Manhattan Flame (A Bridge & Tunnel Romance Book 2) (7 page)

She sat, spreading her legs and gazing up at him. He looked amazing, all sculpted muscles and smooth skin, the dark dusting of stubble along his jaw accentuating his straight mouth, his hungry eyes.

As she pulled his briefs down, his penis sprung free, tapping softly against his hard abdomen. His mouth curled up at one corner.

She locked eyes with him and brought his penis to her mouth, licking the tip and making him groan. His head drifted back then tilted as his eyelids went heavy, but he didn’t let her keep it up for long.

“I’d like to last,” he told her with a breathy laugh. “It’s been awhile.”

“I find that hard to believe,” she teased, shifting backward on the bed so he could join her. When her head met the pillows, she lifted her hips and he quickly helped her panties down her thighs.

“A compliment,” he surmised. “I’ll take it.”

“Good,” she breathed, but lost the thread of their banter when he spread her legs and lowered down onto his elbows, his cool breath meeting her silky labia.

With his warm fingers, he parted her genitals and she moaned in anticipation.

His hot, wet tongue licked the length of her.

“Oh,” she breathed at the soothing contact.

He licked her again, this time hovering over her clitoris and delivering soft circles with the tip of his tongue.

She was aching so badly that she thought she’d lose her mind, but she began squirming instead, as he stroked his warm tongue along her vagina again and again.

She heard him whisper, “If there’s something you don’t like, just tell me.”

She liked all of it so far, she thought, relaxing into his artful tongue massage.

Soon he settled his mouth over her clitoris and ever so gently slipped his finger inside of her. A long moan escaped her, as he began firmly massaging her, his mouth suckling her sensitive clit all the while.

He was bringing her there. She could feel the tingling heat mounting deep inside, and though she was getting close, she didn’t want to come like this, not without his dick inside her.

“Wait,” she blurted out and he stopped on a dime, looking up at her as if he’d done something wrong. “It’s good,” she said right away so he wouldn’t think he’d rubbed her the wrong way. “You feel really good, I just want you inside me.”

He groaned as if the suggestion couldn’t have turned him on more and gave her another soft lick punctuated by a brief suck of her clitoris.

Lifting up, Kevin sat back on his heels, his erection bobbing against his washboard abs.

Quickly, Tasha yanked open a drawer on the bedside table and found a condom, tore the wrapper off, and sat up. As she rolled the latex over his hard penis, she said, “I have a feeling I’m going to like this thing.”

Teasingly, he commented, “Well, Trojan is an excellent brand.”

“I mean your cock.”

His expression turned lustful and once the rubber was covering the length of him, he urged her down onto her back as he angled over her, his arms hooking under her shoulders, his body so strong that he was able to hold plank, every muscle flexing.

He spread her legs and using a slow, calculating motion, Kevin stroked the hard tip of his penis along her slippery vagina.

She moaned just feeling him. He wasn’t trying to find the right angle. He wanted to arouse her further, make her anticipate his penetration, and she loved it.

Grabbing his hips and vaguely aware the action would seem like pleading, she gazed into his eyes and without words, insisted that he give it to her.

He pressed in, his penis slowly filling her, stretching and soothing her aching vagina with its hard girth. He groaned, penetrating her deeper and deeper, and Tasha used short, fluttering breaths as her body acclimated to his size.

“Oh God,” she moaned when he’d filled her completely.

He held himself inside her and gave her a long, lingering kiss. As he drew back in favor of gazing down at her, his hips began moving.

The friction, the wet heat of their bodies merging, made her melt and tense at once. He felt so good, thrusting with tight, quick motions and stirring up a fresh wave of mounting arousal.

Every time he penetrated in, his pubic bone pressed firmly against her clit, causing her whole body to flare with hot tingles. And with each ascend, his penis drawing out again, she felt the rush building.

In her ear, he whispered, “Slower? Harder? Tell me.”

But she didn’t have words. The feel of him working her body, thrusting her into a state of pure bliss, had rendered her incapable of speech so she moaned, “You're so good,” before gathering her wits enough to ask, “How do you like it?”

“Any way you do,” he said, as he continued thrusting, at times grinding so as to stimulate her clitoris for a healthy few seconds before resuming a firm series of thrusts. “What turns me on is getting you to climax.”

Hearing him say that was almost enough to bring her over the edge. She held his hips tightly, feeling him pound into her. Her breasts jiggled every time he thrust in. She caressed his shoulders then drew her fingertips down his back, feeling sweat bead over his skin.

God, he was sexy.

Before she knew what was happening, he pulled her up as he sat back on his heels, Tasha straddling him, his erection deep inside and at such an entirely knew angle that she gasped out in surprise.

