Smokey

Chapter Fifteen

Dixon

It shouldn’t feel this good.

Or this right.

Until our lips touched, all I’d felt for Alexandra was a mix of pity, regret, and a whole hell of a lot of hate. It’s a mutual feeling, too; just as much as she’s enjoyed torturing me, I’ve enjoyed watching her squirm as we’ve gotten deeper into this underworld mess with Seraphina, Kyle — the man with the inexplicably boring name — and now Jeremiah Brock. Hell, making her life miserable is one of the main things keeping me going.

But this kiss complicates things.

This kiss that stretches into several more, each growing with its own momentum and the undeniable fact that neither of us can stop our wandering hands and hungry lips. Hers find my ear, nibble it, whisper into it with a heated breath.

“What the fuck are you doing, Lars?”

“Saving our lives, since you and your fucking attitude keep getting us into this shit,” I whisper into hers, drawing a moan from her as my hand cups her breast through her shirt and tweaks her nipple. My cock pulses against the confines of my jeans, while my mind races with thoughts about just how warm and tight Alexandra’s pussy is; considering how tightly wound she is, I bet it’s fucking heavenly between her legs. Though I started this kissing charade to keep us from getting killed, this thing between us now has its own momentum. I lift her and set her on the nearby bar, kiss the tender flesh of her neck, and growl, “I’ll fuck you right here, Destiny, if that’s what it takes.”

A sigh, a sensation of pressure against my back as she locks her feet behind me, and then she pulses her hips into me. There’s fire in her eyes — defiance, teasing, and white-hot rage. This is a contest between us just as much as it is a necessity to save our lives.

“Oh? Is that what you want to do? Just fuck me right here where anyone could see? And all because fucking Jeremiah Brock called you out because he saw how clear it was that you weren’t Lars fucking Buckowski? Go ahead. Fuck me right here. I fucking dare you.”

Her hips pulse again, and I moan.

There’s an arrogant smile on her face; she knows exactly what she’s doing to me, and she fucking loves it.

That fucking bitch. I’ll show her.

I pin her hands against the bartop. She twists and writhes against the wood, and I lower my face to her neck, kissing lower and lower, until my lips surround her left nipple, which is firmly raised against the fabric of her shirt. First, I kiss it, gently massaging it with my lips, my tongue, teasing it through the fabric until it’s hard as a diamond. Beneath me, she moans. “Yes. Fucking do it, Lars. I dare you, you piece of shit.”

Then I bite it. Not too hard, just enough to make her fiery eyes shoot wide and her to sit up, pressing her tits against my face while she gasps.

“Oh fuck. Fuck you, Lars, you sick bastard.”

I grind my hips against her, then force her back against the bar.

“You know, I love it so much better when you’re quiet, Destiny. Maybe I should put something in your mouth, so you shut the fuck up. Is that what you want? You want me to fuck your throat so you can’t speak?”

She runs her tongue along her lips, hate in her eyes, her voice blazing with taunt and temptation. “Do it. Give it to me. Make me gag with your cock.”

I use one hand to hold her down, while I use the other to unbutton my jeans. She grinds herself against me again, her eyes never leaving mine, daring me to make the next move. I can”t back down. It”s as if she”s thrown down the gauntlet and I”m too deep in this game of lust and animosity to retreat.

I can’t let her win. Even if it means fucking her throat.

I undo my belt and the buttons of my jeans, my hands now hold the tab of my zipper.

Her breath comes quick and shallow, a heady mix of fear and anticipation.

I lean in.

”You want this?”

Her chin tilts up, inviting, daring. ”I want you to shut me up. If you can. What’s the matter? Worried you don’t have what it takes?”

That bitch. She just doesn’t know when to give up. Now, I have to show her.

I pull my zipper down while she smirks at me. My cock throbs, a moan breaks my lips, and she smiles at me, fury, lust, and a taunting dare shining in her eyes.

