked, and by the time I tried to ease it down, his erection pressed tight against the zipper. I lowered it as much as I could, and then reached inside and pulled him free.

I rubbed my abdomen against him and moved my hand to the back of his pants, as if to push them down his legs. When I slipped the wallet from his pocket, he didn’t seem to notice.

Moaning, he pulled away from me. “Drink.”

I downed the rest of my tequila and handed him the empty snifter.

Carrying my glass back to the bar in the dining room, he tipped back his head and downed his tequila, and I tucked the wallet between the cushions of a nearby chair.

He returned with a filled glass and gave it to me. In his other hand, he held the bottle. “It is more convenient this way, no?”

We each took a swig, then he set down both glass and bottle next to the ice and kissed me.

The taste of him mingled with the bite of tequila, and before I could think about it, our kiss had again taken on a force of its own.

Heat.

Hunger.

Desperation.

I wanted more.

I wanted everything.

When Heath finally pulled away, we were both out of breath. “You kiss like you are on fire, no? Are you on fire, bonita?”

He didn’t wait for my answer; instead he swept his hands up my sides and skimmed my open blouse off my shoulders. My jeans came next, and my panties. Then he took off his own clothes, quickly and efficiently.

I watched him undress. He was as fit as I was, defined and lean, almost as many scars and miscellaneous scrapes and scratches, and I felt a pressing need to touch every part of him. As far as sex drives went, mine had always been strong, but I was still surprised at my visceral reaction. I often felt the need for sex after completing an op. But sex in the middle of an op, at least sex with a man I really wanted to sleep with, was a bit more unusual. Whether it was the adrenaline or the man that had me this turned on was hard to say, but Heath was right.

I was on fire.

This time when I kissed him, I took him in my hands. He was already hard, and I reveled in the size of him, the weight. I pushed him backward until he hit the bed. Letting out a laugh, he sat on the mattress.

I sank to my knees, edged between his legs, and captured him with my mouth. Taking him deep into my throat, I moved my tongue down the underside of his shaft then slowly pulled back until I was flicking at the tip. All the while, I watched him, looking directly into his eyes, showing him how much I wanted him.

I knew many women disliked giving head, but I loved it. There was nothing more exciting, more empowering, than looking into a man’s eyes and knowing I had complete control. That for as long as I wanted, he was not only my plaything but my willing slave. The power rush was a turn on with normal men.

With Heath it made me feel invincible.

I circled him with tongue and lips then devoured him again. The third time, I brought my hand to him, stroking him, fondling his balls. I took an ice cube from the bucket and slipped it into my mouth, then took him as well, working the cold around him, over him, and then warming him again with my mouth. I arched my back and slipped him between my breasts, moving up and down his length, the tip of him emerging only to sink back down.

His eyes looked glazed, the muscles of his jaw slack. He let out a moan, a muffled
querida
, and several nasty curses in Spanish.

He grasped my shoulders, lifted me up onto his lap, and fitted my body over his. I sank down onto him, more than wet, more than ready, and as I took in his full length, an orgasm seized my muscles and shuddered through me.

But I didn’t stop. He wouldn’t let me.

He thrust up into me as I plunged down onto him. As the first orgasm subsided, another built. Sweat slicked my skin and stung the corners of my eyes. My breasts bounced with our movement, and he nipped and licked one nipple then the other.

I could feel his muscles tense, feel him start to shake, to shudder, then he grabbed hold of me and buried his face in my chest.

I clung to him, held him, shaking as hard as he was. Then our breathing slowed, and I could feel him relax inside me.

For long time he was still, and I wondered if he’d finally succumbed to the flunitrazepam. I kissed his forehead. “Heath?”

“Just regaining my strength. You took it out of me.” He rolled over and laid me on the bed, my head on the pillows. Stretching length to length, he kissed me deep and slow. He littered kisses down my neck and over my chest. “You have bewitched me, no? I need to taste all of you,
querida
, see all, so I can remember.”

Taste and see? Sure. Remember? Not so much.

He kissed me again, and then pushed himself up from the bed. Picking up my glass from the nightstand, he handed it to me, grabbed the bottle for himself, and took a chug.

I settled for a sip. Heath should be feeling his roofie cocktail pretty strongly by now, and I needed to keep my mind sharp, not clouded with alcohol. I hadn’t eaten since the appetizer in Chicago, and I could already feel my first drink sending a warm shimmer through my muscles.

Or maybe that was Heath’s still-hungry stare.

“Open,
bonita
. I want to see you.”

I spread my legs for him, cold air rushing over heated skin.

For a long time, he just stood there, exploring me as intimately with his gaze as he had with fingers and tongue and cock.

I had a great body, if you didn’t count the many scars I’d earned over the years, and I liked the feeling of showing it off to men. But somehow this was different, hotter, more intense than any exhibitionist thrill I’d ever had. I felt out of breath, maybe even a little dizzy.

It had been way too long since I’d had this much fun. I wanted more. “Come back to bed.”

“In a moment,
querida
. Right now I am too mesmerized by your beauty to move.”

“You’re so full of shit.”

“Am I?”

I was starting to get impatient. “Yes. Now get back here and fuck me.”

“So demanding.”

“Afraid you can’t keep up?”

“I’ve already given you three orgasms, my greedy
chica
.”

“Afraid you can’t manage four?”

“I can manage more than that.”

“Prove it.”