He helped her arms drape over his shoulders and then held her tight, rocking and fucking her so deeply, his pubic bone pressing against her clit, the tip of his penis stimulating the hot spot inside of her in such a way that a fresh billow of arousal plumed in an instant—an orgasm swiftly building.

She felt his fingertips traveling the length of her dewy back and as she tilted her head, savoring the feel of him inside her, Kevin wrapped his warm mouth around her breast and began suckling and flicking his tongue over her nipple.

Moaning, she managed to get the words out, “I’m coming.”

“Yeah?” he breathed.

Her chest began heaving, moans stuttering out, as she rode him, working the perfect angle. Suddenly a swell of tension mounted deep inside of her and sensing that she was on the verge, Kevin gazed up at her and whispered, “Come all over my dick, Tasha. You’re so fucking sexy.”

That was all it took. As a powerful orgasm blossomed inside of her, coursing in waves through her loins, she cried out moaning and her body went limp in his arms.

Overcome with pleasure, she was only vaguely aware of Kevin thrusting into her harder and faster and letting out a groan, his orgasm having mounted as well.

As she calmed, he stroked her black curls off her face and looked into her eyes. She could still feel his erection throbbing deep inside of her, as he said, “That was insane.”

She kissed him with little energy. Their lips pressed and held and they breathed in the scent of each other, and then Kevin guided her onto her back and curled her into his arms. 

He ran his fingers through her hair and soon Tasha was dozing off. When she woke minutes or hours later—it was too dark to tell—Kevin stirred beside her, his eyes cracking open and his hands finding her warm body. They maneuvered under the comforter, their bodies brushing against one another until ideas started to form.

The night unfolded in a dreamlike series of naps and lovemaking. At times, Kevin made slow, sleepy love to her, and others he took her hard and rough in a way that actually calmed her.

By the time the sun broke through the windows, brightening the purple curtains and filling the room, they had both stolen only a few hours of real sleep.

She made coffee in the kitchen and brought him a mug. They gradually woke up with the help of caffeine and made small talk about how they planned to spend their days. Tasha had work, which she explained, noting the thoroughly dislikable personality of her boss, Hans Janz. And Kevin had plans to track down Alexi Vishnevsky and corner him into admitting his role in both stalking Tasha and the murder at the pier. He reminded her not to be alone and though she assured him that at least for today she wouldn’t be, Tasha knew it was a bold faced lie.

“I’m going to an art opening tonight,” she mentioned, as they trekked down the five flights of stairs in her building. “A few of my friends will be there, Greer Langley who’s a sculptor and my other friend, Jennifer Okimoto who’s a painter.”

Kevin smirked at her as he held the door open. “You say their last names as if I should know who they are.”

“Some people do,” she pointed out, stepping onto the sidewalk. “Though I guess they’re all in the art world. It’ll be fun. Free wine. And Greer’s boyfriend will be there. Hunter Black?”

Again he smiled, clueless about who Hunter Black was. “What time?”

“I think we’re going to meet around seven, but I can let you know.”

He took hold of her hand, as they made their way down the block towards the subway.

Tasha noticed some of the neighborhood locals were shooting them sideways glares. This block in Harlem was filled with African-Americans. If someone here was white, it was because they were either lost or just passing through, and the looks she was getting were meant to make her feel like some kind of traitor. She didn't.

When they reached the downtown subway, he kissed her then mentioned, “I’m going to walk across town to my apartment. You’ll be okay riding the train?”

“With a hundred other people?” she teased. “I’m sure I’ll be fine. And I’ll be at work at the studio until I meet Greer and Jennifer at the gallery, so I’m covered. Stay safe, okay?”

Squeezing her hand, he gave her another kiss, this time lingering as if he didn’t want to see her go.

She urged him back, smiled, and then padded down the subway steps into the station.

She kept her wits about her and her eyes peeled for her stalker as she waited for the train. When it came, she was sly about finding a vacant seat, but gradually as the train flew through the tunnel her guard lowered.

Her walk to the photography studio was a short three blocks across TriBeCa. When she arrived, she poured a cup of coffee from the craft services table and soon the day was in full swing.

Hans was a jerk, but not worse than usual, and often Tasha reminded herself that with her brand new camera she would soon have the shots she needed to nail her exhibition, sell some prints, and hopefully worm her way out of this dismal assistant position.

When Hans called for a wrap, having captured every angle of a blond bombshell modeling fur coats in the nude, Tasha didn’t waste a second to clean every inch of the studio, lock up, and spill out into the dusky evening.

