She slips her hand down to my cock, stroking me like some maniac wasn’t just trying to kill us.
It’s a flashbang of memory. Of how she was back when we’d make out in the club, of how she’d turn to pure molten need in my hand when I’d finger fuck her against a wall with others around us. There was a thrill in that, not only for her, but for me, because I shouldn’t have done that—not when I was on a mission.
It suddenly hits me how she writhed beneath me under that truck in Queens, her fingers trying to play me like an instrument, how she spread her legs for me in the car, moments from us being chased and shot.
I joked in my head how she got off on the thrill of danger, but I think now she really does.
What’sworse, so do I.
I want to fling that curtain open, tear down the blinds, and fuck her right here as bullets rain down around us.
To prove my point, I push a hand into her dance pants, under the edge of her leotard and stroke over the wet roughness of the tights pressed against her.
She is wearing panties, thin, so fucking thin they might as well not be there, and I rub up to her clit, circling it, drawing out her moan. Her fingers tighten on my cock and my breath hitches.
Pleasure zings through me as she squeezes my tip.
And it takes strength, real award-winning strength, not to fuck her right here and now.
This is crazy.
We are beyond fucking crazy.
I’m aware there’s something wrong with me, wanting her over stopping whoever’s trying to use us as target practice, but I really don’t care. That’s the effect she has on me.
“Christ, Molly…” I take in a sharp breath, trying to get my thoughts in order. Whoever it is can’t see in, but they can clearly pick up movement. No other bullets mean shit. I need to get us out of here. “Do you want to die?”
“Let me think,” she snaps. “Are you going to follow me into the great beyond?”
My heart lights up as I lower my head. “If it’s tasting all your sweet delights again, you better fucking believe it.”
She rolls up into me, making my fingers drag along her pussy. “Freak.”
I bite her ear and press up into her slit. “Wanton temptress.”
But I pull my hand free from her and twist out of her grip before flopping onto my back. I clamp a hand on her again because I don’t fucking trust her not to get up again.
“What did my brother say?”
“Nothing. He didn’t answer.”
I nod and feel her up, but she doesn’t have my phone or hers on her.
This place has been half set up by her Da, hence the little dancer shrine, along with some of her awards. There’s a big frilly canopy bed that set very un-princess thoughts off in me, along with an ensuite, a guest room, bathroom, and a steel door with five locks that might make the caretakers at Fort Knox drool.
Once I’m out that door, no one’s getting in. “Crawl into your bathroom. I’ll be back.”
She glares at me. “But?—”
“Do it.” I roll onto my raised arm, and with the other, take her by the throat, squeezing just enough to show I mean business. And her gaze gets fever bright.
Whatever that fever is that infects her bounces straight to me because I just want to squeeze a little tighter, drag her up, back her into the wall and kiss her, touch her, and fuck her. I want to tie her up and leave her there, stripped naked and left waiting for me. And I want to deliver a perfect flesh-searing spanking that makes her drip and quiver on the razor edge between pleasure and pain.
“Or?”
The challenge in her tone’s almost impossible to ignore.
“Or you won’t like the consequences.”
