The Perfect Wrong, page 21
Faster.
She drags her fingers through my hair with another delectable moan.
Goddamn, she needs this, and so do I.
I wonder if she’s about to draw blood.
Tonight, I’ll let her.
The only thing that matters right now is how loud she screams and how many people we wake up in their rooms before we’re done.
Hell, I want the entire city to hear—let the whole damn world know our dirty little secret.
“Chris...Chris...Chris!” She whispers my name like a mantra, more eager every time.
She’s so close I can’t help sending her over the edge.
Delia bites down to keep herself from filling the tinsel Vegas night with our music.
Not good enough.
I pop up, checking to make sure the chair can support our weight and vigor before I push between her legs.
Reaching for my pants, I reluctantly pull out a condom from its bundle of at least half a dozen for tonight.
She runs her hand over mine when she hears the foil crinkling.
“No. I’m on the pill. I want to feel you, Chris. All of you...”
My eyes laser-lock on her.
Shit, is she serious?
I study her, wondering if she is or if it’s just the raw emotion and the last shaking orgasm hijacking her lips.
“Last chance to take it back. I want that so fucking bad it could kill me. You let me in, there’s no chance I’m pulling out,” I say.
She deserves a fair warning before I do the unthinkable.
“Do it.” It’s a quiet, sensuous, dick-grabbing whisper, a plea wrapped in sheer desperation.
My hips connect with hers, hard and focused.
I need her to feel me, dammit, as long as I can stand being pressed lengthwise across her wetness.
That ends up being about ten seconds.
Grabbing the base of my cock, I reposition and sink down inside her, my jaw clenched so tight.
Goddamn.
Always so tight.
Always so divine.
Always my ruin.
Her mouth falls open when she feels me and her eyes widen, rolling like marbles.
She finally looks at me, reconciled to being taken like an animal in rut.
We’re doing shit I’ve never done with anybody else, fucking in the open.
I swear I’ll give her everything if it’s the last thing I do.
A memento.
A bittersweet regret.
A piece of my blackened soul.
It definitely makes me kiss her harder, swirling her tongue in mine.
I lead her around with my mouth in a frenzied tango, stealing her breath, resisting the insane effect her heat has on me as long as I can, holding my bare cock deep inside her.
Breaking the kiss, I push my forehead against hers.
Even that tiny patch of skin is hot and ready and aching to be mine.
“You feel fucking incredible,” I snarl. “I’m gonna miss the hell out of this pussy.”
My throat burns when I say it because it’s not everything I want to say. Baby, I’m gonna miss the hell out of you.
“Go,” she gasps, just like she knows, sliding her hips against mine, the fever taking her.
Her pussy slides up my dick, teasing me, begging me to claim her fast and hard and so deep I spill myself in her womb.
Wish. Fucking. Granted.
The chair creaks beneath us as I go to work, her hair fisted in my hands.
I thrust harder with every pump, shaking her more each time I bottom out, trying like hell to hold back the storm in my bones.
Fucking shit.
She’s wound so tight it only takes a few more strokes before she teethes her lip again, that strawberry pinkness disappearing in her mouth.
In one soft movement, she unravels me.
“Let it the fuck out,” I order. “Come for me, Delia. Let me know you want my come tonight, everything I’m gonna give you in spades.”
I double my strokes, grinding her clit, and she melts so deliciously.
Her arms and legs pinch so tight it’s like she’s part of me now.
I’ll never know how I stop myself from blowing inside her right then, but I do.
I feel the pulse roaring in her veins from her pussy convulsing on my cock.
I hear every frantic moan and muffled scream on her lips, spilling into the open night.
Let. It. The. Fuck. Out.
And she does.
She comes so sweetly I fuck right through her first orgasm, so hard she arches and comes for a gasping eternity.
Together, we plow through it.
She’s panting like a cat in heat, coming down from the high, her mouth hanging open.
Then my mouth eclipses hers and I pull her hair tighter, thrusting deeper, more greedy for this than any time I’ve ever fucked in my life.
I’m afraid I’ll bruise her, but I can’t stop.
Not now.
Not tonight.
In a better life, not ever.
She pushes herself against me just as desperately, all the worries and passions and future agonies buried in our rhythm.
Her tits swing like soft round pendulums on her chest, inviting me to maul her.
Feeling her pert nipples grazing my chest does me in.
“Damn it, Delia, do you know what you do?” I rasp. “Love every inch of you. Love the way you make me come. I fucking love you.”
Shit!
What the hell did I just say?
Evidently, she can’t believe it either, judging by the startled look that’s not just pleasure flaring in her eyes.
Still, it can’t stop the imminent explosion ripping through my balls, sure to set her off all over again.
My vision blurs, turning the Vegas lights reflected in the glass into hot pinpricks of stars.
Fire slashes through me as my cock stabs deep and levels out.
Every part of me splits, burns, breaks.
I am inferno.
All fire.
All smoke.
All seething flesh made for one purpose, hurling my seed deep inside her.
