Her beg completely undid me.
Stroking her slippery wetness, I never stopped coaxing her orgasm, massaging her clit, and playing her body to the music I so badly needed.
“I … I need you inside me, Kill.”
Kill.
All this time she’d called me Arthur—ever since I stopped being an asshole and finally believed the truth, of course. I couldn’t lie that having her call me Kill turned me the fuck on.
I didn’t say a word as she grabbed the waistband of my boxers and jeans and pushed them to mid-thigh. Her eyes opened, blazing with forest fires. “I’m begging you. I need you inside me.”
I gritted my teeth as she rode my hand. “If I take you, I won’t last long.”
“I don’t care. I just need you.” Wrapping her legs around my thighs, she slid closer. Her hand latched around my length as she leaned forward, pressing her forehead against my chest.
Withdrawing my fingers, I shoved her top up, rolling the weight of her breasts as they swung like sinful pendulums.
Does she have any idea the effect she has on me? Her commanding presence, her effortless grace and courage? It utterly fucking destroyed me.
Bending my knees, I allowed her to guide my cock to nudge against her entrance. We both stopped breathing as the tip of me slid into her wetness. Her eyes fought to close but we never looked away as her body slowly welcomed me.
We quivered as inch by inch her body melted with pleasure. She was born for me. This perfect fucking woman was born for me.
My Sagittarius.
Her Libran.
“I love you,” she whispered as I sheathed to the root inside her.
My heartbeat exceeded all rhythm. My head throbbed in perfect harmony but all I could think about was the joyous feeling of home.
I groaned as she leaned back on her elbows, giving herself up to me like a brilliant sacrifice. The view of her—with her T-shirt pushed up, her legs spread, and me deep inside her—almost sent my vision skittering into the void again.
Her fingers darted between her folds, and, locking eyes with mine, she rubbed her clit. “I’m so close. So close. Don’t hold back.”
A growl echoed in my chest. Watching her touch herself threatened to shove me over the edge without moving.
My head bellowed but I slammed my hands on the table for an anchor and thrust.
She cried out, her fingers working faster as I drove again and again.
There was no ease into this. No tease.
I went from stationary to fucking.
The tightening of my balls built exceedingly fast. The heavy swing of them heightened to tingling pleasure as I rode Cleo hard.
“I love fucking you,” I growled. “I love knowing you’re mine.”
She tensed, her cheeks flushed. “God … I adore it when you talk dirty.”
I chuckled, thrusting deeper, harder, quicker. “Oh, yeah? I can say much filthier things.”
Her cheeks pinked, her lips damp and skin glowing. “Oh, really?” The glint in her eyes urged me on. “Like what?”
I searched my broken brain for something dirty but the damn headache tarnished everything.
“I love how you make small noises when I’m inside you but they act like fucking cannons in my chest.” I thrust again, staying in the moment and not thinking about the overwhelming pressure in my skull.
Fuck, everything was an effort. My tongue was fuzzy and twisted. Consonants and adjectives played hide-and-seek in my despairing grey matter.
“I love your pussy. I love the size of your tits. And I love your scars.”
She twitched. “My scars?”
My hips never stopped rocking as I traced her burns, feeling the strange ridges and smoothness of skin that’d been through so much. “I love them because it shows how strong you are. That you’re a survivor. That you’re so fucking brave. And pure. And sexy. And mine. All fucking mine.”
My hips quickened. My balls ready to spurt and mark.
My touch went to her tattoo; my voice dropped to stone and smoke. “I love your ink. I love the tale you painted. I love that your heart never forgot me, no matter that your mind tried to hide.”
“Never.” Her backed bowed, forcing the colorful patterns deeper into my palm. “I could never forget you.” Her fingers worked harder on her clit, her breathing tattered. “God, don’t stop. Don’t stop.”
I was past the point of stopping.
We both were.
The table creaked and the legs scraped against the wooden floor but nothing else mattered.
