Without Mercy, page 29
part #4 of Running with the Devil Series
The security guard scrutinized her. He wasn’t typical security, not a retired policeman or ex-military, not older and white-haired. This man and his partner, currently on the phone, were hard men, business-like and serious. She didn’t think anyone got by them unless they were approved. “Who are you visiting?”
“The penthouse suite.” She didn’t say who. None of his business, she thought meekly. She already had permission of the only one that mattered.
The security guard grinned aggressively at her. “Do you have some identification?”
She pulled out her driver’s licence and handed it over. She felt like a criminal being interrogated. Not a surprise, even as a cop’s daughter, or because of it, she was always slightly afraid of anyone who represented authority.
He glanced at the driver’s licence then back to her face. His grin stayed glued to his face, but it was less patronizing now. “Marisol Doherty, hey?”
She nodded and he stood up, beckoning her to follow. He took her past the security desk to a bank of elevators. Each had a number over it, except one, which had a PH. He motioned with his hand. “I assume you have an access card.”
Mari nodded looking at the door of the elevator, gathering her courage. She was so close.
“After I leave, tap it here.” He pointed to an access panel. “And once again when you’re in the elevator.”
Mari nodded and thanked him politely.
“Miss Doherty,” he said as he caught her hand when she reached to tap her card. “Never do that unless you’re alone. Even with security, someone might slip by us. So only when you’re alone. No one enters this elevator with you unless they’re invited by you or Mr. Kharzin. Do you understand?”
Mari trembled a little, then nodded her head. She understood perfectly. The minute she tapped the card, she would leave her world behind and enter Anto’s.
The guard left her then and she was alone. Truly alone. She brushed the card over the access bar and the doors opened, beckoning. She stepped across the threshold, took one last look at her old world and then tapped the card again.
When the doors opened, it was into a lobby of sorts, but not like a hotel. This lobby opened into a huge suite. Open-concept with glass on all sides. She stood there awkwardly, gawking around. It was so bright, so full of colour and light and glass. She couldn’t reconcile it. Anto didn’t belong here. He belonged in nature. Or did he? Her doubts crept back. She called out his name, but there was no response. He wasn’t here. She hoped he would be back soon, hoped he wasn’t on a trip somewhere.
She took a few tentative steps further into the suite and assessed it. A fully appointed chef’s kitchen, a classy bar, a breakfast nook, a dining room, all opening up to a large wrap-around deck designed for entertaining and sun-bathing. As she walked further, she found the living room, the den, an office and a couple of other rooms, doors closed. A three-piece bathroom and two sets of stairs: one leading down and another curving up. She walked down first, wanting to leave his bedroom for last. Below was a gym, a punching bag, a boxing ring, a juice bar, a sauna, a jacuzzi, and a swimming pool of all things. Long but not wide. A lap pool. She slipped off her sandals and dipped her toes into the warm, inviting water. It felt sensual and intimate. She stepped out onto the lower deck, sat down on a sunbed and let the sun dry her feet while she looked at the stunning Vancouver views.
She returned to the main floor in bare feet, the coolness of marble tile like soothing mint. She stood for a minute and reoriented herself before she walked slowly up the glass enclosed curved staircase, dragging her hand along the flawless smooth rail. On the second floor were three bedrooms, beds in each of them and adjoining ensuites. A door at the end of the wide hall stood ajar, beckoning. She walked towards it, cautiously, fearful and eager at the same time.
The master suite was enormous, an unmade king bed dwarfed by the room’s sheer size. Overstuffed armchairs, a small glass and marble table with two cushioned chairs. Two walk-in closets, one with Anto’s clothes, a luxurious bathroom with a soaker tub. And bright. Floor to ceiling windows facing east, south and west. Breathtaking. Another large deck on the outside, with sunchairs and a couple of tables. Pots of shrubs and flowers. She opened the door to the deck and stepped out. The heat from the August sun touched her intimately, a contrast to the carefully controlled temperature inside. She closed her eyes and turned her face upwards, letting the rays stroke her for a moment before she stepped back inside.