I fill her pussy up with a guttural roar until she overflows around my dick.
Her nails rake my back as she clings on so tight, begging for more, drilling the molten come I’ve pumped into her deeper, deeper, yet still not deep enough.
Never fucking enough because we never want this to end.
Only her kiss brings me back to Earth.
Confusion shines in her eyes.
Yeah, we both know I fucked up royal with—whatever the actual hell my mouth dumped in the heat of the moment.
I fucking love you.
Goddamn.
I’ll blame it on the moment, the passion, the fire screaming through my balls.
I have to.
Thankfully, she doesn’t press me.
We don’t talk about it.
I pull out of her and push my hand between her legs, holding my release in her, needing to know she’s full of me.
Until tonight, I’ve never wanted to mark a woman from the inside out.
Never wanted to keep doing it incessantly, either.
With Delia—sweet, impossible, sanity-killing Delia—it doesn’t feel like I can ever fill her enough, even when she’s leaking me everywhere.
And I’m worried about her?
I should look in the damn mirror.
How the hell do I survive next week?
What even is the rest of my life?
I have no answers.
I’ve never felt this spell before and it’s scattering my brain in a hundred directions like marbles bouncing around inside a runaway train.
This night is all I can handle and all we have.
So I take her hand and lead her inside, where I get her on all fours, splayed out on the bed.
I do the only thing I know how to do over and over again.
I leave us so tangled and spent and exhausted we don’t dare mention my touchy-feely moose of a mouth.
We’ll sleep like the dead on the flight home tomorrow.
I want to leave her body too sore to move, but not her heart.
Because I meant what I told her.
After tonight, she needs to move on.
Not marvel at the biggest jackass move of my life where my dick took down my senses.
Not wonder if my saying something monumentally stupid means we were always meant for more.
* * *
I drop her off at home the next day after leaving the airport and then beeline it to the office.
Technically, we haven’t gotten the all clear.
Technically, I don’t give a shit.
I can’t spend another second in that house pretending Delia just shares a wall and hasn’t been warming my bed for the past week.
The whole time I’m in the operation center, hunched over a secure computer, I can’t stop thinking about those big brown woebegone eyes the last time we kissed just before she hopped out of my truck.
Christ, I need distance.
And just when I think I’m about to get it, a hand like a bear paw claps me on the shoulder.
“You massive skirt-chasing buffalo, what the hell were you thinking?”
Before I can whirl around, Sexton wheels my chair against the wall. For a grizzled man who’s almost twice my age, he’s pure muscle, and what he lacks in size, he makes up for with a chip on his shoulder bigger than a sequoia tree.
“Not even a hello?” I grind out.
“Fuck you, Triton. You think you’re being cute in the middle of this, scaring me half to death?”
“Now you’re telling me we’re not safe here in our own office? You really want me under house arrest?”
“I want you to stay put in one city, not risking tripping over your own dick. When I heard you blew town for your Vegas excursion with that girl, I wanted to go there myself to drag you back. Only, the boss disagreed—and just look what happened.”
His nostrils flare.
His wide, scruffy face resembles an overcooked beet.
If I didn’t feel a little bad about winding up Sex this much, I’d probably die laughing.
“I got us key intel, didn’t I? Even if it happened by accident—”
“Accident? You could’ve wound up with a nice accidental hole through your temple or worse for that pretty little girl. Guess she’s wised up to what it means to have you in the family right quick, though.” He snorts, finally releasing me.
While I stagger to my feet again, I watch him pinch the bridge of his nose, his eyes sealed shut.
“Look, I know it wasn’t my finest hour. I never expected to have Joaquin berserkers coming after me on the streets of Vegas. Let alone target Delia.”
He gives me that pissed off glare I’ve seen a hundred times.
It’s the same look that says how much he cares about his crew, even if we’re turning his last few dark hairs silver in record time.
“Goddammit, Triton. The next time you misinterpret orders to go off gambling, you—”
“Jones, that’s enough,” a younger voice clips behind us, and we turn.
I think that tall, imposing figure and glacial blue eyes could shut up a pack of hyenas tearing into a gazelle.
Landon Strauss strides toward us, wearing the same no-nonsense scowl that commands everyone’s respect.
I’ve only interacted with the big boss a few times since coming on board, and I never quite know what to say. He’s a busy man, more legend than physical presence in the office, ever since Enguard became the finest security company this side of the Mississippi.
“I’m sorry, Boss. I was trying to convince Triton here to cool his heels and not work so hard to get himself killed.” Sexton scratches his beard.
“And I trust he’s read you loud and clear. I could hear you bawling him out all the way down from the other floor, Jones,” Strauss says, his keen gaze cutting to me. “You were damn lucky, Mr. Triton.”
Don’t I know it.
I nod slowly.
“Not just because you left Vegas with all of your organs still intact when you took on two sicarios alone, but because you turned up a valuable lead,” he says. “James Nobel just heard back from our Federal contacts. Those men didn’t have the usual cartel tattoos, but they did have something else that was very important for establishing proof on the other side of the border.”
