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I took him with a heated moan because it felt so damn good.
Oh fuck.
Big. Sexy. Gorgeous. This man was on top of me, his blue eyes dominating my mind the way his body dominated everything else. Large pecs. Eight-pack abs. Arm porn. Big dick. He was perfect.
I breathed with him. I rocked with him. My hands grabbed on to the grooves of the muscles of his body as he pushed inside me until there was nowhere else to go. Every wince came with a moan, because it felt so good to hurt.
It started off slow, our wet bodies moving together, the audible sounds of his dick sliding in and out of me like it was in surround sound. But then the breaths came. The bed started to creak. Moans and grunts covered the noise.
My hand cupped his face, and I kissed him as he thrust into me harder, his lips losing their focus when I felt too good. He would give an occasional groan—and it was the sexiest sound I’d ever heard.
It was exactly what I wanted.
I felt safe.
Warm.
Protected.
Mindless.
The paranoia was gone. The fear was forgotten.
He was the only person in the world who could make me feel like this.
It was a high that I wanted, and before this one was over, I knew I wanted another.
And another.
I clawed at his back when I felt the hot explosion that made me squeeze his dick harder. It was a crescendo before release, a catharsis of emotions. I released my burden, released my terror, released it all.
He gave his final pumps, hard and deep thrusts, and then released with a quiet moan.
My hand cupped his face and brought him in for another kiss, desperate to hold on a little longer, to feel this searing heat that made winter pale behind the windows.
He gave me his breath and a kiss before he rolled off me.
I winced when he was gone.
He cleaned off then lay beside me, and as if nothing had happened, he was still and stony. One hand was behind his head, and his eyes were on the closed windows. His big chest rose and fell, slowing to a peaceful pace. The shine from his sweat disappeared as the moisture evaporated. He eventually closed his eyes, one hand resting against his stomach.
I was naked beside him and cold without the sheets. I craved the heat the second it was withdrawn. I craved his touch, his protection, his presence. I turned over, pressed my head against his shoulder, and hugged his side.
I’d never been so comfortable in my life.
The cult never happened. Forneus never happened. Peace.
I closed my eyes, tucked into the security of the only man who could give it.
But then he moved.
His arm pulled away.
He turned over and faced the other way.
It was over.
26
Benton
Bartholomew sat beside me at the table, one ankle crossed on the opposite knee, on the floor above the restaurant packed with people for the dinner rush. Windows showed the lights from the city, the apartments and businesses across the street, the distant glow from the Eiffel Tower.
The waiter placed the bottle on the table, uncorked it, and began to pour.
Bartholomew raised his hand.
The waiter immediately stopped, spilling a drop on the table.
Bartholomew brushed him off with a wave of his hand. “That’s horse piss. I don’t drink horse piss.”
The waiter shifted his gaze to me, as if I would give better instruction.
“Do you drink horse piss?” Bartholomew asked. “Is it bitter, or is it sweet?”
“We’ll take something from Rothschild,” I said, trying to help the guy out.
The waiter wiped up the drop and left.
The upstairs was an open living room with a seating area and fireplace. We both sat there, waiting for our guest to arrive.
“You don’t have to be a dick.”
Bartholomew turned to me, his eyes piercing. “Yes, I do.”
The doors opened, and Julien was escorted inside, the front of his suit bloody and one side of his face puffy. His left eye was already blue and discolored. The men forced him into the chair in front of us, pushing him down with a thrust that made the chair scratch against the hardwood floor.
Julien sank into the chair, seething in silent anger.
Bartholomew remained relaxed in his chair, his elbows on the armrests, his fingers together in front of his chest.
I sized up our fallen opponent—our opponent who’d foolishly thought he could outsmart us. I stepped out of retirement and got back into the game as if I’d never left, finding information as if I’d typed the question into Google.
A long stretch of silence passed.
Julien said nothing, probably because this would end the exact same way whether he spoke or not.
I said nothing because it was fun to watch someone think about their death before it happened.
Bartholomew…I’d known him forever, and I still had no idea what he was thinking. He was probably still thinking about the horse-piss wine.
