16. Calista
Chapter 16
Calista
W e didn’t stay long on the jungle floor. And I’m…
I actually don’t know what the hell I am at this moment.
But I do know some things. Like the fact that I don’t like him. That he’s my enemy, a man willing to hand me over for money, who doesn’t give a damn about what will happen to me once he turns and walks away.
But I also can’t deny I fucking love sex with him. Even thinking about it makes my stomach swoop and my toes curl.
“Shower time.”
It’s the first thing he’s said to me since he finished ravaging me in the jungle. A shudder ripples through me when I think of what things might have found us rolling around on the jungle floor, human and otherwise. I try to convince myself the shudder is one of disgust, fear, and horror.
But it isn’t.
I’m turned on.
I suck in a breath, nod, and hurry ahead of him through the clearing, snatching my arm from his hand when he grabs it .
I knew I had kinks, but that whole thing?
Jesus. It’s like I lost track of who I was for those scorching hot minutes.
With that kind of no-holds-barred sex.
The hunt. The capture. The fucking fiery passion that ensnared us both.
I turn on the water faucet and stare into the spray.
I’ve never experienced that kind of play before. The number of sexual partners I’ve had could be counted easily on two hands.
I’m about to peel off my shirt when I catch the shadow that falls across the floor.
“Can I have a little privacy?” I snap, my mouth battling against what my body screams for.
More.
Smith straightens from where he leans against the doorjamb. “After that? Sweet little thing, I’ve seen all of you; there’s nothing more for you to hide. And water’s kind of scarce here, so you’re not showering alone.”
Smith pulls off his T-shirt and I almost stagger at the bloodstains on his chest from where I cut his throat.
Where he forced me to cut him.
“I should have cut deeper.”
“I told you to try, but you were too anxious to get your tight little cunt on my dick.”
This is the real him.
The beast behind the urban sophisticate.
The predator behind the indifference and money.
He’s dangerous, and I hate that he turns me on.
He undoes his boots and kicks them off, then drops his pants. Naked. Perfection. And the cock’s as big as I remember it feeling in my hand, my mouth, and my pussy. And God help me, I want to touch .
Smith pulls off my top and bites each nipple through my bra. The bites are sharp, bloodthirsty, and they stake all kinds of claims. Then he unclips it and lets the bra drop to the tile floor.
“Take off your boots and skirt now or I’ll drag you into the water with them on. And I’m not sure you’re going to like that, because I’ll make you fucking wear them after.”
“Be still my fucking heart.”
He only smirks at that.
But I believe him and shuck the rest of my clothes off in record time. He’s already under the water, soaping up as I step into the tiny enclosure.
And cold like ice hits my skin, making me yelp.
“A wimp at heart. I’d say it’s almost endearing. Although, a little shocking.”
I grab the soap and lather up. There’s no shampoo, so I rub some in my hair, and then I snatch the washcloth from him. But he waits a second before he pushes me into the wall of the shower, soap dripping on my face in the tight cubicle.
He kisses me, a feather of warm lips on mine, and it’s so sweet it breaks a piece of me apart, deep inside. “You need to learn to pick your battles, little girl. And this isn’t one of them.”
“Everything’s a battle with you.”
“Playing, yes. Otherwise, it doesn’t have to be.” He steps back and gently takes the soap and cloth and starts to wash me, starting with my face. The water burns patches on my skin, and the rough cloth doesn’t do much to help. I must have grazed my face somehow.
Then it hits me.
From kissing him.
That’s what it is.
Whisker burn.
Oh man, I haven’t had that since I was years younger and spent hours and hours kissing my first real boyfriend, the one I lost my virginity to. Funny, I can’t conjure his face or his name now.
Smith and I… we didn’t spend hours kissing. But the kisses were fire, and they were rough and wild and—I swallow.
He doesn’t say anything, just shifts us around to run a hand through my hair, fingers against my scalp. He’s halfway through washing me before a thought attacks my brain. “Is this your fucked-up version of aftercare?”
There’s a telling beat of silence.
“It’s called a shower and saving time.”
I snatch the cloth back. “I can wash myself.”
He shrugs, turns his back, and rinses off. It’s a weirdly intimate jostling war for the cold spray as I finish up. And damn, dragging my eyes off his broad back with the tattoos and scars, the tight, hot ass of his, the huge cock that I’m a little too eager to catch a glimpse of, is harder that it should be.
Especially when he turns my way.
And I can see all of him. Scars. The tattoo. The washboard abs. That damn cock. The strong legs and kind of body most women would drool over.
Not to mention the mark on his throat that makes my heart lurch.
“I don’t know if you’re looking at me horrified you cut me or horrified you missed your chance to kill me,” he says.
“Maybe both.”
“Of course, that’s you. I can’t begin to think of a reason why you’re single.”
I push him. “And you? I’m pretty sure it’s your winning personality and warm ways that has you?—”
“Knee-deep in pussy?”
“Only knee-deep?” I say, giving him my best withering look which is hard to do naked and cold. “And I had been about to say single.”
