He moved slowly at first, every slick retreat and warm advance strafing nerves he would swear only came alive when he was inside Sonya. She fit him like she was made for him. Every part of her enveloping and caressing and stroking every part of him.
As the tension built, their kisses turned abandoned and sloppy. She crossed her ankles above his ass and moved in counter rhythm to his pistoning hips. Ripping his mouth from hers, he gently sank his teeth into her shoulder, holding her in place, holding her against him, even as he staved off his own release. He wouldn’t go until she did.
And he knew just how to send her careening over the edge.
His slow thrusts picked up speed until they were rutting and screwing and making love so hard and so completely he would swear they were no longer part of the real world. Instead, they’d gone someplace new.
Someplace bright and shimmering.
“Angel!” She screamed his name as her body tightened. The grip of her internal muscles, the pinch of her nails into the tough flesh of his back, had his balls drawing up, his orgasm burning inside them.
One final thrust, and he was coming. Hot, heavy spurts of pleasure blew him apart and put him back together only to blow him apart again.
Miraculous. Metaphysical. Heavenly…
There were no words in the English language—in any language—that came close to capturing what it was to make love to Sonya. But he planned to spend the rest of his life doing exactly that over and over and over again…
Chapter 24
Corjova, Moldova
“Well, I’ll be dipped in shit,” Ace said after he’d quietly closed the driver’s side door on the little VW Bug. “They’re here. They’re all here.”
He turned to Rusty in the passenger seat, only to find the man’s pretty hazel eyes as wide and unblinking as Ace knew his had to be.
“They were sitting there on the table like friggin’ Christmas dinner,” Rusty whispered in disbelief.
“What?” Ozzie asked from the back seat. “The rest of the canisters? You guys found them?”
“All of ’em.” Rusty shook his head. “They’re all right here.”
After following Victor Popov to a small farm outside the tiny village of Corjova, they’d parked the car behind a stand of trees next to the tumbling waters of the Dnister River. Once the sun had set and there was no chance of skylining themselves against the horizon, and while Ozzie had waited for them back in the car, Ace and Rusty had silently slunk across the property and up to the old farmhouse.
It was a ramshackle place, badly in need of paint. The porch sagged on the western edge, and some of the clapboard siding could use the help of a few additional nails. But once they’d peeked in through the window, they’d found the interior was fully furnished, as warm and homey as one would expect a farmhouse to be.
Popov and two other men had been gathered around the kitchen table. Ace had surmised from the animated hand gestures and big smiles that they were happy with a job well done. Then, Popov had indicated the ten remaining canisters of enriched uranium lying in the middle of the table before pointing to his glowing cell phone screen and counting out some numbers on his fingers. Ace suspected he was calculating how much richer they’d be once they sold the remaining cache.
Not if we have anything to say about it, he’d thought while slowly slinking away from the kitchen window and pressing his back against the sagging siding. When he turned to Rusty, it was to find the big redhead staring at him in wide-eyed wonder. Then, with the moon bathing his face in a silvery glow, Rusty had winked.
That wink had stabbed Ace right in his heart. He’d known then and there he was in deep shit where Rusty was concerned. Despite their constant bickering—and despite his big talk about never getting involved with another man who wasn’t out—the truth was Rusty had already wormed his way under Ace’s skin and straight into that ridiculous organ beating behind his breastbone.
So it was official. When it came to men, he was Brokeback flypaper.
“We need to call Angel’s Moldovan contact.” Ozzie pulled his cell phone from his hip pocket.
“Anyone else feel uneasy giving the Moldovans the uranium?” Rusty shifted restlessly in the cramped front seat of the Bug. “Can’t help but think it’d be better if we grabbed the stuff and handed it over to our government. The devil you know and all that.”
“Angel says this guy will make sure the canisters are destroyed and removed from the black market,” Ozzie said. “I trust Angel to know his shit even if he is mysterious as fuck.”
Ace and the rest of the BKI crew were still wrapping their minds around the truth that the man they knew as Jamin “Angel” Agassi was really an Israeli Mossad agent by the name of Mark Risa who’d taken over the identity of an Iranian scientist named Majid Abass and singlehandedly stopped Iran from becoming a nuclear power.
For years they’d known Angel spent most of his time away from Black Knights Inc. headquarters in Chicago, out on missions doing God, the president of the United States, and it turned out, Boss only knew what. But it wasn’t until they’d come up with the plan to leak his identity and activities onto the dark web to lure Spider into approaching him that they’d become privy to the true scope of his operations and the confusing labyrinth of his many false identities.
Ozzie tapped a number into his phone. After Angel’s Moldovan contact picked up on the other end, he relayed the information on the whereabouts of the fissile material. There were a few “sures” and “okays” and “of courses,” and then Ozzie signed off.
“He says he’s on his way with a team.” Ozzie pocketed his phone. “But it’ll take him about half an hour to get here, so he asked if we’d stick around to make sure Popov and his jackwad buddies don’t fly the coop beforehand. Guess we’d better get comfortable, gents.”
