Page 74 of Stealing Blinds

She relents, nearly lying atop my leg and rolling her hips while still sucking me off. Her panties are sopping, so it’s not surprising that she climbs to the coveted summit so quickly. Tears stream down her cheeks, mixing with the drool dripping from her chin to slide over my shaft. And her sounds? Those voracious whimpers have my head spinning.

“I’m gonna come, beautiful. Are you ready?”

Hooded eyes and soaked lashes stare back at me as she manages a subtle nod.

“Good girl. Swallow me while you’re falling apart.”

My entire body jerks into her, convulsing through an orgasm that strikes me like a tidal wave. My muscles clench, my spine tingles, and my vision is speckled with the golden hue of morning sunrays and the glow of Sylvie quaking in ecstasy, her throat bobbing with my cum.

I grip her hips and drag her into my arms, capturing her mouth with an insatiable need to taste myself on her tongue. Fuck, I need to mark every inch of her. She gives it all back to me, but when she nips at my bottom lip, I feel her retreating again.

Maybe even more so when she says, “Let’s go steal some shit, Noire. I started your day off good. Don’t get me caught.”

SYLVIE

What every great heist needs is a billionaire playboy who wants for absolutely nothing. The number of times I’ve thought that is staggering—or never. But here we are.

Zipping down the moonlit Massachusetts highway on my new Ducati with a mammoth Noire on the back was not part of my original plan. And I’d be lying if I claimed that I felt settled about it because there’s an uneasiness swimming in my gut. Those instincts should not be ignored, but I also don’t have the luxury of rescheduling this.

Aside from that, I love the bike and could not be more amused by the notion of Cash’s muscular ass balancing on the tiny wedge of the second seat.

“This is great,” he deadpans into the helmet mic. “Undoubtedly the right decision for you to drive. If you get tired, I can take over from this position since you’re pocket-sized.”

I weave between two sedans that are determined to stay neck and neck with each other and speed around an SUV to move into a clearer stretch. “I’m not that short. I’m five-two.”

He chuckles and spreads his hand over my thigh, his thumb meandering in an intimate perusal that shouts how confusing things have become while his other arm is still wrapped around my waist. “Those two sentences do not belong together, Sly.”

“Yeah,” I sass back as we lean into a bend, the cool night air rushing over us, “it’s my size we should be hung up on. How’s your tush?”

He presses closer, taking up the majority of the space on the bike and nudging me with the oversize bulge in his pants. “It’ll need a massage later for sure.”

The memory of him in my mouth—his flavor, his piercings, his grunts, and his overwhelming length and girth—assaults me, but he doesn’t need his ego stroked, so I go another direction. “Well, if it’s going to be sore anyway, hold on, princess.”

It’s a straight shot off the exit and all clear, so I pull the front wheel up to the melody of Cash’s whoop. I keep it quick and low because our center of gravity is off with him on the back, but with a little finesse on the clutch, I manage a small wheelie to give him a thrill. It’s a final hurrah for our en route fun. Being with someone who enjoys a rush as much as I do is undeniably exhilarating.

Once I veer onto the Boston city streets, the jovial mood shifts to pregame intensity. The din of traffic and nightlife meld with my thumping heartbeat. Even Cash stiffens, sensing the change.

When I park a street over, the air is thick with tension. While I don’t like company for a job, I wasn’t going to risk Cash doing something stupid out of genuine concern. And on the upside, Axel did some digging regarding the cleaning crew for me, as an extra precaution. His findings backed up mine—they’d switched due to a double-booked situation and some equipment issues. The conspiracy theorist in me is aware that someone could make it appear that way, but I’m not letting myself spiral now. This should be a quick in-and-out raid.

The cleaning crew’s vans are already lined up along the rear entrance of the twenty-floor historical building. The uniforms are simple black polos with black pants, so I’m all set there. I remove my helmet, tell Cash I need a minute to check in with E, and step away with my burner.

He answers immediately, expecting me. “Are you there?”

“I’m good to go.” I pace in the shadows, nervous energy coursing through me—worsened by the fierce blues pinned to me from the overprotective Noire. “Cleaners are here, so I’ll head in soon. If all goes smoothly, it should only take me about twenty minutes.”

A whiff of the briny harbor water, mixed with car exhaust and the faint fragrance of molasses, wafts around me, doing nothing to help my sudden nausea.

“Is everything okay?” His voice has more of a manic edge to it than it normally does, and at first, I think it’s because he’s picking up on my anxiety, but then he tacks on a subtle accusation. “You disappeared on me.”

“I spoke with you on Cinco de Mayo, and then I sent you a message that the date for this was changing.”

“You did.” He hedges, irritation filtering through the phone now. “But you failed to mention how everything unraveled that night. I had an associate there who told me there was a power outage and a whole lot of chaos. The goal is to be as seamless as possible.”

Shit.

I’m not surprised he got a report from a secondary source. I stopped fretting about that evening after I went to Florida though. Life has been traveling at warped speed lately. But as I stare back at the man who crashed the party, I’m wondering if E has any idea about that. Doubtful. It would be challenging for him to ask anyone about me without drawing suspicion.

Unflappable confidence trumps most doubts more than a logical breakdown of events, so I lean into that. “It was seamless. I got what we needed. Nothing else matters, so stop panicking. You don’t need to know how the sausage is made.”