feeling as he drives all the way into me, his balls slapping my ass cheeks as he buries himself completely inside.
“How does it feel, Sloan?” he murmurs, and I know he’s asking if I’m okay, but I want to tell him more than that.
“Like you’ve claimed every part of me,” I reply, meeting his gaze in the low light from outside, just reflected starlight now that the streetlights have shut off.
“Good,” he says. “Because I have. And you own me, too.”
Then he draws back, a long slow sliding sensation that sets my body on fire, and slams back into me hard enough to make me shout, which breaks the spell that paused us both. We’re on fire again, reaching for each other, my hands clawing down his back, his gripping my shoulders, my calves, holding me prisoner as he pounds into me, harder and faster, pain and pleasure blurring together. He drops one hand to press his thumb against my clit and I come screaming as he keeps going, driving deeper and deeper into me until he finally clenches and releases himself, filling my ass, groaning as he does. I grab him and pull him down onto me, holding him by the hair as I kiss him, savoring the taste of his release.
When he pulls out of me, this time he’s the one who lies down on top of me, and I cradle his head on my chest, the stubble on his cheek grazing my soft breasts as I hold him to me, and this time, I’m the one who drifts off to sleep first, content, all my earlier worries drifting away like so many clouds in a high wind.
I’m safe with him. That much I know.
Chapter Nineteen
Gage
G etting into Sloan’s apartment had been a cakewalk, but her brother Freddie’s place is proving to be the complete opposite. I spend eight hours on stakeout down the block from his place, visor down, shades on, hat sagging, my arms crossed over my chest so it looks like I’m taking a nap. The kid doesn’t budge from his computer desk for the first three hours straight. When he finally does move, it’s to the kitchen for cereal—which I figure out when he strolls back in a minute later drinking straight from the bowl, no spoon or anything in sight.
My biggest struggle is staying awake the whole time. I try everything from headphones blasting music to daydreaming about Sloan. The latter is a lot more invigorating, though it definitely means I won’t be ready to spring into action if anything ever actually happens upstairs here.
Finally, eight and a quarter hours into the stare-down, I startle out of a fantasy about how Sloan would look in a schoolgirl skirt, bent over my knee as I slap a ruler across that thick, juicy ass of hers.
For a moment, I don’t know what woke me. After years of working for Aaron, I’ve learned to set cruise control on my brain, and right now my instincts tell me to stop zoning out and pay some fucking attention to the job at hand, dumbass.
Then I pinpoint it. A car has pulled up out front of Freddie’s place, Pennsylvania plates, rust stains on the undercarriage, tinted windows.
One of Aaron’s?
No way. Even when his guys go undercover, they’d never be caught dead driving an American car, and this one’s a Ford.
I let my eyelids droop to half-mast and study the scene harder. The car definitely wasn’t there a minute ago, and yet I can’t see anyone in the driver’s seat or around the apartment. My muscles tighten, adrenaline starting to pump through my system.
There.
Across the street from Freddie’s place, crossing to a neighboring apartment complex, there’s a newcomer to the field. He’s wearing Dad jeans, flannel, and a baseball hat. Nothing too weird, except something about his gait seems off.
Most people would look at this situation and dismiss him straight off the bat. But something doesn’t sit right with me. That cruise control in my brain again, telling me I’m missing something. There’s a puzzle piece here I don’t see yet.
Like why this guy, who’s dressed so normally as to almost cross over into weird
“How does it feel, Sloan?” he murmurs, and I know he’s asking if I’m okay, but I want to tell him more than that.
“Like you’ve claimed every part of me,” I reply, meeting his gaze in the low light from outside, just reflected starlight now that the streetlights have shut off.
“Good,” he says. “Because I have. And you own me, too.”
Then he draws back, a long slow sliding sensation that sets my body on fire, and slams back into me hard enough to make me shout, which breaks the spell that paused us both. We’re on fire again, reaching for each other, my hands clawing down his back, his gripping my shoulders, my calves, holding me prisoner as he pounds into me, harder and faster, pain and pleasure blurring together. He drops one hand to press his thumb against my clit and I come screaming as he keeps going, driving deeper and deeper into me until he finally clenches and releases himself, filling my ass, groaning as he does. I grab him and pull him down onto me, holding him by the hair as I kiss him, savoring the taste of his release.
When he pulls out of me, this time he’s the one who lies down on top of me, and I cradle his head on my chest, the stubble on his cheek grazing my soft breasts as I hold him to me, and this time, I’m the one who drifts off to sleep first, content, all my earlier worries drifting away like so many clouds in a high wind.
I’m safe with him. That much I know.
Chapter Nineteen
Gage
G etting into Sloan’s apartment had been a cakewalk, but her brother Freddie’s place is proving to be the complete opposite. I spend eight hours on stakeout down the block from his place, visor down, shades on, hat sagging, my arms crossed over my chest so it looks like I’m taking a nap. The kid doesn’t budge from his computer desk for the first three hours straight. When he finally does move, it’s to the kitchen for cereal—which I figure out when he strolls back in a minute later drinking straight from the bowl, no spoon or anything in sight.
My biggest struggle is staying awake the whole time. I try everything from headphones blasting music to daydreaming about Sloan. The latter is a lot more invigorating, though it definitely means I won’t be ready to spring into action if anything ever actually happens upstairs here.
Finally, eight and a quarter hours into the stare-down, I startle out of a fantasy about how Sloan would look in a schoolgirl skirt, bent over my knee as I slap a ruler across that thick, juicy ass of hers.
For a moment, I don’t know what woke me. After years of working for Aaron, I’ve learned to set cruise control on my brain, and right now my instincts tell me to stop zoning out and pay some fucking attention to the job at hand, dumbass.
Then I pinpoint it. A car has pulled up out front of Freddie’s place, Pennsylvania plates, rust stains on the undercarriage, tinted windows.
One of Aaron’s?
No way. Even when his guys go undercover, they’d never be caught dead driving an American car, and this one’s a Ford.
I let my eyelids droop to half-mast and study the scene harder. The car definitely wasn’t there a minute ago, and yet I can’t see anyone in the driver’s seat or around the apartment. My muscles tighten, adrenaline starting to pump through my system.
There.
Across the street from Freddie’s place, crossing to a neighboring apartment complex, there’s a newcomer to the field. He’s wearing Dad jeans, flannel, and a baseball hat. Nothing too weird, except something about his gait seems off.
Most people would look at this situation and dismiss him straight off the bat. But something doesn’t sit right with me. That cruise control in my brain again, telling me I’m missing something. There’s a puzzle piece here I don’t see yet.
Like why this guy, who’s dressed so normally as to almost cross over into weird
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