Dragging her upright, I cushioned her back as I brought her face to mine.
I kissed her. Hard. Our tongues linked, our breathing synced and it was just us—just this.
I couldn’t hold off any longer. I needed to come. I needed to fill this woman. Her body arched in a shameless silent plea.
Her body turned from liquid to lava as her release detonated around me.
“Oh, shit!” Her curse flowed onto my tongue.
Waves of her inner muscles gave me nowhere to hide as my orgasm shot into existence. Shit, shit. Don’t pass out.
The pain was agonizing, threatening to split open my head with pressure.
I groaned as Cleo massaged the back of my neck—almost as if she understood my torture.
I gave in to her magic.
I let go.
Exquisite agony shot up my cock and splashed inside her. My thrusts became erratic, driving into her slick pussy, plunging over and over again.
Her stomach tensed. Her lips devoured. Her legs spasmed around me.
We came together.
We finished together.
My orgasm bulldozed through my headaches and bruises, turning me boneless.
We didn’t move.
Shit, I couldn’t move.
I would’ve stayed forever in her embrace, glued together with sticky pleasure and concreted with love. But my phone rang, vibrating against the back of my knee still in my jeans pocket.
Cleo laughed softly. “Thank goodness whoever that is had the decency to wait and not interrupt.” Reclining on the table, she smiled. “I don’t think I could’ve stomached two instances where you stopped midway.”
I winced. “When will you let me live that down?”
She smiled. “Never.”
The lull of serenity and pleasure made my pain fade considerably. Fisting the base of my cock, I pulled out from her and ducked to pull up my boxers and trousers. “I didn’t want to stop. I passed out. There’s a difference.”
The phone rang louder, shrill and piercing.
“Are you going to answer that?”
“Probably not.” Scooping the peace-ruining device from my pocket, I looked at the screen.
Shit.
“On second thought, I have to.”
Cleo narrowed her eyes as I patted her knee and moved away, trying awkwardly to do up my jeans with one hand.
“Kill speaking.”
“Mr. Killian. We have a Mr. Cyrus Conners on the line. Do you accept the charges from Florida State?”
I flicked a look at Cleo. I didn’t really want her to overhear, but there was nothing I could do. “Yes. I accept.”
The god-awful hold music assaulted my eardrum as I waited. I’d called Wallstreet yesterday to tell him the new timeline of our plan. I’d been expecting his call—just not straight after having fucking sex.
“Kill, my boy.”
The old-world charm and perfect pronunciation of Wallstreet’s voice trickled down the phone.
“How’s it going in there?” Continuing to pace around the meeting room, I gave up trying to secure my pants and focused on the conversation. “You hear any more about your parole hearing?”
Cleo jumped off the table and shimmied back into her jeans.
“Yes, as a matter of fact. Some good news on that front. The appeal went well. I’ve been told a positive verdict might be forthcoming. However, I could be waiting months for their conclusions, so I wo
n’t be ordering balloons or fireworks just yet.”
I chuckled. “Well, you’ve served enough. Time to get you home.” Along with vengeance, our long-term plan would also benefit Wallstreet and every other man and woman who’d made a mistake and paid—the reformed criminals, the forgotten soldiers, the rebels of society, right down to the hardworking poor and middle-class citizens who had no skeletons in their pasts, only the bad luck to be born into a system that sucked them fucking dry.
The way this country—this world—was run made me bloody rage.
That was what his letter was about.
It would be fitting if he was freed in time to help me finish—to stand before everyone and announce that there was another way than the one we’d been spoon-fed by dirty politicians.
“Grasshopper informed me that you have a meeting with Mr. Samson in a few days.”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve dealt with Dagger Rose?”
I rubbed at the slight scruff on my chin. “Not exactly dealt with. But soon. The fuckers ran.”
“I know where they ran to.”
My blood frosted with retribution. “Perfect. Tell me.”
Wallstreet went silent for a moment. “Night Crusader compound. Most of the Club are holed up there, but others have split and gone alone.”
