9. Smith
Chapter 9
Smith
C alista is exactly what I thought and utterly unexpected.
I take her mouth, hard. And she gives back just as brutally. Hot and wet, her tongue spars and teases and it’s a tango of a kiss. One where we work together, stoking the fires, building and fighting for dominance. But hers is a game, a subconscious one giving me what I want and need. She fights just enough to make each slide and push of my tongue a micro victory.
She rocks against me and offers me her throat as I kiss my way down. What I want is to sink my teeth into her soft flesh, to slip a hand under her slinky skirt, and plunge into her hot pussy because I’m pretty fucking sure she’s not wearing panties.
No bra either.
I want to fuck my fingers into her beneath the dress, I want to tear it to shreds and bite down on her jugular so hard she shrieks. So hard she comes. So fucking hard that no one can be mistaken about just who she belongs to .
I want to turn her and push her into the wall, unzip her dress and fuck her from behind. I want to suck and bite and pull on those luscious tits with the nipples that always push and tease and seem to beg for my mouth.
And I want to sink teeth into the soft smoothness of her ass and send her racing off naked across the grounds so I can chase and tackle her down.
Last, I want her to fight me, to come at me with everything she is and draw blood right as I overpower her and take her hard.
My primal play kink is way stronger than any simple D/s play, stronger than sharing a woman, or anything else I can do at the clubs.
Marta was fun at this. A handful of others, too.
But right or wrong, I think Calista will blow them all out of the water.
I lick a path down her throat, then come back to her mouth and feather kisses over it, the kind of kisses that make her set free tiny moans, both of need and frustration.
She wants it rough more than she wants the sweetness of this little moment.
I lift my head as her hand comes down to cup me and her eyes widen the instant she touches.
I push her hand into me, holding it there against my hard cock.
“Is this all you’ve got?” she asks, voice a little thick and a lot bitchy.
“I can get someone else in to fuck your cunt at the same time if this doesn’t work for you.”
Somewhere in the back of my head, I know I’m playing with fire.
“No. I don’t even want you in there.”
“Really? You kissed me. You started this. Now you have to play it through.”
“I’m pretty sure there are some laws about that.”
“Do I look like a man who gives a fuck?”
She looks at me. And then very deliberately, she says, “Code.”
I release her and step back.
Riling her up and taunting her on all the levels I am isn’t really in the money-making brief of soft kidnap back to the States.
I offer her my arm. “You decided you’re my wife, Juniper. So let’s go back inside and see what the rest of the evening has to offer.”
Her eyes narrow but she loops her hand through my arm because she knows there’s nothing she can say to that.
Dancing slow with Calista was torture, she played reckless little games, plastering herself against me, rubbing against my cock.
Stupid, tiny games that will have huge repercussions for her. Very soon.
Her saving grace was the shift into young chic sophisticate, sliding easily into the role as my wife. How she arrived, even without the kiss or the dancing or innuendo that flowed, both spoken and silent between us, placed her slightly too old to be my daughter. Even my own daughter borders on the too old by virtue of when I got Sylvie pregnant. Way too young and?—
I stop, staring out the window as we’re driven back to my Charlottenburg apartment.
Calista doesn’t say a word, hasn’t since I dropped the veneer of genial rich man the minute we set foot inside the car .
Marta would have had the place searched after she left, an unspoken deal between us since I let her collect Calista.
Low-level BND search, under the ruse to see what I have, if I’m who I say I am. The details will go on, and they bore me. Nothing will have been found but clothes and the airline tickets.
By having it searched by someone I know means the other vultures—if they’re out there, circling—have had no chance to get in.
I unlock the door and Calista’s gaze sweeps the room, eyes landing on the tickets. “Someone’s been here.”
“They have.” I close the door, take off shoes and jacket, and pick up items to pack. Behind the sofa’s a suitcase. I open it on the floor and start to add some things when I go still.
It’s a soft sound, but I know what it is.
Dropping the clothes into the bag, I walk out into the living room and start to undo my tie.
She’s got the door open.
I grin.
“Step back from the fucking door, Calista.”
“You left it unlocked.” Her voice is breathy, a knot of something akin to excitement running through it.
“I know.”
Her hand tightens on the knob. “What are you going to do? Chase me down?”
I take another step. “Yes.”
And so much more.
Fuck, she’s actually vibrating, turning electric. It isn’t fear. No, it’s excitement, and it zings between us.
I know what I should do.
Grab her, haul her inside, and lock her in her room until it’s time to get out of here. I should keep my hands to myself and not ask all the internal questions bubbling up .
Or I should, on the flight to New York, question the shit out of her. Get all the information she’s piecemealed together. Find out what she knows about the Collectors and why she’s got a bug up her ass about them. See what she knows about the Bolivian connection and if Estonia has anything to do with this.
I have questions.
Normally, I wouldn’t ask.
Normally, stars don’t align.
“I don’t believe you.” There’s defiance in her tone. A dare and it hooks me deep, drawing blood, making me hard.
“You don’t think I’ll chase you down.”
She flicks a glance over her shoulder to look at me, to judge my mood and the distance and how far she can get.
It dawns on me. Calista wants to play. She wants the chase.