Her eyes lingered on the bed as heat stroked her belly like a glade touched by lightening. He’d been here last night, slept here. Alone, as she noted the folds of the bed covers. It gave her joy for some reason. She’d expected nothing less and yet, would have been devastated if it had been any other way. She walked to the bed, to the impression in his pillow. She ran her hand across the silky sheets, then picked up his pillow, holding it to her, inhaling it deeply. She missed him so much. So much she wanted to say to him, so much she wanted to do to him.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Anto watched Marisol from the doorway of his bedroom as she picked up his pillow, hugged it to her, then closed her eyes and inhaled. His heart skipped a couple of beats at the vision before him. When she’d arrived, he’d been down one floor, in the war room, talking with his men. His phone rang. Security. They knew to alert him the second Marisol showed up. They’d done their job, Marisol was on her way up to his suite. He grunted his thanks and then turned back to his men, continuing his conversation as if he hadn’t just received the most important news of his life.
He wanted to give her time alone. To explore her new home, get to know the layout. Get a glimpse of Anto in his Vancouver environment. He wanted to make her wait for him as she had made him wait for her. He needed her to know how excruciating it was, not to see her, talk to her, touch her for five fucking weeks. He knew she was safe, he and her father had several phone conversations, about her, about the current situation. Anto knew that his world could come crashing down on him at any moment. He was more vulnerable than he’d ever been, which put Marisol at risk as well.
Doherty had not been taken in by Savisin, he knew too much about him, knew that he would use his connection to the former cop to further entrench the Russians in Vancouver. He’d spent some time conducting a quiet investigation on Scott, too. Knew now what Scott was about but was keeping this information close to his chest. Only Anto knew what he was doing, what he was thinking. Doherty was mad as hell, about Scott’s machinations, about his connection to Savisin. He felt the fool for being the naïve Police Chief, believing that his cops weren’t dirty, believing that his organization was strong.
He told all this to Anto, trusting him even though Anto was not sure Doherty’s faith in him would hold up. He loved Doherty’s daughter and would do anything for her, including sacrificing her father if he had to choose.
Doherty and Anto talked a lot about Marisol, about her healing process. Doherty knew that Marisol would return to Anto. Anto knew Doherty hated the idea, but credit to him, he wasn’t going to try to talk her out of it. They talked about what they needed to do to keep Marisol safe, about Anto’s future association with Doherty as father-in-law, as a partner in taking down Scott. Anto didn’t tell him about Jackman, about his own deception. One day he would have to. To keep Marisol safe, he had to find a way to extract himself from Jackman. It meant finding a way to betray Jackman and come clean with Rusya without getting himself and Marisol killed. He didn’t know yet how he would do it, but he had no choice in the matter.
It was such an irony that Anto trusted Rusya over Jackman. He’d known where his loyalties were leaning for a while, but with Marisol in his life now, he had more to think about than playing the two sides off each other. He knew what Jackman would want. He’d want Anto’s focus on the operation, not on the woman. He’d want Marisol out of the way, so he’d offer to hide her, keep her safe, until he decided on her fate – decided whether to use her as leverage to keep Anto in line or simply have her killed. Rusya wouldn’t do that. He lived by a code and he honoured it. It’s what made him better than Jackman. What made him stronger.
But none of that mattered right now. What mattered was that Marisol was standing in his bedroom looking breathtakingly beautiful. Her hair was now a version of her natural colour and he was thankful for that. It was a little longer now too, soft shiny waves graced the back of her elegant neck. He liked it like that – not as long as before, but somehow more feminine and softer. She was wearing a light pink sleeveless blouse that dipped down into a vee and teased at her breasts. It hung loose over a hip-hugging short skirt that clung to her pelvis and her ass. Her bare silky tanned legs tapered to her slim ankles and delicate bare feet. He wondered if she’d arrived without shoes, then thought probably not. But she’d already discarded them along the way. For some reason that simple gesture warmed him to his core.
