The tension in my belly coils tight, a spring ready to snap. I’m close. I’m so close.
"Come for me, baby," he urges, his pace becoming a blur. "Show me how much you missed me. Give me what’s mine. Ruin me with this perfect pussy."
That’s the trigger. The thought of ruining him, of taking him apart the way he’s taking me apart. My orgasm hits me like a freight train. My body arches off the bed, a scream tearing from my throat as the waves of pleasure crash over me, drowning out the fear, the uncertainty, the plans. For a few glorious seconds, there is nothing but the perfect pleasure between us.
My muscles have a mind of their own as they clamp down on him more powerfully than I thought was possible and he chokes out a harsh groan before he loses himself to me. "Demi! Fucking hell!" He shouts my name, driving into me three, four more times, hard and deep, before emptying himself inside me with a guttural roar. We collapse together in a tangle of limbs and sweat. His weight is heavy on me, crushing me into the mattress, but I don't push him off. I hold him closer. I wrap my arms around his neck and bury my face in the crook of his shoulder, breathing in the scent of him. For the first time in six weeks, the cold is gone. The heist can wait. My White Whale can wait. Right now, I just need to burn.
Chapter 6 – Blue (February 10)
Waking up warm and wrapped in strong arms is close to heaven and my sleepy brain is all soft and telling me we could have this everyday if I want. The thought has me waking fully and panic so sharp it almost cuts races through my body. Fuck, no, just stop with that nonsense, girl. This is not that.
I stare at the high, crown-molded ceiling of the bedroom, my heart racing a frantic rhythm against my ribs. The morning sun struggles through the San Francisco fog pressing against the bay windows, illuminating the aftermath of last night. Clothes scattered like debris from a storm. The tangled sheets. The faint, musky scent of sex and sandalwood that clings to my skin. For a few hours, I let myself burn. I let Marcus do what he wanted to me, and I let the other two watch when they came in after round one, their presence a heavy, comforting weight in the room. I let myself be theirs. But now it’s morning and in the cold light of day, "theirs" feels a lot like "trapped."
I carefully slide out from under Marcus’s arm. He grumbles in his sleep, his hand grasping at the empty space where I was,but he doesn't wake. I grab his discarded t-shirt from the floor and pull it on, the fabric smelling like him, all trouble and comfort at the same time and it makes me even more pissy when I can’t help but pull the neck line up to my nose and breathe it in for another hit.
I creep out to the living area and find Andre and Damon are already up. Andre is standing by the window, staring out at the grey city street below, a mug of coffee in his hand. Damon is at the dining table, surrounded by monitors he’s set up, typing furiously.
They both look up when I enter. Damon stops typing and Andre turns from the view. Both of them look at me with a softness that makes that panic I felt earlier surge again.
"Coffee?" Andre asks, lifting a carafe. He says it so easily like it’s now our normal. Domestic. It’s so damn domestic it makes my skin itch. So I fall back into a role I perfected long ago.
"I need to go," I snap. "I have to get to work."
Damon frowns, glancing at the digital clock on his screen. "Demi, it’s 7 AM. You don't have to go back to that soul-sucking office this early. In fact, you don’t really need to go back at all if you want. We can run the con without you playing secretary."
"I’m not fucking playing." I walk over to the espresso machine and ignore the mug Andre tries to hand me. I need to make my own. I need to do something for myself. "Martha is the only invisible access point we have. If I don't show up, Gary starts asking questions. Questions lead to scrutiny. Scrutiny leads to Thorne’s security team looking too closely at my fake background check."
"We can handle Gary," Andre scoffs. He walks over, leaning against the counter, blocking my path to the sugar. "Stay here. Let us handle the logistics today. You look..." He reaches out, brushing a thumb under my eye. "You look tired, Demi."
I flinch back. "Don't."
His hand drops. The hurt flashes in his eyes, quick and sharp, before he masks it with that stoic calm.
"I’m fine," I lie, grabbing a sugar packet. "I’m going to the van to change. I can't walk into Horizon wearing..." I gesture to Marcus' t-shirt and my bare legs, "...this."
"I'll drive you," Damon offers, standing up.
"No." The word comes out too hard. I try again, softer. "No. I’ll take an Uber. I need... I just need a minute. Okay?"
I turn away from them, my gaze landing on the plush dog bed near the fireplace. Skipper is sprawled out on her back, paws in the air, snoring softly. She looks completely content. Safe and warm. If I take her with me, she’ll spend the day locked in a van in a sketchy parking structure while I play office drone. If I leave her here... she gets gourmet treats and three men who clearly dote on her.
I walk over and kneel beside the bed, stroking a finger over her soft head. She opens one sleepy eye, licks my finger, and sighs, settling back into the expensive cushion.
"You stay here, Skip," I whisper, my throat tight. "Guard the fort."
Leaving her feels like leaving a piece of my heart behind, but taking her would be selfish. And I’m a lot of things, but I’m not that.
I stand up, avoiding the guys' eyes. "Watch her for me."
"With our lives," Andre vows quietly.
I retreat to the bedroom, grabbing my clothes from the corner where I kicked them last night. Marcus is still asleep, sprawled on his stomach, the sheet pooling at his waist to reveal the dimples in his lower back. I feel a tug in my chest, a physical pull to crawl back into bed and hide in his warmth.
Weakness, I tell myself viciously.Attachment gets you distracted. Or worse, it gets you left behind.
I dress quickly, shoving my feet into sneakers, and grab my bag. I don't bother saying goodbye, I just walk out the door before I can change my mind. The Uber ride to the industrial district is a grim transition from the wealthy hills to the gritty reality I’ve been living in. The gray sky spits rain against the window, blurring the city into a watercolor of concrete and steel.
Betty is where I left her in the parking structure, tucked in the far corner, a rusty, hulking shadow. I unlock the back doors and climb inside. The air is stale and cold, a stark contrast to the climate-controlled luxury of the Airbnb. It smells like loneliness. I roll my eyes at myself at the thought. I shiver as I strip off the comfortable clothes and pull on the Martha costume. Ill-fitting grey slacks, a blouse that buttons too high and orthopedic shoes. I tuck my red hair up under the itchy brown wig, pop in the brown contacts and slide the thick, smudge-prone glasses onto my nose.