Kevin had been on her mind all day, and though during her various breaks she had looked up the Avandeyev crime family on her cell phone—the Coney Island based Russians were at the top of the mob pyramid and rumored to have killed over thirty people in the last ten years—she didn’t feel as rattled about her predicament as she had prior to her night with Kevin. It was as though all of the anxiety she had felt had been washed away and replaced with thoughts of this new man in her life. And the best part was that she trusted him. Sure, she would have to keep her guard up and be hyper vigilant about staying safe and in the company of her friends if not locked in her apartment, but she was confident that Kevin would make things right, arrest Vishnevsky, and with a little luck, send a message to Avandeyev to leave her alone.

But was it wishful thinking?

She didn’t know, but couldn’t live in fear.

And she was dying to gush to Greer and Jennifer about her night with the sexy cop.

Chapter Eight

Kevin was seated behind the steering wheel of his beat-up sedan, staring across the street at a rundown brownstone—Alexi Vishnevsky’s last known address—and daydreaming about his night with Tasha.

He had angled his vehicle along the curb, having parallel parked.

The building was dark and the street quiet, which didn’t come as a huge surprise considering this neighborhood on Coney Island had suffered the brunt of Hurricane Sandy's destruction years back. Most of the buildings were still damaged and abandoned, while others were filled with squatters who stayed hidden until the sun went down.

His gut told him that Vishnevsky wasn’t inside, but unless Tasha contacted him to say she had seen the Russian again, he figured the most productive plan was to keep an eye on the place until the stalker eventually returned.

If and when he did, Kevin would cut him off before he reached his stoop and arrest him, not that he had permission to take it that far. Sergeant Reilly didn’t have a clue as to what he was up to.

He’d been sitting out here for hours.

So long in fact that he didn’t so much see the brownstone anymore, but Tasha in his mind—her smooth skin and gentle curves, her dark curls and full lips, the way those lace panties had hugged her hips, the feel of her supple breasts in his hands...

He had not seen that coming and yet it had been exactly what he wanted.

Seeing her again—and the sooner the better—was at the forefront of his mind.

But so was Vishnevsky. He wanted to rough him up, give him a reason or two to back off. Enduring a serious beat-down was well above the Russian's pay grade and if Kevin could throw his weight around in just the right way—arresting the man—he was confident that the message it would send to Avandeyev could convince the crime boss that none of this was worth it.

Kevin began rolling up his sleeves, the plaid button-down he wore having caused him to overheat. He’d gone home to his apartment after watching Tasha disappear into the subway station. He’d showered and changed his clothes, but the spring weather was unpredictable, some days unusually warm, others chilly well into the afternoon. He had dressed for a chill that never came.

A black Cadillac crawled down the street and Kevin eyed it closely. Its windows were darkly tinted and he couldn’t see the driver with the glare from the late afternoon sun bouncing off the windshield. It pulled up, double parking in front of Vishnevsky’s building, but before anyone could climb out, Kevin’s cell phone began vibrating in the front pocket of his jeans.

Leaning back, he freed his phone and saw the precinct’s general number flashing.

“Wright,” he said, answering the call.

“Hey, man, it’s Taite. You busy?”

“It’s my day off,” he pointed out, implying he was otherwise disposed.

“Reilly asked to see you,” he said, the familiar bustle of the station house muffled in the background. “Can you come by?”

He really didn’t want to. The time he’d spent waiting in his car and watching the apartment had been an investment that he needed a return on, so he told him, “I’m in tomorrow at nine, that’s not soon enough?”

“Sorry, buddy,” said Taite, sounding very close to the receiver.

“It’ll take me some time...”

“Why? Where are you?”

Kevin had developed a solid relationship with Taite over the past year. If Reilly liked busting Kevin’s balls, the brash man never missed an opportunity with James Taite. The two officers were in the outer circle and because of it, Kevin didn’t even consider masking the truth.

“Coney Island, so you can let Reilly know I’ll be there in about twenty-five.”

“What are you doing down there?”

Kevin snorted a laugh, grumbling, “Nothing now.”

“Keep that to yourself when you get here,” he advised.

“What? Why?”

“Coney Island?” When Taite went on, it sounded like he’d cupped his hand over his mouth and around the receiver. “Marshall told us that the telephoto camera wasn’t in evidence. Reilly’s been in his office all day with the door closed. Whatever’s going on is hitting him hard, which means he’s going to come down on us if we do anything out of the ordinary. He already suspects you’ve been poking around where you shouldn’t. And my friend, you know you have no business in Coney Island.”

“But Vishnevsky does,” he pushed back.

“I’m telling you as your friend, you've got to back off this thing, man. If you don’t, it’s not going to go well for you, and if my name’s dragged into it... I can’t get suspended, you know I’ve got a baby on the way and Molly would flat out kill me.”

“Your name’s not going to get dragged into it,” he cut in then considered the advice. “Is this what Reilly wants to talk to me about?”

Taite exhaled into the receiver, confirming.

Wrapping up the call, he said, “I’m on my way.”