“What?! We paid them off. The whores, the cash. How fucking dare they go back on their word!”
“I know. I expect you to severely discipline them.” Wallstreet’s voice was black.
My fists clenched. Oh, they’d be severely taught—lesson after fucking lesson. Breathing hard, I flinched against the pressure in my head. “Do I need to worry about the others?”
“No.”
I spun to face Cleo, sensing her presence behind me. A hesitant smile flickered across her lips, her eyes full of concern from my outburst.
Looking away, I calmed down. “Look, I’ve got everything under control. I’ll give you an update when I’ve seen Samson.”
“I have no doubt you’ll pull it off effortlessly, Kill. You always do.”
Cleo came closer.
I wrapped my fingers around her wrist, pulling her against me. She snuggled into my chest, her warm body acting like a painkiller for my head, calming my temper at yet another fucking betrayal.
“Grasshopper also told me about the concussion. Has it affected your trades?”
Shit. He always knew. I could never keep anything from him.
Grasshopper’s information highway.
Squeezing my eyes, I mumbled, “It’s getting better. Every day, it’s easing.”
Bullshit.
Cleo squeezed me, her small inhale echoing with relief.
“Well, keep an eye on it. That brain of yours is too precious to risk.”
Temper swarmed and I clutched the phone harder. “Anything else? I have to go.” I released Cleo, moving away. “Club’s having a get-together tonight. We’re late.”
Wallstreet cleared his throat. “Nope, nothing else. I’ll keep you informed if I get the good news I’m hoping for. And I’ll look forward to your call about Samson.”
I nodded. “Will do.”
“Oh, one other thing. Tell Cleo I look forward to meeting her again soon. You’ve chosen a fascinating woman, Kill.”
My spine shot straight. “What do you mean?”
Wallstreet laughed. “Nothing, my boy. Only that I want to get to know her better. After all, she’s now in equal command in my Club. Bring her to see me again soon.”
I gritted my teeth. As much as I loved Wallstreet and as much as I adored Cleo, having them as anything more than long-distance acquaintances wasn’t a good idea.
“Sure, will do.” Before he could say anything else, I hung up.
“Everything okay?” Cleo asked, dragging the tip of her finger along the grooves of the tabletop.
“Yes, fine.”
Her eyes lingered on my phone as I strummed the keypad. A thought shadowed her face like a passing cloud before dispersing with a gust of wind.
“You all right?” I moved forward, pinching her chin with my thumb and forefinger, forcing her to look at me.
She smiled. “Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
The thought might’ve disappeared from her face, but it lingered in her eyes. “What is it?”
She dropped her gaze to the phone again. “It’s nothing … silly really.”
“Nothing you want or need is silly, Buttercup. Tell me and I’ll make sure you get it—whatever it is.”
She sighed. Gathering her hair into a twist, she draped it over her shoulder. The stalling didn’t calm my nerves, but I let her decide when to tell me.
“I miss her,” she suddenly blurted.
“Miss who?”
“Corrine.”
When I stared blankly, her lips quirked. “My foster sister. I didn’t even say goodbye to her properly when I came here. Rubix’s letter sort of wrenched me from my simple world and didn’t give me time to decide if I should cut ties or just treat it as a vacation.”
Without a word, I placed the phone on the table and nudged it toward her. “Call her.”
Her eyes popped wide. “Really?” She looked at me with such gratefulness, such love, that a fucking sledgehammer mangled my heart. Is that how she thought of me? That she was still my captive? Cut off from the people who’d taken her in and kept her safe when I couldn’t?
Taking her hand, I grabbed the phone and placed it into her palm. Curling her fingers over the device, I smiled. “Call her. I’ll be outside with the others.” I kissed the tip of her nose. “Take all the time you need. I’ll be waiting.”
With one last kiss, I left.
Chapter Nineteen
Cleo
Arthur said he wasn’t a romantic.
I told him he was a liar.