He took another swig from the bottle, then mouth still fresh with tequila, he climbed between my open thighs and brought his mouth to me.

The first touch of his tongue sent ice through me, then as he slowly licked and teased, the sensation turned to flame.

It had been a long time, all right, and I felt giddy with sex, drunk with it.

I leaned my head back, savoring the warmth of his mouth, the grit of whiskers against sensitive skin, the fat, lazy strokes of his lips and tongue. The pressure built, only for him to pull away, and then kiss and caress and torment until it built again.

Another orgasm claimed me, coaxing a scream from my lips before I could choke it back.

“You are so beautiful.” Heath laughed, a warm sound, a nice sound. He moved up my body, grasped my chin with one hand, and claimed my lips.

His mouth tasted like the two of us, mingled until we were one, and for a second, I let myself give in; to the kiss, to the man, to the longing I tried never to acknowledge.

Then I felt the handcuff click around my wrist.

I yanked my arm back, but he’d already fastened the bracelet to the bed.

How did I not notice that?

“What? You don’t like your kinky game now?”

Of course, the handcuffs were from my purse, the ones I’d intended to use on Bratton if the need arose. I eyed Heath. If he passed out, and I was still cuffed to the bed like this…

“Let me go, Heath.”

“You don’t like?”

“No. I only use those if the john likes to be tied up.”

“Where did you get this?” He smoothed a hand over my abdomen and traced the small, white scar on the lower part of my belly button.

It took me a second to figure out what he was asking, my thoughts sluggish, as if trying to fight through bats of cotton jamming my skull.

Too long.

He caught hold of my free hand, and before I could react, that wrist was secured to the other side of the headboard, this time with his tie.

My head swam, dizzy, and my tongue felt clumsy in my mouth. All along I hadn’t been reacting to the booze or the sex or Heath’s charm.

The bastard had drugged me.

I wondered if it would be hypocritical of me to feel outraged.

“What did you give me?” I asked.

He straddled me, sitting on my thighs, making it impossible for me to move. “You should know,
mamacita
. Whatever it was came from the glass you poured for me.”

Memory flashed like pictures in my mind. Heath painting my nipples with tequila. Heath taking my glass and downing his as he walked back to the dining room for more.

Only he hadn’t actually drunk it.

“Fuck.”

I craned my neck to glimpse the tumbler on the nightstand. There was still a good amount of tequila left. I hadn’t had much. Maybe I could fight the effects, keep from losing consciousness.

“Who trained you, Simone?”

I glared at him, naked and astride me, his erection recovering quickly. “Trained? Trained in what? Giving you a hard on?”

“Answer the question.”

I shook my head. How had I been bested by a bodyguard? It wasn’t possible. But then… the thought escaped me. Whatever it was, my brain was too sluggish to keep up. Better not to say anything at all than something I would regret.

“Who trained you,
querida
? Did you call him The Instructor?”

Heath

Heath watched the slight flinch of recognition in her eyes, not that he needed the verification. They were the same, Simone and him, He’d felt it the moment he first saw her and now he knew at least part of the reason why.

The Instructor had taught them both how to think, how to kill, and most of all, how not to feel.

That lesson had never sunk in with Heath, but then he’d come to The Instructor with fire for revenge running in his veins. After witnessing Simone’s passion, he guessed that lesson hadn’t fully taken root in her, either.

But that didn’t mean he could trust her.

He leaned over Simone, bringing his face close. “Did he send you after me?”

A small crease dug between her eyebrows. “You?”

She was feeling the effects of the drug, so he would make it simple. “Are you here to kill me?”

“Why would I be sent for you?”

“Don’t pretend with me. By now you know I am no more a bodyguard than you are a hooker. You should really be more careful about pillow talk. It gave you away.”

“Pillow talk? I… I didn’t say anything.”

“I wasn’t listening to your words,
querida.
I was reading your body.”

Heath traced a finger over the tiny white line, clearly visible against her smooth belly. He didn’t know what the scar was from, but he knew where she got it.

Because he had one as well.

It was there at the bottom of his navel, just like hers, a little white smile. But while her skin was smooth, he had the hair of a man, making the scar hard to see unless you knew where to look.

Her eyes focused on his for a moment. “What are you, some kind of spy?”

Did she not know?

He concentrated on the feel of her body beneath him. Her heart was pounding hard. She hadn’t had enough of the tequila to succumb quickly to whatever she had laced it with, but she was having trouble regulating her reactions and thinking things through. He had a sense for this woman, a visceral understanding of her, and right now he judged she was telling the truth. She hadn’t been sent for him.

And that meant The Instructor must not know he was here.

Heath needed to keep it that way.

“I’ll pay you to let me go.” She said, her tongue slightly fumbling over the words.

Heath smiled. “You can’t afford me.”

She bucked her hips.

Still straddling her, he rode the wave of her body. “If you are trying to arouse me even more, it is working.”

“Fuck you.”

Simone might be drugged and naked and tied, but she was not beaten.

She was
magnifico
.

“So you have come for Bratton, no? I will not stand in your way. But I’m afraid I must leave you here, bound and beautiful. I can’t have you following me.”

“Give me the key, and I won’t follow.”

“I might be in love with you,
mamacita
, but that doesn’t mean I trust you.”

He sprang off her, getting clear of the bed just in time to dodge a kick directed at him.

“So fiery and passionate. You make me wish I never had to leave.”

“So don’t.”

Heath still had some time left, so he sat on the bed and began to stroke her once again.