He breathed shallowly as her sexiness stroked his cock. He wanted her now, in his arms, in his bed, in his mouth. They could talk later, he decided. There was time enough today and tomorrow for everything they needed to do to each other, for everything they needed to say. He cleared his throat and said, “What took you so long?” It came out a little loud, a little angry. He hadn’t meant for that to be the case, but maybe it was what he was feeling, a little angry that she made him wait for her for five fucking weeks.
She startled at his voice, then turned to him, her face flushed, her eyes wide, as though she hadn’t expected that their reconciliation might be complicated. Her gaze wandered the length of him. He knew what she saw – the shaggy-haired, bearded asshole who kidnapped her six weeks ago, dressed in well-worn jeans that hung low on him and a grey T-shirt that wrapped itself around his body like a cobra. Handsome well-dressed Anto was left behind at Rusya’s. This was him, who he was, even if he was surrounded by a glass fortress.
“Anto.” She was breathless and he noticed her chest rising and falling as she dropped the pillow on the bed like it was too hot to hold. Her eyes darkened, her nostrils flared and she bit down on her lower lip. She wanted him too and a surge of satisfaction swept through him. “I was always coming back to you. I just needed time with my family. Needed time to heal, to say goodbye.”
“It took you five fucking weeks.” He hadn’t made a move toward her yet, bastard that he was. Kept his distance, arms crossed over his chest, legs splayed.
She smiled and her face lit up, her eyes sparkled. “It took me one day.”
Inside he was falling apart, but he held onto his last shred of sanity. “So what did you do for the rest of the time?”
“I missed you like crazy, Anto. That’s what I did.”
He kept his face impassive as he slowly and deliberately stared at her breasts, her pussy. He wanted so badly to touch her, smell her, feel her, fuck her. But he held himself back. “Take off your skirt, Marisol.”
She didn’t hesitate. She reached behind her to undo the button and zipper, then slid it down over her hips, letting it pool at her feet before stepping out of it and kicking it to the side. She licked her lips.
He couldn’t see because her blouse was hanging low. “And the blouse.”
She scooped it up over her head and tossed it down to the floor, then stood a little awkwardly, a little shyly as his eyes drank her in. Her bra hugged her breasts, scooping them up and together, the cups were like half-cups, barely covering her nipples, her mounds rising above them, bunched up, rising and falling as she breathed. An invitation. Her panties matched the bra, same soft-pink, same lace. They sat just below her belly button, covering her pussy, banding around the tops of her thighs.
“Turn around,” he said, his voice husky with anticipation.
She did then, peeking back at him, a small smile tugging at her lips, but his eyes were drawn to her ass. The same panties, the Brazilian ones, riding high on her cheeks, covering the top part and then tapering to a provocative wisp of material that disappeared in the crack of her ass. She didn’t move, didn’t wiggle provocatively and he remembered the cabin, remembered this same moment. His breath caught and he growled. His self-control snapped.
He strode across the room to her, and roughly pulled her to him, her back on his chest. Her ass on his hard-on. He brought one hand to her breast, squeezing it roughly. His other hand to her neck, forcing her head back against his chest. “Do you remember the first time we fucked, Marisol?”
Marisol nodded. “Yes,” she whispered. He relinquished his hold on her breast so he could undo his trousers, free his cock. He wanted out of these fucking jeans, but he wanted inside Marisol more. The jeans could wait, he decided. He bent her over the bed and she caught herself with her hands.
“Five weeks, Marisol. That’s a lot of time you owe me.” He hauled her ass up to his cock as he slid a finger down the crack of her ass and through her folds. Then into her vagina. She was hot, wet, ready for him. He shoved the sliver of fabric aside and entered her, hard and swift.
Marisol moaned as he stroked her pussy with his hard, greedy cock. She wrapped her fingers into the bedding as he thrust. “Anto,” she cried out.
He didn’t know why she cried his name, was beyond caring. He would attend to her after, he didn’t think he could hold back long, not long enough. Too many long nights alone, imagining this moment, wanting her, needing her. His groans echoed off the walls and his thrusts became erratic. His blood pounded in his ears, his heart thudded in his chest. Then he came, harder, longer than ever before. He could barely stand it was so jarring. He pulled Marisol further up on the bed and sank on top of her, still inside her. He wasn’t going to let her go.