“I’m being modest. And the women want me for my big cock.”
“It’s what you do with it.”
He grins, rubbing up against me so I’m between him and the wall and no longer cold. Just wet.
“I know, little girl.”
“You’re just a walking ego.”
“Sweet talk,” he says. “I like it.”
“I’m not…” I draw in a breath, gaze catching on his cut once more. “I really am sorry.”
He frowns, then touches it. “No, you’re not, and don’t be boring.”
“I…”
Words escape my grasp. And what the hell am I doing? Having some kind of moment with him? In a shower in Belize when he’s pretty much forcing me to go back to the States to face whatever music is coming my way? And that means no computers, no information, no finding my agent or Trenton.
People have been looking for me in Germany, threatening me. It’s why I went into hiding.
And then someone blew up a plane.
He went private over commercial, which means he’s planning to deliver me into the hands of the CIA or whoever ordered me to be picked up.
He also thinks there’s enough danger that we’re here hiding out in a tiny Central American country.
“I know you’re not telling me the truth.”
“You’re a job, nothing more. Pick you up, keep you alive. Deliver you for money. Nothing else to tell. The rest? Meaningless.”
The water from the shower patters down and cold needles hit me with the harshness of his last words. “I had threats, the vague kind. My field agent disappeared. I don’t know what’s going on. And anything with any sex traffickers is personal to me.”
With that, I jump out, grabbing the towel and drying off. I towel dry my hair, thankful that the heaviness is gone with the undercut, the ease of the style why I chose it. Wash and run and add a little product and I’ll be ready for an evening out.
Not that I do that. Haven’t in months.
The shower turns off and he swings a towel over the railing before stepping out. He pulls on a T-shirt and tucks it into another pair of cargo pants.
“Clothes for you are in the bag. Put them on and be ready.” Smith steals the towel I wrapped around my body.
“Great,” I bite out before lunging for the towel.
He holds it out of my way, eyes roaming over me, the blue burning into my skin. I hate how my nipples get instantly hard for him and my pussy throbs.
He flashes a knowing grin.
“Don’t flatter yourself. I’m cold.” But I don’t drop the towel I have in my hand for my hair, no matter how much I want to. “I’m not into you.”
“You are, Calista. The kink connection is real. You and I click. Just don’t even attempt to use it on me. I’m the wrong guy for that. I’m delivering you. End of story. Your pussy isn’t enough to make me forget the job I was hired to do. Get dressed.”
He walks out of the bathroom.
By the time I’m dressed in the black stretch pants and T-shirt, I can’t find him, not that I look hard. The mission is mostly draped in darkness; the only lights are the one in the bathroom and one near the entrance, along with a few outside that illuminate the yard .
I can see enough in the kitchen, though. Light peeks in through the window. The cupboards contain canned food and bottled water.
The fridge is empty from today—everything, including the bread—was eaten with dinner. But I’m not hungry. There’s something gnawing at me, making my insides twist and turn in on themselves.
Not wanting to steal any of the supplies, I decide to use the tap. Before I fill the glass, Smith comes inside and hands me a bottle of water from one of the cupboards.
“Seriously, put down the glass. You don’t want to drink the water without boiling it first.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Music,” he says, “to my fucking ears.” He slides a clip into his Sig and puts his phone into the bag. “C’mon, Calista.”
I sigh and follow him.
Smith grabs me and shoves me against the wall, just inside the door.
“What—?”
“Did you hear something?”
I frown. “No…”
But he holds a finger to his lips and hands me the pack. Shaking, I put it on. There’s training and there’s fieldwork, and this… something that’s changed in the air.
Then I hear it.
A low voice, probably closer to the jungle than us.
I don’t catch it, what’s said, but he leans in.
“The fucking car wasn’t there when we got back. And the men Rodriguez had here earlier don’t sneak around.”
“Then…” I stare at him, clenching my hands. “Smith, do you think your friend double-crossed us?”
“I don’t know. Everyone has a price. Or a breaking point. Or maybe this is something else. ”
His low words don’t hold accusation. They don’t have to. There’s more than enough in there. In his meaning. I’m somehow a hot commodity. After all, if he’s here to deliver me for a paycheck, it stands to reasons others might want a slice of the pie.
But others on what side?
Who else wants me outside the CIA? Outside of him?
It’s the ever-revolving question, the one with countless what-ifs and no answers I can see.
Smith might be my prison guard, but I shift, moving closer to him, closer to his heat and strength.
“What do we do?”
“They’ll probably come in through the other door, nearer where the bedrooms are. There are a couple of lights on, but mainly to see outside.”
“So we can see if someone approaches.”
“That was the idea. Like the light outside the kitchen.”
“Maybe they’re?—”
“Calista, anyone out there is considered our enemy until we know otherwise. We’re going to make a break for it. Try and reach the jungle.”
“Try?” I stop. “Because the lights work both ways.”
“They can see us like we can see them. Ready?”
I nod.
“Run.”