Behind me, another voice tears through the heat burning between Alexandra and me.

“Do you two need a room?”

It’s Jeremiah Brock.

“Oh, fuck, you’re still here,” I say.

“Still here. I’d appreciate it if you’d put your cock away, Lars,” Jeremiah says.

“Figured you’d want to see why they call me ‘Bison,’” I answer.

“More like ‘baby goat,’ I bet,” Alexandra mutters beneath her breath. She’s trying to sound sarcastic, but her breath’s coming so quickly that, baby goat or bison, it’s clear she still wants to spend some time with it at the petting zoo.

“Listen, you’ve answered what questions I have,” Jeremiah says.

“Questions? What questions?” I say. I force myself to sound casual, almost surprised, because the last thing I want is for Jeremiah to resurrect his doubts.

“About who you are. See, there’s a rumor that Lars ‘Bison’ Buckowski gave himself that nickname out of pride over the size of his cock.” Jeremiah’s eyes flicker down from my eyes to somewhere lower on my body. I’m zipped up, but still hard. “And that his ego is not exactly out of whack with reality.”

I shoot Alexandra a look over my shoulder. See?

She snorts. “So, what now, Mr. Brock?”

“I have a job for you two, which is the reason I sought you out as soon as you arrived. It’s an important job, however, it is not an immediate need, and since what I am going to ask of you is of some vital importance, I want to keep our relationship amicable. Which means you two are welcome to make use of the guest bedroom suites on my property. There are three in the main hallway, all on the left-hand side. The master bedroom is at the end of the hall, and you are to stay out of it. Otherwise, enjoy yourselves and come find me outside when you’re ready. I’ll be among the crowd, making an appearance, since I threw this party, after all.”

Jeremiah leaves with his men.

The moment we’re alone, Alexandra slides off the bar and heads toward the door. When I don’t move, she turns and looks furiously at me over her shoulder. “Well? Are you coming? This is no time to fuck around. We need to find that flash drive.”

“I think that’s exactly why Jeremiah’s giving us this time — to fuck around.”

“You’re the worst.”

“You know I’m right.”

“You’re also a man who apparently chose his nickname based on the size of his cock.”

“When you have the size to back it up, there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“I suppose you’re right. I mean, I have no problem thinking of you as a colossal dick.”

My mouth clicks shut, and she gestures for me to follow. I walk behind her down the hallway. She breezes past the doors to the different guest suites, making right for the master bedroom. If there’s anywhere on this property where Jeremiah Brock is keeping the flash drive we need to steal, it’s in here.

We reach the master bedroom door, and she picks the lock quicker than I can blink with a set of lockpicks she slips out of somewhere deep inside her shirt; Alexandra has a knack for getting into places she isn”t supposed to be.

She pushes open the door and steps inside.

The room is a sprawling space of luxury and sin — the perfect lair for a man like Jeremiah Brock. Polished, handmade furniture, a disturbing number of velvet drapes, and a bed big enough it needs its own zip code. Alexandra”s already at the mahogany desk in the corner, sifting through papers and drawers with urgency.

“Let’s get to work. We don’t have much time before Jeremiah will come looking for us,” she says.

“Don’t have much time? What do you mean by that?”

“Clearly, despite your unfounded confidence in the size of your cock, you’re not one for endurance. You’re fast, like a delicate little gazelle, not long-lasting, like a wolf.”

“Do wolves go long distances?” I say before I even catch her insult. What the fuck does she mean by comparing my cock to a gazelle? But, by then, I’ve committed to finding out the answer.

“When roaming, they can travel all day at a trot of five miles an hour. At a sprint, they can run at a speed of thirty-five, forty miles per hour, for anywhere from six to ten miles. They’re apex predators who can not only maul their prey, but wear them down to exhaustion.”

“How the fuck do you know this stuff?”