As his breathing evened, he kissed the back of her neck, and was rewarded with a shiver. Then he rolled to his side, pulling her with him, pushing her leg over his thigh, then running his fingers through her folds, to her swollen clit. Her breathing hitched as he rubbed it with his fingers. Gentle strokes with calloused fingers. His bicep pillowed her head, which was arched back, throat exposed, eyes closed. Her breath came in puffs. “Yes,” she gasped, the edge of a plea. “God, yes.”
“You want this, Marisol?”
“Yes.”
“You want it?” he asked again.
“Yes. I want it,” she cried and he sped up, watching the tops of her breasts, spilling out from her bra, heaving as her heart sped up. He couldn’t tear his eyes from her face, flushed and orgasmic. Her mouth open, moaning, crying out his name. Her small desperate ‘yes’, her fingers scrabbling at his ass, her nails raking his hip. The other hand clutching the bedding, clawing at it. He saw her orgasm growing, backed off a little, and when she moaned, brought his fingers back, stroking her, dominating her. Her back arched, her legs stiffened. He knew the moment she fell over the edge. A series of spasms shot through her body and he could feel them as he pressed his hand against her pussy, feel them stroke his now fully erect cock, still deep in her pussy. Her tremors got weaker and further apart as she regained awareness. But he milked her, watching in awe as he forced further spasms from her.
She groaned, tried to turn in his arms towards him, but he wouldn’t let her go. He wouldn’t stop stroking her. He wanted to see her come again, wanted to feel her desire for him grow. And he wasn’t disappointed, but this time he stroked her with his cock too, pulsing from the inside, forcing her groans, her passion. She rose again as he did, they’re bodies joined. Then he flipped her onto her back, tore her panties from her as he pulled her legs around his waist and sank deep into her. He held his body from hers, his arms taut as he thrust. Marisol was moaning, thrashing, her hands clutching at his arms, bucking under him.
“Marisol, open your eyes. Look at me.” And she did. Her smoky blue eyes grazed his, staring through them, into his soul.
He thrust harder, faster and her eyelids fluttered, her long eyelashes sweeping across her cheeks.
“Marisol, stay with me.” Anto growled between heaving breaths. “Stay with me, open your eyes.”
She forced them open again, licked her lips, her fingernails raking his arms, her hands gripping his biceps. She came, crying out his name, crying out her love for him. Her vagina tightened around his cock, her legs around his back. Her shudders stroked him and in a primal shout, he exploded into her, losing himself in his emotions for her. His love for her.
After, when their breathing softened, he rolled to his back, laying next to her, his hand clutching hers, their fingers laced. His other hand cradled his forehead, trying to stop the room from spinning. “Marisol,” he said to the ceiling. “I love you.”
It was the first time in his life he’d uttered the words. Because he never said anything but the truth. Marisol’s hand tightened around his. She knew that about him.
Chapter Fifty-Three
They spent the next few days making love, talking, eating. Exploring each other, revealing themselves. Anto worked out, punched his bag, showed Mari some boxing moves, and she found herself liking it, slamming her fist into the bag, dancing back, hitting it again. Between the boxing and the lovemaking, every muscle in her body ached, but it was a good kind of hurt.
They talked a lot too. He told her his history, an edited version, leaving out much of his own suffering. Told her how his friendship with Dean came about. He asked about Esma, because he didn’t know her, he said. Asked about her conversation with Mari that day at the office building, after they’d escaped their attackers in Whistler. Mari told him that Esma helped her to understand everything better. Esma told Mari her story, and when she thought of the little Turk, Mari’s eyes lost her sparkle and she let her sadness show. But to Anto she said, “Esma’s story isn’t mine to tell.” Anto understood and loved her for her discretion.
They swam, they bathed, they sat in the sun, Anto drinking vodka, Mari discovering a liking for mojitos. A few drinks heightened the intensity between them, making her bolder, aggressive. Anto was insatiable, liking how she took charge until he wanted it back. Then she could do nothing but surrender, letting him lead her down his wild and inventive paths.