Because she fought hard to keep her computer and hardware with her. She won’t leave it behind.
And she doesn’t have it now as she stares me down, daring me to follow through on my threat.
Her fingers tighten, then loosen. She lets go of the knob, and then she’s out the door.
I fly after her, fingers grabbing at her wig, pulling it off. She hisses with a bite of pain and triumph, and she hits the landing… one more half flight and she’s out the door.
Which isn’t happening. I grab hold of the thick, glossy wooden balustrade and slide as I vault over it at the turn, landing in front of her.
Calista lets out a little shriek and I grab her by the waist and toss her over my shoulder. My heart thumps hard and she struggles, but I ignore her. Just like I ignore a door that opens and shuts above us, on the floor above.
She takes a breath.
“I wouldn’t,” I say, “not unless you don’t want to sit without pain for the next week.”
“You’re sick in the head. Don’t touch me.”
At my apartment, I slam the door and hit the keypad, locking us in, and then I dump her on the couch.
She scrambles back, tits heaving, one of them exposed from the struggle, and if I didn’t want her before, I sure as fuck do now.
Pale and pink with a beaded tight bud. It’s a tit men would write sonnets over, a perfect fucking breast they’d try to capture in paint and pastel.
I want to suck on it, but I do the next best thing. “Your truth’s showing. You want me to touch you. Very fucking badly.” I flick her nipple with my thumb, and she moans low.
“You’re—”
“If you’re going to call me a pervert, I can be one. Would you like that?”
I take hold of both sides of the thin silk dress and wrench it hard. It rips right down the middle and I’m greeted by perfection.
She’s sleek, long-legged, narrow-waisted, and those fucking tits are just the right side of big. Soft and plump and decadent. I shift my gaze down.
Her pussy is bare, the hair waxed away, and my dick throbs at the tiny tattoo on the left side of her pubis, a little close to her clit for my liking. It’s an electric blue, a mess of lines and shapes of a microchip’s insides.
Most women would have a fucking flower or a heart. Maybe an initial or a butterfly. If she’s really edgy, it’ll be a skull and crossbones.
Calista?
A fucking computer chip .
And it’s one phenomenal pussy. Puffy lips, clit roused—made for my mouth and cock.
I duck as she throws a punch.
Grabbing her wrist, I back her into the wall. My gaze drops to that spot on her throat, where her jugular beats hard, erratic.
I bite and suck, hard. And she cries out, a moan of need and want. When I look at her, the sweet, lightly salty taste of her moving through me, she scowls. “Fuck off.”
“Not code?”
Her neck is red, a bruise already forming, and I wait. A sullen darkness shifts over her. “I said fuck off.”
“You are fucking sweet, Calista. So fucking sweet.”
I don’t give her a chance to feel the form of her “yes” moving through me and I wrap my hand around her throat and squeeze, cutting off her air as I haul her in and kiss her slow. She struggles, whimpers, and her mouth flows open, desperately seeking my kiss.
The harder I squeeze, the softer the kiss. I’m right at the edge because when she can’t breathe, she’s so fucking giving, all the turbulent thoughts and arguments are shut down and it’s just feeling.
And when she’s just feeling, she’s almost divinity itself.
But I let her go, pushing her into the wall and she coughs, splutters, and shakes. I shove her against it, my hand now on the back of her neck as I free my aching cock.
I want to jack it, but I don’t because the ache that borders on pain needs to go without any relief as I trace a finger down her spine and gather up the remnants of her dress.
“Just so we’re clear,” she says, pushing out the words, “I don’t like you.”
“Like’s got shit to do with anything, Calista. I caught you, and now I’m going to devour you, collect on the retribution you owe.”
Slipping a finger between her thighs, I slide into her. She’s right, but so wet, her pussy’s already prepped. And her low moan is an aphrodisiac in the air.
I use that hand to pull her hips back and I push her down the wall, holding her head there so she can’t move. Then I kick apart her legs, and fuck, she’s perfection. Her wet cunt on display, a little spread from where I just invaded.
I line myself up. And wait.
Not a single fucking word from her.
Not a hint of her way out, of code .
I wait another beat.
“Your little dick stopped working?” she snarls.
And I laugh, slamming into her.
Oh fuck, she’s tight.
“Oh… oh God… Oh hell…” Her words come out with each thrust and soon she stops.
Her hands are spread on the wall, and I move mine to hook my fingers in her mouth. She tongues me and sucks at my fingers until I pull down, making her keep her mouth open, making her drool.
It’s fucking filthy hot and my balls climb, tighten, the urge to spill into her thrumming hard as I thrust deep.
I bring my other hand around to pull at her cunt lips, pressing on her clit as I make everything almost impossibly tight. Calista rubs herself against me, shoves back onto me, and she starts to shake and convulse, her pussy clenching down on me, pulling me deep.
It’s too much. That one step I can control as she milks my cock and I slam into her hard and come deep.
And when I’m done, I pull my hand from her mouth, rocking into her .
“Happy you got some?” she asks, her snark in place and it licks against me.
“You think that was the end?” I grin and thrust again because I’m still hard. “Little girl, we just got started.”