Chapter 8 #2
Her bedroom had big windows, with no double glazing.
The heat had simply leaked out and it was already close to freezing.
Condensation had iced the windows over, forming giant star patterns on the pane.
Their breaths were making clouds around their heads.
Undressing Caroline slowly like he wanted to was out of the question.
He bent down and kissed her softly, reaching past her to pull down the covers. “Don’t undress, just get in.”
“Okay,” she whispered, toeing off her shoes and lying down. She scooted over, watching him. She’d left a big empty space on his side of the bed, an invitation as clear as if she’d engraved it on a card.
Jack undressed, watching her eyes. There was a little trepidation, a little shyness, but there was also welcome.
Naked to the waist, he unzipped his jeans and hooked his thumbs in the waistband. Hesitating, he finally just shucked them and the briefs off, taking socks and boots with him. Caroline’s eyes widened when she saw him.
He didn’t have to look down, he could see what condition he was in from what was in her eyes.
And he could feel how swollen he was. He was hard as a club, already weeping from the tip, the drops of moisture cool against the tip of his cock.
It was the only place where he felt cold.
The rest of him was so hot he didn’t feel the cold at all, though he was naked.
All he had to do was look at Caroline, and know that he was going to be inside her very soon, and a hot flush swept over his body.
“You’ve been thinking about this,” she said faintly, when he got into bed.
“All morning.” His weight made the bed dip and tip her towards him. Jack reached for her, rolled on top of her.
“All—” she gave a half laugh. “Even when you were fixing the boiler?”
Oh God, she felt so goddamned good, warm and soft, skin like satin. He rested his upper body on his forearms and looked down at her, smiling, as happy as he’d ever been in his life.
“Not then, no.” Down there in the basement, his only thought had been to get the damn thing up and running and get Caroline to somewhere warm. “But before. And after. And especially now.”
“Yes, I can see that.”
“Feel it.” Suddenly, Jack wanted her hands on him, like he wanted his next breath. He levered himself off her, to the side. He took her hand, soft, slender, long-fingered and curled it around his dick. “Feel me,” he whispered. “Feel how much I want you.”
Her fingers flexed under his, once, then closed around him.
He hissed as a surge of blood rushed through him, straight into his dick.
He’d pulled the covers up and tucked them around her shoulders, so Caroline couldn’t see what she was doing.
But even if she couldn’t see it, she could sure feel what she was doing to him.
Fisting her hand around him, she brought her hand down to the base, then slowly back up, smoothing a finger over the head of his cock.
One pump of her hand, and it was weeping again.
She could feel it, the little witch. The shyness was gone, and a smile of pure seduction was on her face.
She could feel everything she did to him, how his stomach muscles clenched when the back of her hand ran over them. The hand not holding his dick was on his chest, over his heart. She could feel how his breath shortened, how his heart raced.
Jack usually had a clock running in his head, and it was accurate to the minute. But now he lost all track of time in the quiet room. It was so sullen and overcast outside it was hard to tell what time of the afternoon it was, and there were no outside sounds.
There was only them, and the noises they made in the quiet room.
His rough breathing, the rustling of the sheets. The quiet slither of her clothes dropping by the side of the bed as he undressed her under the covers. The creaking of the bedsprings as he finally mounted her.
The slow ahhh sound she made as he rolled back on top of her and positioned himself, barely inside her, feeling if she was wet enough.
She was, not completely primed like he was, but wet enough.
More foreplay would have to come later, when he’d had her—oh, maybe a thousand more times and had cooled down a little.
Right now, if he waited even a second more to enter her, he’d come on her stomach, or his head would explode, so he slowly pushed his way in. Pushed his way home.
It felt like a homecoming.
There was no mistaking it—the welcome her body gave him.
Tight as she was, there was no resistance, just the wet warm sleekness of the tissues of her little sex, parting to make way for him.
He didn’t have to hold her thighs open, she’d lifted her legs herself and opened them wide, heels hugging the backs of his thighs, arms tight around his neck, arching into him.
It all felt so good he stopped when he was fully embedded in her, savoring everything about being inside her.
It was so luscious here, so warm, he never wanted to leave.
Pulling out to start thrusting seemed insane, when she was wrapped around every inch of his dick, and he’d have to give some of that up.
No.
Jack ground his cock in her, digging his toes in the mattress to give him more leverage, and rocked in her. Tiny little movements that gave him the friction he craved but didn’t require him pulling even partly out.
He circled his hips, round and round, reaching even further inside and with a small cry, arching her back so her perfect breasts were pressed even more tightly against him, she began coming.
Sharp little contractions of her sex, pulling at him, squeezing.
She came with her whole body, arms and legs tightening around him, mouth seeking his, tongue deeply in his mouth, stroking his tongue in time with her sex…
God! Without moving, just from being inside her, Jack came, in great streams of come, shaking and sweating, heart pounding, bright pinwheels of light behind his eyelids.
