Chapter 8
Ethan
I couldn’t get enough.
I kissed her. Again. Held her round ass in my hands and marched her into the living room.
Dropped her back onto the couch so I could unbutton that fucking shirt, kiss my way down her body to the hot, wet pussy I knew would be waiting for me.
Fuck her with my tongue before I pushed my hard length inside her. Again.
My dick was sore. Old boy hadn’t seen this much action in…ever. But he rose to the occasion. One taste of Lyra and he was hard and heavy.
She was a craving. Obsession. If she was within a few feet of me, I had to touch her. Hold her. Feel her soft skin. Smell her hair.
I lowered my head and kissed, licked and tasted my way from her lips to her core.
Breathed in deep. Wanted her inside me. In my lungs.
On my tongue. I was losing my fucking mind over a woman.
That’s what was happening. I’d laughed at fools who became so obsessed—so pussy-whipped—over a woman that they couldn’t think about anything else.
I’d always believed they were idiots with little to no self-control.
I flipped her over, bent her over the couch and pushed the head of my dick inside her swollen folds from behind. We both moaned.
Who was the idiot now? The mindless fool with no self-control? The man in his mid-thirties, being led around by his dick, acting like he’d never had sex before? The detective who should be working, solving a case, tracking down the three alien thugs who’d murdered an old friend?
She shifted, pushed her round ass into me so her hot sheath closed over me like a fist. Tighter. Deeper.
I leaned over and buried my nose in her long hair.
Dragged her scent into my lungs as I held myself still so I wouldn’t blow my wad early.
If I moved, I was finished. Even after hours of sex, no sleep and being shot.
I should be starving, but the only thing I wanted in my mouth was her slick, wet heat.
Her nipples. Her skin. Her lips and tongue. I was only hungry for her.
How the hell was I going to work when all I could think about was… this. Her. Fucking her. Filling her up. Making her shiver and whimper and beg for more.
There was nothing normal about my reaction.
Logically, I knew it. Didn’t mean I could do one god damn thing about it.
Nor did I want to, not when she felt this good with her hot, wet pussy wrapped like a fist around my sensitive dick.
The sounds she made were going to be my end.
God, the fucking whimpers and soft, feminine moans that left her throat.
The way her lips parted when she gasped, when I stretched her open. Pushed balls deep.
I never once wondered if I was pushing her too far, asking for too much. Every time she was right there with me, losing her mind, coming all over my fingers or my tongue or my dick, begging for more.
She was insatiable. Needy. Sensual. So soft and responsive and wild. She didn’t play games, didn’t make me guess what she needed. She told me. Showed me. Begged me.
“I need—” She stopped talking when I grabbed both her breasts and squeezed, gently pinched the taut peaks.
“Tell me.” I whispered the command in her ear. The walls of her pussy quivered around my hard length.
“Cuffs. My arms.” As she spoke, she ran her hands up and down the couch cushions as if unsure where to put her hands. Unable to be still.
I didn’t have my handcuffs. Damn. They were in the other room.
But I could give her what she needed. I released her breasts and grabbed one wrist in each hand before bringing them together over her head.
My grip was large enough to hold both of her wrists in one hand, so I did.
Gently, slowly, I pulled her chest off the couch until her back was pressed against my chest. I moved her arms up and backward, bent over her head until her hands were buried in my hair.
Her spine arched, her breasts thrust forward, and her hot pussy settled over me, took every inch.
Perfect. I had a free hand and my woman’s body spread out in front of me like an instrument I would never get tired of playing.
I held her arms locked over her head and fucked her from behind.
Played with her breasts. Squeezed her nipples, just hard enough to make her moan.
When she was panting, shaking, begging, I rubbed her clit with my free hand and increased my pace.
Fucked her just a little faster. Harder.
Kept pumping into her wet heat until she went rigid, then soft, her keening cries like a jolt of electricity straight to my balls.
My release was like fire and ice in my veins.
Powerful. Consuming. Nothing existed but her skin on mine.
Her wet pussy wrapped around me. The sounds leaving her throat as I made her come.
It was like being in an alternate reality, another universe, a world where all the bad shit that had happened in my life didn’t exist.
