“Now, bounty boy.” Swallowing hard, my center spot blossoms beyond any other time I can remember.
“Dammit, Dash, now.” Teetering on the edge, my wrists pull at their restraints while my head thrashes back and forth. These sensations are too much for my desperate swollen clit to endure.
Over my body in plank position, my lover pistons me with long strokes. Suddenly, he pulls out, releases the cuffs, and sets me on my hands and knees.
About to detonate, I shiver. He grasps my hips as hot liquids drip down my leg. Wetting his silky tip in my juices, he places it in position, and as I hold my breath, he plunges deep. Our cores meet, I burst apart, and stars explode behind my lids.
Shuddering, I buck, and he bangs me with a pace I can’t match. His grip tightens, as he holds me close, and blasts me to a second high.
“Ohhh.” My legs turn to jelly, and I crumple, flat on the bed.
Not done, the man turns me onto my back, throws my ankles over his shoulders, and thrusts. At my third orgasm, he coils, groans, and after joining me in bliss, collapses onto my chest.
Chapter 15
Dash
In Catania, our limo waits in front of the airport terminal. We’re driven for a couple miles on a modern expressway. Making a sharp turn, we time travel to a Medieval village built on the side of a volcano. I hold my seat as we bounce over the black stone road, barely big enough for one car, let alone two.
My father, through a friend of a friend, located a villa mid-hill, overlooking the port. He greets us at a weathered, hand-carved door, and leads us up the stairs. The view from the veranda takes my breath away. Below, terracotta roofs create a mosaic of squares and trapezoids which grow smaller until they disappear at the tropical ocean’s edge. Inside the confines of the port, ant-sized tourists pile out of a sleek, multi-level cruise ship. Overhead, white sails of ancient Gods whisk across the Mediterranean sky.
In khaki pants and a light blue polo, my dad stands in the villa’s open doorway. He studies us as we drink our espressos and directs a woman in an ivory-collared black dress to place pastries on the glass-topped iron table.
Our light meal finished, he ushers us to a windowless room with a forty-eight-inch monitor hanging on one wall. Seven Dell laptops sit powered, ready for use in front of rolling chairs.
As I sink in the soft leather seat, I enter the encoded chat and join my hackers. Slate invites Grayson Patten, an Australian named Lucky, and Suds includes Samantha.
Online introductions over, I go around the table and present the team to my father. “You’ve already met Oliver Smith.”
Dad frowns. His MI6 love-hate relationship has been rocky since his last heist, and he hasn’t done himself any favors by stealing the pink diamond.
I point to the G-man. “This is FBI Special Agent Caleb Trencher.”
After they shake hands, Slate and Landy say hi.
Brows creased, my old man sits in front of a computer, and projects a picture of a cheap credit-card sized calculator. “We don’t have much time. So, if there’s no objections, I’ll begin. Let’s start with the Russian’s smart wallet. Has anyone been able to determine what technology he’s using?”
Despairado lights up the square around his meme. “Most likely, he’d choose a bio-wallet. The device monitors his heartbeat. Should the drive ever move from his body, or were he to die, the memory chip is erased.”
Sam, in another square hisses. “How the fuck do you steal something like that?”
“You don’t. You borrow it, copy the contents, and put it back.” My father moves a specification sheet in view, and everyone talks at once.
When the commotion dies down, he asks, “Is the general sexually active and if so, what is his preference?”
Smith posts a picture in our chat window. “Balabanov likes escorts. Brunettes mostly. This one is his favorite.”
The resemblance to Landy is uncanny. She could be her kid sister. The others take notice, their jaws dropping open as they compare the screen to my fiancé.
“No, no, and no.” Standing, I slash my hands parallel to the tabletop.
“Not your call. Of course, I’ll do it.” The magnet sitting next to me, rises.
“Suds? Slate? She is not a CIA operative. You cannot agree to this.” My heart races. I barely got her back, and they want to put her in danger again?
Those sitting in the circle refuse to meet my gaze except for my fiancé, who scowls. “They all have more confidence in me than you.”
“They’re not in love with you. You don’t see them letting their wives volunteer, do you?” My chest tightens making it difficult to breathe. Bloody hell, I’m about to have a full-blown panic attack.