He reaches into his pocket and holds out his hand.
When he opens it for us, I see a familiar medieval-looking ring with sharp, geometric lines curling into a snake. It’s the ring I turned over, denser than solid steel.
In the center, that damn ouroboros, the nasty-looking serpent devouring itself tail first.
The same design I saw on Eladio Joaquin’s boots right before he made his dramatic escape. And this one catches the light the same bright, almost blinding way as his metal toes did.
“Hell of a calling card,” I say, clearing my throat.
“I’m inclined to agree. The Joaquin group is the only large organized syndicate that hands out this kind of jewelry for rank. More importantly, it’s enough,” Strauss says, stroking the dark beard framing his mouth.
“Enough? Boss, are you saying what I think you are?” Sexton asks, raising his brows.
Strauss nods.
“We’re hashing out the final details with Mexican officials right now. These cross-border agreements always take a heap of effort and too much damn bickering, however—you boys should rest up this week. Odds are you’ll be bound for Cabo sooner than you think.”
“Shit,” Sexton spits, rocking back an inch.
Shit is right.
I should be popping open a fresh beer tonight and toasting the news, maybe with the rest of my crew on a video chat. Batista, Gering, and the rest have been as eager to go after them as me.
Instead, my gut drops out.
For the first time in ages, I feel something unfamiliar creeping through my skin.
Nerves.
What the fuck?
That’s not me before a raid.
Except, it is when I dwell on the soft face appearing in my mind with those eyes like stirred honey.
Delia Burr makes me give a shit whether or not I come home in one piece like never before.
“I’ll be ready, Mr. Strauss. You can count on all of us,” I say quietly.
The bossman stares at me like he’s sensing the restlessness behind my eyes. His insight is legendary, and when you’re face-to-face with him, it’s easy to see why.
Some men give you the feeling that they’ll read you like a book. Mr. Strauss could write doorstoppers on everyone he meets.
And he nods affably before he walks away, leaving me alone with Sexton again.
“I’ll be damned,” he says, turning to me and shaking his head. “Looks like your impulsiveness wasn’t a total jackass move.”
“See?” I flash him a shit-eating grin. “I know what I’m doing, even when I’m frigging clueless.”
“Don’t do it again,” he says coldly.
I nod once.
There’s a buzz in his pocket and his eyes soften, no doubt his family calling. While Sex storms off, finger combing his hair, I know I’m not just saying it for his benefit.
How do I go on my merry cartel-busting way without seeing Delia again?
How the hell do I stay away when the stakes have never been higher and I may never taste her again?
15
Lime-Tinted Dream (Delia)
I’ve just lived the slowest twenty-four hours of my life.
One whole day since we stepped off the plane together and Chris dropped me off at home. A perfectly ordinary way to deliver heartbreak with a ribbon on top without even trying.
It’s what we agreed.
Still.
My heart sank when his lips pulled away from that brutally final sticky-sweet kiss.
“Take care of yourself, princess. Don’t know when I’ll be back,” he said.
His words echo now like whispers in a tomb.
Because don’t know when could easily mean never ever.
I sigh, annoyed at how I braced myself with a dozen pep talks in my head on the plane. None of them did a damned thing to help face the new reality without him.
Nobody talks about the other side of paradise with these flings that aren’t meant to be, when all the forbidden kissing stops and there’s just a terrible price to pay in emptiness.
I spend the day cooped up in my room, straining to gush words down on blank pages. That paper won’t write itself and it doesn’t care how miserable I am.
But the words won’t come.
Not when Chris flashes in my mind with his rogue’s smile and bright-green eyes every time I try typing the word SEAL.
It’s not just him.
It’s everything that happened back in Vegas.
The way he slaughtered those monsters who would have dragged me to hell.
The sweet patience putting me back together.
The storm of his mouth, his body, his soul every night, claiming what will always be his no matter how many times I wish it wasn’t.
God.
I wonder what’s worse—the acid drip of heartbreak or the incessant pulse between my thighs.
On the flight back home, I woke up curled up against him.
For a flimsy second, I thought we might be able to put it all behind us.
Maybe we’d actually gotten it out of our systems with the wild, screaming, sheet-ripping nights.
But by day two, I’m a flipping mess.
I shut my laptop, ignoring the passive-aggressive email from Professor Thosser, poking me about being late on updates.
I need to get out of here and go for a run.
Maybe I’ll catch Marnie later for drinks or something.
Dad and Evie are mysteriously absent all day.
When I get home later, I see my wicked stepmother in the hall, berating Marguerite for something I’m sure she didn’t do.
“Lavender roses? The first thing you see when you walk in? What were you thinking, Maggie?”
I wince. Her tone and that mangled nickname feel like a dagger in my stomach.
Poor Marguerite.
“Mr. Burr has trusted my judgment for years. He prefers softer, inviting colors. If you’d like me to try something bolder, I can certainly—”