“I don’t only listen to true crime podcasts. They’re just my favorites, because they align with my interest in figuring out the best way to kill you. But I also like podcasts about nature and how wonderful the world is. They’re good palate cleansers… for the times between when I’m thinking about murdering you.”

“Nerd.”

“Shut up and search.”

We scour the room. Not only do the answers we need depend upon finding that flash drive for Seraphina and Kyle, but our lives depend on doing it quickly, before Jeremiah Brock and his goon squad realize that Alexandra and I aren’t fucking in one of his back rooms. There might be debate between the two of us about how long we actually have, but there isn’t time for fucking around.

”Find anything yet?”

”Not yet,” I say. ”But it wouldn”t surprise me if Brock”s got a vault hidden in here.” I try one of the drawer handles on the wardrobe. It doesn’t budge. “Damn thing’s locked. Fuck it.”

”What? No wise crack about how you”ve got a tool for every lock?”

”Only the ones worth opening.”

She shakes her head, a cascade of curls brushing her shoulders as she continues her search. I hate how so many of her simple movements — the way her hair bounces, the way her eyes smile, the way the corners of her mouth raise when she laughs — have a way of freezing me in place.

We work in parallel, rifling through Brock”s possessions, but each drawer opened, each secret compartment found empty of what we need, cranks up the tension. Our movements become more frenzied, our breathing ragged. Time is growing short.

My hand brushes hers as we both reach for a leather-bound book on the desk. It’s just a glancing contact, but it ignites something powerful, sending tiny shocks up my arm. She jerks back as if burned, eyes flashing with that same fire from before.

”Watch it,” she hisses.

I snatch up the book. Inside, a chunk of the pages are cut out to form a hollow. Inside that hollow is a small wooden box held shut with a combination lock.

“This might be something.”

“Give me that.” She grabs it from my hands and works on the lock with her lockpicks. “This is one complicated lock. It might be exactly what we’re looking for. It’s going to take me a minute, though.”

“No more fucking around with your little toys, princess. We need to get the job done.” I take the box from her, and with utmost care, I drop the box to the ground and stomp on it, smashing it to pieces.

“Holy shit, you moron,” she says, but I hardly hear her as I kneel and sort through the shattered box and snatch up the flash drive. Then I gather up the pieces and put them back in the hole in the book and put it back where it belongs. The less evidence we leave behind, the better. “What if you had broken the flash drive, too?”

“That was a risk I was willing to take to get out of spending another second with you.”

“You suck,” she mutters. “If you fuck up this mission, I’ll…”

“You’ll what? You’ll do nothing, that’s what. Because we’ll both be dead, so it doesn’t fucking matter.”

The look on her face is priceless. Flash drive in hand, I head toward the door.

The sooner I can get out of here, the better.

“Wait.” Her voice brings me to a stop, and I turn. “We can’t leave looking like this.”

“You want to stop and fix your makeup?”

“We were supposed to have been fucking.”

“Not an option, no matter how much you want it, princess,” I say. It takes effort to make those words sound casual, like there isn’t a part of me, deep down — beneath the absolute hate and disdain I feel for Alexandra — that wants to make her moan my name as I fuck her like I was about to do earlier.

“Appearances matter, Dixon. I know that might be a new concept to you, seeing as how you look like a blind toddler’s Play-Doh construct, but Jeremiah Brock thinks we were back here, in one of his guest suites, fucking like rabbits on ecstasy. We need to at least look the part when we get out there and make a break for the exit, because I don’t want to die.”

I hate her tone. Hate the way she’s looking at me like I’m a fucking idiot. Hate so much that she’s right. So, I reach for my zipper, an overly smug grin on my face, and decide to see just how far she’s willing to go to in lording her rightness over me. As if she’s so fucking smart.

“Fine, if that’s the way you want it, we can make this quick. Bend over and grab your ankles.”

She rolls her eyes and then reaches into her back pocket and takes out a small tube of lipstick.

