She laughs, a genuine kind of laugh, as she tilts her head, regarding my reflection in the grimy, cracked glass of the living room window. “I’m sure you are, but I learned long ago not to bare my soul to just anyone. It seems to make people think they’re entitled to every part of me, like I owe them everything and can keep nothing for myself.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not just anyone,” I tell her. “Besides, it’s a little late to try to keep everything under lock and key, considering what went down tonight. So how about you show me yours and I’ll show you mine?”
She turns around, eyebrow raised as she leans back against the cold glass. It’s chilly in the apartment, the heat barely working, but that doesn’t seem to bother her. Not much does.
“Go on,” she says. “You first.”
“Me first?”
She nods. “Excuse me if I don’t trust you to live up to your end of it, considering the bullshit you tried to feed me last time. So yeah, you first.”
“Fair enough.” I pause, trying to think of something to tell her, something dark enough to entice her own little demons to want to peek out and join me today. “I’ve killed people.”
“You’ve killed people.”
“Yes.”
She stares at me. Hard. She doesn’t look horrified. Hell, she kind of looks bored again. “That’s your big, dark secret? That you’re a murderer?”
I shrug a shoulder. “Not dark enough?”
“It’s plenty dark,” she says. “It’s just not exactly a secret.”
Well, damn.
“I lie, cheat, steal, rob, pillage, plunder, slaughter... seventy-five other fucking words you find in a dictionary associated with the word ‘criminal’.”
“That’s nice, that you know how one of those works,” she says. “That’s kind of vague, though.”
“You want details?”
“I want something I don’t already know.”
Pressing my hands to the windowpane on either side of her, I lean closer. Her breath hitches, her eyes fixed to mine, back flat against the glass. She’s flustered, having me so close.
“I wanted to kill your boss tonight,” I tell her. “I showed up, walked into his office, wanting to end his life, but then I saw you were working. You were on one of the screens, leading that man into the back, and just like that, I changed my mind. Because while killing him would’ve been a thrill, it wasn’t nearly as enticing as you. He lived to see another day thanks to the little hero in red fishnet thigh-highs.”
She blinks a few times. “Did he?”
“Did he what?”
“Live?”
It takes a second for me to realize she’s asking if the Russians got him after I left him alive. “I didn’t see him lying around anywhere, so I’m assuming he’s fine.”
She nods slightly, like that doesn’t surprise her. “You should’ve killed him.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because he ordered someone to kill you.”
“Did he?”
She nods again.
Huh.
Maybe I’m supposed to be worried about that, but I let out a light laugh, amused that he had the guts. If the rat bastard wanted me dead, he had ample opportunity to try it himself tonight.
“I’ll have to remember that,” I say. “Your turn, Scarlet. Tell me something I don’t know.”
“I just did.”
“Something about you.”
She hesitates.
She hesitates so long I know she’s not going to say a word.
I lean down, sliding my nose along her skin, inhaling that warm vanilla, before saying, “Come on, I showed you mine, didn’t I?”
“You don’t understand,” she whispers.
“Then make me.”
As soon as I say that, she pushes away from the glass, shoving against me, forcing me to take a step back, but I resist, refusing to move. We had a deal, goddamn it, and if she didn’t want to make it, well, then she should’ve thought about that before I told her something.
I step to the side, in front of her, when she tries to go around, blocking her path once again when she dodges the other way, pinning her there by the window.
Frustration clouds her face, and I half expect her to hit me, to swing that fist she clenches and punch me right in the jaw, but instead she comes at me, shoving against me, before thrusting up on her tiptoes. Her mouth is on mine, those red lips forceful as they kiss me hard, furiously moving, like maybe she couldn’t find the words to speak so she’s trying to steal them from me.
Figures.
Fucking thief.
A chill runs down my spine as I roughly grasp the back of her neck, holding her there, and kiss her back. My tongue slides into her mouth, meeting hers. The woman tastes as good as she smells, so fucking good that I groan. My other hand slides up beneath the edge of her white shirt, grabbing her hip, yanking her closer.
“This is how you want it?” I ask between kisses. “You’d rather fuck than talk?”
“Shut up,” she growls, making me stumble back as she shoves me toward the bedroom, dropping the bottle of liquor to the floor, discarding it, not giving a shit as it splashes out, pooling along the wood and splattering the two of us. Frenzied hands unzip my coat, tugging at it. “Just… shut up.”
I oblige—for the moment, at least—and let her push me toward the bedroom, kissing her the whole way there, even letting her tear at my clothes. Every second that passes, her frustration seems to grow, the woman close to Hulking-out and just smashing every goddamn thing. She yanks at fabric, like she thinks she’s strong enough to rip it apart, so I help her out, tossing my coat aside and breaking the kiss so I can pull my shirt off.
Her hands tremble as they fumble with my pants, like she’s nervous, or excited, or fuck, maybe both. I’m having a hard time getting a read on her, especially when I reach for her shirt and she blocks my attempt to strip her. A voice deep in the recess of my mind screams something about this is off, but that voice is snuffed out quicker than a gunshot to the temple when her hand slips into my boxers and grabs my cock.
BAM, all pussyfooting gone.
“Fuck,” I groan, my voice gritty, my eyes closing as I tilt my head back. Her hand is warm, her skin velvety soft, but her touch is firm as she strokes, hitting just the right places to set me off. Her thumb massages the sweet spot on the underside of my cock, the sensitive outer ridges of the head, right where those nerve endings are bundled.
Jesus, this woman knows her anatomy.
A+
Top marks.
Summa cum laude.
Valedictorian of her motherfucking class.
I could stand here and feel it forever, just get lost in the sensations rolling through my body, but if she’s this good at a hand job, her pussy will without a doubt blow my mind. My pants slide down my legs, dropping to my ankles, and I try to kick my boots off, but they’re not budging, and you know what?
Fuck this.
I can fuck her with my clothes on.
Grabbing her wrist, I pull her hand away before I explode already. Wouldn’t take long, that’s for sure, not with the way she’s touching me. I pull her onto her bed, damn near falling from my shackling pants, my hand still clutching her wrist. My thumb presses against her pulse point, feeling the thump-thump-thumping from her heart racing.
Twisting around, she uses her free hand to reach over to a bedside stand, yanking a drawer open to retrieve a condom. She rips the golden foil wrapper with her teeth, and I let go of her wrist, watching as she rolls the condom on me.
I don’t undress her. If she doesn’t want me to, hell, I won’t. Shoving her legs apart, I settle between them, hitching her knees up. Her thong is barely a piece of string, easy to shove aside as I reach between us, caressing her bare pussy.
Her mouth falls open, a soft sigh escaping, when I push my middle finger inside of her, pumping it in and out. My thumb roughly rubs her clit, the simple touch making her moan. It doesn’t take long until she’s soaking wet, writhing beneath me.
Grasping my cock, I rub the head along her warm pussy, stroking her clit with the tip, before lining up and pushing in. Fuck, she fits perfectly, like a leather glove. Her breath hitches, and she clutches a hold of me, wrapping her arms around me, her red-painted nails digging into the skin of my back.