When he heard the line go dead, he wedged his cell into his pocket, twisted the key in the ignition, and pulled out into the street, eyeing the black Cadillac as he drove off, but getting no clearer sense of who was inside.

A tense thirty minutes later—traffic had built on the FDR and no matter which lane Kevin chose the highway amounted to a parking lot of honking cars, drivers swearing out of their rolled-down windows, kids selling water bottles or limp-looking flowers and shouting fair rates—Kevin pulled into the precinct parking lot in the sub-basement of the 26th, climbed out, and made his way up to the ground floor.

Officer Taite was working the front desk and trying to calm down an elderly black woman who was irate about a search and seizure that had been conducted on her grandson and ultimately resulted in the kid’s arrest. He shot Kevin a quick nod and the older woman clapped her hands to get his attention.

Kevin passed behind the counter and through an open doorway into the precinct's bullpen where officers and detectives alike were conversing loudly, pouring over reports, and joshing around about some crazy case that had made their day for no other reason than it had given them a story to tell.

Sergeant Reilly’s door was closed, but through the window blinds, Kevin spied him hunched over his desk, his phone pressed hard to his ear, his expression a twisted grimace as though he were being raked over the coals for something he couldn’t control.

He knocked on the door and caught sight of Reilly’s gaze snapping up. They made brief eye contact through the blinds and the sergeant spat a few words through his teeth at whoever was on the other end of their call, slammed the phone into its cradle, hoisted himself to his feet, and lumbered towards the door.

“You wanted to see me?” asked Kevin the second his superior had invited him in.

“Have a seat.”

As Kevin settled into a stiff chair in front of his sergeant’s desk, Reilly closed the door and kept his eyes on the younger officer.

It was putting Kevin on edge.

Taking slow, deliberate steps around to the business side of his desk, Reilly said, “You shacked up with one of the victims last night?”

Wrestling down the paranoid sting that was setting his chest on fire, Kevin tempered his reaction, as the sergeant lowered into his chair.

Had Vishnevsky spied Kevin and Tasha leaving her apartment that morning?

And if so, how deep was Reilly in with the Russians that word had traveled back to the precinct?

When Kevin did nothing but study his superior, Reilly clasped his hands on the desk and went on, “You don’t want to get mixed up with the wrong girl.”

In delayed reaction, he asserted, “I thought there was no case, so how could Tasha Buckley be considered a victim?”

The sergeant both grinned and glared, and Kevin’s chest felt tight because of it.

“This isn’t the easiest jurisdiction to manage,” he explained companionably. “There are a lot of...
businesses
that have their own way of doing things around here, and because they’re holding their own and not committing the kinds of crimes we target-”

“They’re free to murder?” he challenged, knowing a split second after the question had flown from his mouth that it had been the wrong one.

“We couldn’t substantiate her allegation.”

“Then Tasha isn’t a victim,” he pointed out, rounding the bend of his point. “And it’s none of anyone’s business what I do with my free time.”

“I’m telling you, Wright. You want to walk away.”

Kevin narrowed his eyes on the older man, who was staring him down just as hard.

“You’re a good cop,” he continued, making light of the situation as if dismissing Kevin was on the horizon. “I’d like to send you out more, get you away from the front desk, and your father is pushing for that as well, but I can’t give you more time on the streets if I don’t trust you.”

“Buckley wants her camera back.”

“It was lost in the shuffle,” he shrugged. “Messy chain of custody. There’s no telling what happened to it.”

“Why is she being followed?” he shot back and in response Reilly leaned across his desk.

“She’s mistaken. It’s a big city. People look alike.”

“Why is a crime family based in Coney Island conducting questionable business in Harlem?”

When Reilly’s expression hardened, he knew he had pushed too hard, but what the sergeant said next came so far out of left field that Kevin could barely wrap his head around it.

“I’ve set up a meeting. I want you to go to this address,” he explained, writing quickly on a scrap of paper and sliding it across the desk. After picking it up, Kevin eyed it. “We don't live in a black and white world. It’s time for you to see for yourself what the gray area looks like.”

He wasn’t familiar with the address, but the cross streets indicated it was located in Coney Island and not far from Vishnevsky’s rundown brownstone.

As Kevin rose to his feet, tucking the scrap of paper into the back pocket of his jeans, Reilly warned, “Stay away from Buckley. You don’t want to get into something you can’t get out of.”

He kept his expression flat and his tone even as he said, “I’ll head down,” but when he left the sergeant’s office he didn’t immediately head out to his car. Instead, he made a beeline for the locker room where he changed into his uniform, being sure to transfer his GLOCK 27 from his ankle holster to his hip.

He wasn’t going to show up at Avandeyev’s in plain clothes and become one of the crime boss’s dirty minions. He’d go as himself, one of New York’s finest, and announce that not everyone at the 26th could be bought.