Only she existed. And pleasure. Satisfaction that I was the one making her fall apart. I was the man making her gasp and sigh and whimper. She gave herself to me, no one else. Surrendered to me. Let me inside her body to become part of her.
When I was inside her, I wasn’t alone.
She made me feel whole.
My orgasm was pleasure and pain in one. Body? Pure pleasure.
Mind?
Fuck the mind. All that asshole wanted was to ruin everything with rules, doubt, and guilt.
God damn mind wondering what the hell I was doing having sex with a total stranger instead of doing my job tracking down the thugs who murdered Doc Pearson.
Why was I fucking a CIA officer who was probably a liar, a decoy, or a honeypot designed to seduce me?
If that was the case, she was fucking brilliant at her job. I was cooked. Had no will to resist as my balls tightened up and squeezed, filled her with my cum, my mark, my claim. A primitive part of me wanted to pound my chest and decree to the world that she was mine. Real caveman shit.
Except she wasn’t. I knew that. Understood. Tried to accept the reality of our situation. My body, however, just wanted more.
And my heart? Fuck him. I wasn’t talking to him about her.
Not yet. My heart was beat to hell and not into games, not even when the games felt this good.
We’d made an agreement a long fucking time ago never to fall in love with a woman who could leave us or be murdered by the kinds of assholes I hunted.
Falling in love wasn’t in the cards for me.
Lyra leaned her head back on my shoulder and went limp in my arms. Let me hold her. No words. No demands. Just silence and acceptance.
Liar, my heart whispered. It’s too late.
No. I’d known her less than a day.
Doesn’t matter. It’s done. We’re fucked.
Well, shit. Didn’t mean I was going to act on my feelings. There was nothing to be done but enjoy the time I would have with her and then let her go.
I released her wrists. She lowered them and wrapped her arms around mine, holding my forearms against her body, just below her breasts so I couldn’t pull back, my hard length still inside her.
I wondered if my cum was dripping onto Clyde and Melissa Hanover’s carpeting. If it ran down the inside of Lyra’s thighs. If her skin would smell like me tomorrow. The next day. A week from now.
Caveman mentality took over, and I realized I wanted her to smell like me for as long as possible, didn’t want her to shower.
Yeah, I told my heart. We’re fucked, old boy.
I was officially out of my mind. Over a woman.
I never wanted any woman like this. Not even my first wife, the sweet twenty-two-year-old who couldn’t handle being married to a cop.
I’d loved her, the way a young man loved, worried about making all the right gestures and saying all the right things to keep her happy. Failed. Blamed myself.
This felt different. Dangerous.
“Ethan?” Her quiet murmur made my heart skip a beat. I wanted to hear her say my name like that every hour of every day for the rest of my life.
“Yes, l—Lyra?” I’d almost said it without thinking. Love. What the fuck was I doing here? With her? A god damn CIA agent I’d only known a few hours? I had to get out of this house and away from her. Get some fucking perspective, which seemed to be impossible with my dick inside her.
“I’m tired. So tired.” Her head rolled on my shoulder, and she tucked her nose under my chin. Nuzzled me. Trusted me to take care of her. I felt like a conquering warrior king with her lips on my neck and her swollen pussy wrapped around me.
I was so fucking screwed.
“When was the last time you slept?” I didn’t know what she’d been doing for the hours or days before she walked into the morgue. Suddenly, I wanted to know everything. Every move. Every thought. Everything.
“I don’t know.” Her yawn was cute, like a kitten’s. Or I was already so in over my head with her I’d lost all contact with reality. “I took a few naps. Few days. Four I think. Lost count.”
Four days? She hadn’t truly slept in four days? How was she coherent? Speaking?
Fucking me over and over like a wild thing the last few hours?
God I was an asshole. I should have asked. To be fair, I was shot, then unconscious. She woke me up, healed me, and then crawled into my lap and kissed me like a hungry sex goddess. What mere mortal could resist her? Apparently, not me.
Not fucking me.
I lifted her in my arms and, for the second time that night, carried her upstairs.
She slept like the dead, protesting only when I left her alone in bed for a few minutes to check in with Jenkins.
I called his burner from mine, utilizing the cell phones we shouldn’t have, that we used to talk to people we shouldn’t be talking to.
I might have thought better of it, but Jenkins and I were both done with shouldn’t the day Charlene and Maddy died.