Last week, I’d found daisies stuffed into my sneakers when I went to put them on. They’d been where they always were—haphazardly kicked off and abandoned on the porch, but they’d transformed from shoes to vases.
Yesterday, I’d found a little note stuck in my window frame. It was soggy and smeared from the recent rain shower but I could still make out his neat penmanship. All it’d said was, “As You Wish,” but being that it meant “I love you” from my favorite movie … my heart almost burst.
And tonight, he’d given me a ring. A mood ring with a Sagittarius archer guarding the stone. It was a gimmick. A child’s toy. But to me it was so much more. —Cleo, diary entry, age fourteen
“Hello?” a sleepy voice crackled in my ear.
The moment Corrine’s feminine, flirty tone came through the phone, I wanted to laugh, cry, and spew out every single wondrous and horrendous thing that’d happened since we’d last been together.
So much to say.
So much I couldn’t say.
I’d stared at the phone for minutes before deciding to call her. Arthur didn’t know the gift he gave when he left.
He’s so good to me.
“Corrine.”
A shocked pause, followed by a squeal. “Sarah?”
The name felt wrong—like a pair of shoes I’d been trying to wear in but never could. Sarah pinched and confined, whereas Cleo was comfort and home. No, wrong name. “Yes, it’s me.”
Rustling filled the line before a short curse was uttered. “Shit, what time is it there?”
I slapped my forehead. Of course, time zones. “Crap, I’m so sorry. Did I wake you? It’s only early evening here.”
“You did, but only ’cause I pulled an all-nighter last night with a kitty who wasn’t doing so well giving birth. I crashed when I came home.”
Instantly, my mind filled with sterile surfaces of the veterinary clinic we both worked at. The stench of antiseptic and wicked glint of scalpels. My heart warmed to think of the timid licks from animals thanking us for saving their lives, or the terrified yips of those who didn’t understand we were on their side and not to be feared.
I missed that voc
ation. I missed the rush of cheating disease. I even missed the crazy owners who provided endless entertainment.
“How many?”
“Eight babies, can you believe. Poor thing didn’t make it, but we did manage to save six of the kittens, so it wasn’t as tragic as it could’ve been.”
I looked at a chair, debating if I should sit or pace. The amount of nervous energy sparking through me preferred to walk.
Patrolling around the room, I asked, “How are you? Did you find the rent money I left for my share of the studio?”
Corrine snorted. “I found it, but I didn’t use it. This place was too small for the two of us anyway. I can more than cover it.” Her tone was reserved but warmed. “Plus, Nick has been staying over a lot, so in a way, you did me a favor.”
I smiled. “I’m glad things are working out with you two.”
“What about you, hairball? Did you find that guy who wrote you the letter?”
My old nickname—earned from being vomited on by a cat with a wicked case of undigested hair—made me laugh. The happiness didn’t last, however, as my thoughts turned instantly to Rubix and what’d happened at his hands. “I found him,” I hedged.
“Uh-oh, that doesn’t sound good. You okay? Need me to call Scotland Yard or MI6? How about James Bond?”
I giggled. “No, I’m safe. It was just a bit scary to begin with.”
“He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
I swallowed. How much could I tell her and how much was appropriate on a phone call? Not to mention the cost of the international call and the fact Arthur was patiently waiting for me.
“Believe me, I have so much to tell you but now is not the time.”
“Well … why bother calling me, then, spoilsport?”
I laughed. “Because I couldn’t let you worry about me. I owed you that.”
Corrine snorted again. “As if I was worried about you. Why would I worry about the girl who sat through weeks of tattooing without a single tear? You’re like She-Woman, or one of those Viking people who don’t feel pain.” Another rustle of what I assumed were bedclothes. “So … tell me the most important part.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“Did you find your hero with green eyes?”
Her question transported me back to the movies we’d watch together, always grumbling over swoon-worthy heroes who had blue or brown eyes but never green. My heart twisted with love as I thought about Arthur.