He couldn’t move, he could barely breathe, it was so intense, so mind-blowing.
Caroline was moaning in his mouth, arms and legs holding onto him tightly as if to keep him from leaving.
He loved it that she was holding on tightly to him, but it wasn’t necessary.
Why would he leave? Not while every cell in his body was swamped with pleasure, so acute it bordered on pain. No, leaving would be impossible.
The contractions died down, slowly. The biting, harsh, deep kisses softened, became a slow, languid meeting of lips while Caroline’s muscles relaxed, the breath leaving her on a sigh.
One last intense pulse and his climax was over, too.
Jack sprawled on her, muscles like water.
He was too heavy, he knew that, but he couldn’t have moved if someone had put a gun to his head.
His face was buried in her hair, one golden red lock tickling his nose.
It smelled of roses—that smell zinged its way to the most primitive part of his brain, the one that would always associate the smell of roses with Caroline, with sex.
He hardened inside her and she gave a shaky little laugh.
“Not yet, cowboy. I need to regain my strength.”
Jack smiled. They’d have sex again, and soon.
As far as he was concerned, they would have sex for the next thirty-six hours, stopping only to eat and shower.
But though his dick was getting harder again by the second, he didn’t move because where he was—was perfect.
The feel of her, the smell of her, above all the relaxed sense of closeness.
It was almost as good as the sex, and it was something he’d never had in his entire life.
It was the one perfect thing in his imperfect life.
New York
Waldorf Astoria
If you have enough money, you can get anything you want, even at Christmas.
Deaver took a cab to Chinatown where he bought himself an entire wardrobe from the skin out, thanks to Axel.
Two excellent faux Armani suits, a gray cashmere overcoat, two khaki pants, five white dress shirts, five flannel shirts, two sweaters, ten silk boxers, ten silk undershirts, two pairs of expensive boots and a fake Vuitton suitcase.
That was for Deaver’s new life, just as soon as he tracked that fucker Prescott down.
For what had to be done in the meantime, he bought two cheap black suits, five white drip and dry shirts, two pairs of jeans, two sweatshirts and a sixty-dollar parka. That all went into a gym bag.
He needed some walking around money. There were forty thousand dollars stashed away in a safe in his house in Monroe, but he had no idea if Prescott had alerted the local police, so that was out.
Right now, his staging base had to be here, in New York, where he could disappear while trying to find where Prescott had gone. Drawing cash from Axel’s card on an ATM was impossible without the PIN.
But he had an ATM card on an account in the Caymans he’d opened in the name of Nicholas Clancy. The money came from a very lucrative deal in military arms sold to a rebel Ossetian group and the bank catered precisely for people like him.
The bank was essentially a server in a high rise on Grand Cayman. Its customers never visited. The bank knew what it was there for and what its customers needed, so that bank gave its customers a ten thousand dollar a day limit on its ATM withdrawals.
Axel’s Platinum card was enough for a suite at the Waldorf for however long it took to formulate his plan. Platinums usually topped out at $50,000 in one month. Even a month at the Waldorf wasn’t a hardship.
Everything about the Waldorf was pure pleasure, starting from the doorman in livery handing him out of the cab.
Deaver pressed a fifty in his hand, figuring the word about big tippers would spread.
The doorman, dressed like a Ruritanian general, handed the Vuitton and the bag to a bellboy and ushered Deaver into the huge marbled lobby as if Deaver might actually have some problems walking through a door all by himself.
Damn straight. He’d been living rough and hard all his life.
Time to change all that and the Waldorf was just the place to do it, to turn his life around.
Ten very pleasant minutes later, he was being shown into his room, about three times the size of most of the quarters he’d lived in as a soldier, and about ten times the size of the trailer house he’d grown up in.
Plush carpeting, antique furniture polished to a high gloss, a big, high four poster bed, a desk, deep burgundy armchairs, a bowl of shiny fruit, a tall flower arrangement. The Sun King wouldn’t have felt out of place.
His suitcase and bag were neatly up on a foldup holder. He stepped further into the room, letting the door close behind him, breathing deeply. Christ, the place smelled rich! It smelled of lemon polish, freshly laundered bed linens, the sweet smells of the flowers.
Yes, this was a perfect place to set up headquarters to hunt Jack Prescott down and get his diamonds back.
In the luxurious shower it took him half an hour to wash Africa and the long plane trip out of his system, but he had more toiletries to do it with than he’d ever bought in his entire lifetime.
The sullen winter sky was turning dark when he emerged in jeans, sweatshirt and parka, exiting fast and hailing a cab a block down so the doorman wouldn’t link the sleek businessman who’d arrived an hour before with the ordinary man in ordinary clothes.
By the time he came back, there’d be another doorman, and then after that it wouldn’t be a problem.
Because Vince Deaver, roughneck soldier, was about to disappear forever.