“I have a better, less-repulsive idea.”

“Which is?”

She applies the lipstick in a thick layer, enough that she bears a more-than-passing resemblance to a clown, as if she didn’t earlier.

“It’s only slightly less repulsive than actually fucking you.”

“Alexandra, you’re doing a shit job of selling me on whatever idea you’ve got cooking in your empty head.”

“Take your shirt off.”

“Not until you tell me what you’re going to do.”

“Oh, so now you’re reluctant about taking your clothes off? Wasn’t it just yesterday where you were fucking happy to strut naked around my apartment like a goddamn asshole? Take your shirt off, Dixon, and stop being a whiny baby. This is life or death.”

I comply, if only to shut her up. There’s no other reason. None. Even if her asking me to take my shirt off sends a flush of heat through my body. That heat is anger, and nothing more.

“Fine.”

“Mussing our hair up and messing up our clothes will not be enough. Bison and Destiny, they have reputations as ravenous animals. I need to leave evidence on you that suggests that maybe I…” She stops, clears her throat, and looks at me with eyes that burn with hate, with trepidation, with something else I refuse to acknowledge. “That’s why I’m putting on all this lipstick. I need to leave visible evidence, on your cheeks, your lips, your neck, your chest, that I… uh…”

Before I can tell her to go to hell, her lips are on mine.

Slow, a deep, full-bodied kiss that makes my head swim and my objections die like a sputtering engine. I forget our bickering, the mission, everything but the sensation of her body.

When she breaks the kiss, she smirks.

”That’s a start for leaving evidence,” she murmurs, stepping back and admiring her handiwork — the smear of red on my face.

”Crazy bitch,” I grunt out, though my voice is hoarse in a way that betrays the desire burning inside me.

She ignores my insult and starts working on creating similar marks down my neck, trailing a path with those traitorous lips that lead straight to damnation.

I can’t fight her.

I stand there, paralyzed, burning up inside.

Every brush of her mouth against my skin feels like both punishment and reward, and I”m suddenly fighting the urge to reverse our roles and mark her in return.

”We need to hurry,” she says suddenly, as if she hasn”t just set fire to whatever thin veneer of control I had left. “Let’s go.”

”Right.” My reply comes out more gruff than intended. Then I shake my head, my senses somewhat returning at the sight of the look of triumph on her face. This damn thing was too one-sided. I can’t let her come out ahead in this contest. “We need to even things up. All it looks like right now is that you sucked me off in the back room. Which I’m sure fits for Alexandra Reyes’s reputation, but not for Destiny. Let’s make this more believable. Give me your panties.”

“My panties? Fuck you.”

“Do you want to finish this mission, or do you want to get killed? I’ll just keep them dangling from my pocket. Anyone who sees me carrying them will know. Then I’ll give them back to you once we’re outside.”

“I’m not giving you my panties,” she says. Then she stops, worrying her lip in a way that makes me fight to suppress a groan. “But you are right. I still look damn fine, while you look like disheveled bullshit. And I sure as fuck am not letting you kiss me… So…” She stops, pulls both arms inside her shirt and working them around in some form of acrobatic voodoo. When they emerge again, she’s holding her bra in her left hand. “Here.”

“How the fuck did you do that?”

“What? Take off my own bra? How can you call yourself a biker if you don’t know how to remove a woman’s bra?”

“I hate you so much right now.”

“You can cry later. Carry my bra like a good boy and let’s go.”

She races toward the door, her ass swaying in her tight jeans, and I’m sure, her tits bouncing in a way that would make me moan if I could see them.

But I can’t, because I’m hurrying to catch up to her, while clutching her bra in my right hand in a grip that is too tight, and my eyes on her ass while a serious, life-threatening concern burns in my chest.

I run my finger along the cup of her bra, my imagination going to places I know it shouldn’t.

There’s a part of me that doesn’t hate Alexandra Reyes.

And that is an enormous problem.