Chapter 16 Nostradamus was a Pharmacist #3
Wes stilled. The clench of his jaw was the only sign that her words affected him. “Why do you need me to be jealous so badly? Are you trying to get a rise out of me?”
“No! I don’t need . . .”
“Fuck this,” he muttered. In two breaths, he was standing just inches in front of her. He planted both hands on the kitchen island, on either side of her hips. With a small gasp, she craned her head up to meet his gaze. His expression was pure heat, burning her alive.
“I’m only gonna say this once.” His voice was tense, strained. Like he was trying to cage something wild in him. “You understand? And then we bury it forever.”
She nodded, her head swimming.
“I’m not jealous. I’m perplexed. I’m fucking baffled. Because if I were him on that flight, and you were looking up at me with that face and those eyes and that smart little mouth and that stitched-together toughness barely masking vulnerability? You’d have left knowing a lot more than my name.”
His confession knocked Sasha silly. It wasn’t just the words, it was how he said them—gruff, vulnerable, angry.
The words poured out of Wes in a molten rush, like they’d been pent up forever, too powerful to deny one second longer.
She drank in his face—heavy-lidded bedroom eyes and a mouth she ached to taste.
“I . . . I didn’t know . . .”
“Yeah, you did. Shut up.”
Forcefully, Wes slid his hand up into her hair, grabbing a fistful and tilting her head back.
Without giving her a moment to collect herself, he crashed his lips against Sasha’s, drawing her into the hottest, rawest, most erotic kiss she’d ever had in her life.
It was obliterating. Stunned, she whimpered into his mouth—his sinful fucking mouth—lost in the dizzying power of this kiss.
And it was so delicious, she could barely kiss him back. He ravished her.
And the voltage stunned them both. Together, they toppled clumsily back against the table, Wes on top of her, his erection thumping against her cunt, only separated by a few layers of fabric—and they kissed through it all.
With a ragged groan, he gripped her hair tighter, pulling her even closer in a way that felt territorial.
Final. And she responded with a trembly swoon, going limp in his arms.
He’d kissed the truth out of her.
Roughly, he pushed up her shirt, unclipped her bra, and stared at her.
“Jesus, Sasha,” he groaned, drawing a nipple into his mouth, kneading the other with greedy fervor.
She rubbed against him, squeezing his dick through his pants.
God, he was big. He was huge. She couldn’t get to it fast enough.
Had she ever wanted anyone this nakedly, this shamelessly?
The next few seconds were a frenzy. Wes tore down her shorts; she yanked up his shirt.
Somehow, her panties went flying and landed atop her Keurig.
As he kicked off his pants, Sasha reached down into a side drawer on the island and pulled out a condom.
Too far gone to interrogate why this woman kept condoms in her kitchen, he held both of her wrists over her head, in one hand.
She was pinned beneath him. Helpless. This was exactly where he wanted her.
They were forehead to forehead, now. Chests heaving.
Breathing in sync. With the smallest smile of satisfaction, he captured her mouth with a possessive growl.
He kissed her slower, this time. Dirtier.
She moaned into his mouth as he teased her with his dick—running the tip up and down her folds, rubbing it against her clit, teasing them both until it was too much.
Till she gasped out, “please,” and he had no choice.
Wes thrust into her. Deeply. And he stayed there, slowly grinding against her. She cried out in pleasure so intense, so shocking, her brain went hazy. She tried to meet his thrust, but he held her firm.
“Sasha,” he said, calling her to attention. Grounding her.
“Yes?” she breathed out.
“That call. Did you need to hear my voice? To get off? Or did you need me to tell you to do it?”
Her eyes flew open. And then, still impossibly deep inside her, Wes slid his free hand down between them, lazily stroking her clit with his thumb. Pleasure surged so fast, it was scary.
“I don’t kn-know what you’re talking about.”
“You want me to spell it out?” Wes’s mouth was at her ear, his voice sounding as tortured as she felt. “’Cause I could talk about how I heard your breathing change. How you moaned. I could hear you, Sasha. Did you think I couldn’t?”
So he knew. He really did know.
“Answer me,” he ordered, stroking her clit faster.
She moaned, trembling uncontrollably now, and he held her wrists tighter.
Teasingly, he ran his tongue along her bottom lip, then nipped it.
His mouth was so delicious. His thumb was torturing her.
She was desperate for friction, dying for him to fuck her.
“I don’t know why I called,” she cried out. “I just needed you.”
“Say it again.”
“I needed you.”
“To do what?”
He pulled out then, leaving her desperate, gasping, wanting. Jesus.
“I needed you to make me come. Wes, please . . .”
“Fucking say it again.”
“I needed you to make me come.”
“Good. Remember it.”
And then, he slammed into her. Over and over, he fucked her like this, deep and steady and hard, through an orgasm that left her in pieces. And when he followed, seconds later, he buried his face in her hair, groaning out a curse, reveling in this feeling, this woman. On stolen time.
When it was over, he carefully unwrapped her legs from his hips and pulled up his trousers, backing away from the island. The room, suddenly, went cold. Struggling to catch her breath, she propped herself on her elbows.
“I need to tell you why I’m here.” His voice was unsteady, gruff.
“What?” she panted, confused.
“I know his name.”
She was too fucked-out to think. “Whose name?”
He handed her a piece of paper, on official Dane & Son Detective Agency letterhead. On it, he’d scrawled a name in black ink:
Teo D. Scera
She lay there, sprawled on her kitchen island, puffy-lipped and trembling. Her mouth felt bruised, her pussy was throbbing—her whole body was on fire from his hands, his mouth, his dick. But another man’s name was clenched in her fist. Seat F. Stunned, she looked up at Wes.
“Happy to be of service,” he said in an emotionless tone.
And then he left.