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My bra tightens around my ribcage, then it’s loose, unsnapped, and somehow, I’m in the air, up off the floor. Fisher stumbles, hits the counter, and sets me on it. He stands between my legs. My fingers comb through his hair and along his shoulders. He drags his shirt hem over his torso, and my hands flatten over his firm abdomen and up the planes of his chest. The smooth skin covering taut, firm muscle, down to his narrow waist and his pajama bottoms, where I grip the band and shove down. His thick, hard cock springs free, and I grip his width.
He tilts his head back, groaning, as I tighten my grasp. I slide down to the ground and flatten my tongue against the base of his shaft and lick up.
“Fuuuck,” he groans.
I circle my tongue along his tip, lapping his saltiness, then dip my head, opening my mouth wide, taking as much of him as I can. He lifts my hair, holding it out of the way. I cup his balls and massage, earning another uncontrolled groan and a pump of his hips. He thickens in my mouth as I work him over, and then there’s a loud pop when he pulls me up by the arms and sets me on the counter.
“I need to look at you.” He grips the waistband of my tights and tugs. I squirm on the counter, helping him. He pulls at each leg, and it’s awkward, but then he maneuvers them over each ankle and they’re gone.
I’m left with an emptiness and an ache that only he can fill. His mouth covers mine in a sloppy, wet, kiss. A kiss nearing desperation. I squeeze my thighs, attempting to soothe the aching need.
“Please,” I moan. “Now.”
I spread my legs, and he steps between them. I watch as he runs his tip through my center.
“God, you’re so wet,” he breathes out, voice husky in the semblance of prayer.
“Please.” I sound needy, and it’s as if I’m praying, too.
I watch as he pushes inside and whimper.
“Look at me.” I tear my gaze away from where we’re joining and look straight into his dark blue irises. “God, you feel good. So right.”
“Please,” I beg, but I don’t have any idea what I’m begging for.
His thumb circles my clit as his hips pump, penetrating deeper with each thrust.
The edge of the counter bites into the backs of my thighs, and I raise my knees, lifting to better meet him, to take him. Sweat breaks out across his skin, and I smear it with my fingers on his back. And then his thumb presses down as his angle hits a spot somewhere deep within me and I arch forward, screaming out, toes curled. My head tilts back, and I chant senseless words as the most intense orgasm of my life crashes through me. His thrusts become erratic and his head dips, and his mouth plunders mine. He flattens against me, as close as two humans can be, and he pulses his release.
“I love doing that with you,” I say as soon as my breath catches up and I possess the power of speech.
He brushes his lips against my forehead. “Not as much as I love doing that with you.” He slaps my ass playfully. “Let’s get to bed. It’s time to show you just how much I love you.”
CHAPTER32
FISHER
The click of heels against terra cotta tile echoes through the open floor plan. Sophia sweeps through, triple-checking all is in order.
It’s Monday, and Gemma and Rafael are stopping by the house. Rafael suggested we meet here instead of at the office. After our meeting, Gemma will return with Rafael to Los Angeles.
Yesterday, Sophia and I visited Ryan and Alex’s place and picked up a variety of clothes to fill our closets to ensure that to the casual observer, our closets appear full and lived in.
The precaution might be overkill, but if you have any suspicions someone is staying in a staged home, checking the closets is a smart thing to do. Luckily, our profiles are affluent individuals, recently married without children, so it’s completely believable we would live in a modern clutter-free environment.
Click. Click. Click. Click.
Constant clicks.
“Come sit,” I tell her.
The request is selfish. Her heels are sky high, and they define every muscular curve along her calves and thighs. She’s wearing a short, sparkly, purple dress that barely covers her ass and scoops down in the front, pulling the eye to the valley between her breasts. With each step, her crimson tresses, curled in loose waves, bounce and her posterior muscles flex.
Outside surveillance waits. Arrow has someone parked near the bottom of our drive, prepared to follow Rafael after he leaves. Plus, for extra safety, we have two men hidden about two hundred yards out in steep, undeveloped land. Normally, we wouldn’t take those kinds of precautions, but given it’s Sophia, and her father doesn’t give a fuck about the profitability of this operation, and he is newly engaged in this endeavor, we have backup.
It’s overkill, mainly because if Rafael decided to take us out, he wouldn’t do it himself, especially on US soil. He’d send someone else to do it. My gut tells me this house visit is part of Rafael’s system. If he hires the wrong people, money goes missing. Intelligence sources believe he’s still proving himself to his family, hoping one day to take over. What’s not clear is if he’ll follow his father in a public-facing legitimate role as a diplomat, or if he’ll follow in his uncle’s path.
Sophia places one hand on the wall, above her head. Her other hand rests on her jutted out hip. The hem of her dress lifts higher up her thigh, and she bends one long, lean, creamy leg. She’s stunning.
