Chapter 23 #2
He seemed to know. He kissed his way down my body, his tongue tracing a path over my stomach, his hands gripping my hips, holding me still.
He settled between my thighs, and I held my breath, anticipation coiling tight in my belly.
He looked up at me, his eyes dark with intent, and then he lowered his head and buried his face in my pussy.
His tongue was a revelation. He licked me with long, slow strokes, lapping at my release, tasting me.
It was filthy and intimate and so incredibly hot I thought I might combust. He found my clit, circling it with the tip of his tongue before sucking it into his mouth.
The pleasure was sharp, almost painful, and I came with a cry, my back arching off the bed.
He didn't stop. He worked me through it, his tongue and fingers driving me higher, until I was a mindless, whimpering mess, begging him for more, for less, for something, anything. When I couldn't take it anymore, I reached down, my hands tangling in his hair, trying to pull him up.
He lifted his head, his chin glistening with my arousal, and flashed me a wicked, triumphant grin. "Oh, I appreciate your enthusiasm," he said, his voice raspy, "but it takes me a bit to come back."
I stared at him, my chest heaving, and a slow, answering grin spread across my face. "Challenge accepted."
I pushed him onto his back and straddled his thighs, taking a moment to admire the view.
He was magnificent, all lean muscle and raw masculinity, his cock resting against his stomach, not yet fully erect but thick and heavy.
I leaned down, my hair brushing against his skin, and began my own exploration.
I kissed my way across his chest, my tongue tracing the lines of his abs, my hands stroking his thighs, his hips, everywhere but where he wanted me most. I could feel his tension, his barely restrained desire, and it was a heady, powerful feeling.
I took my time, learning his body, memorizing the spots that made him gasp, the ones that made him groan.
When I finally wrapped my hand around his cock, he hissed, his hips bucking. I stroked him slowly, my thumb teasing the head, spreading the bead of pre-cum that gathered there. I leaned down and took him in my mouth, my tongue swirling around the tip. He tasted salty, clean, uniquely Flint.
It definitely took time. I worked him with my hand and my mouth, my own arousal building as I felt him grow harder, thicker, filling my fist. When he was finally fully erect, we were both panting, a frantic, desperate energy crackling between us.
"Condom," he gritted out, fumbling for the drawer in his bedside table.
I took it from him, my fingers shaking as I sheathed him. Then I was straddling him again, sinking down onto his cock in one smooth, fluid motion. We both groaned as he filled me, the sensation even more intense this time, now that the frantic edge had been replaced by a slower, deeper need.
I began to move, rocking my hips, setting a languid, teasing rhythm. He let me take the lead, his hands gripping my waist, his eyes locked on mine. I rode him, my breasts bouncing, my head thrown back, lost in the pleasure, in the power, in the sheer, unadulterated joy of finally having him.
And then there was a buzz from the building intercom. It was a sharp, insistent sound that cut through the haze of our passion. I froze, my eyes flying to Flint's.
"Don't stop," he growled, his hands tightening on my hips.
But the buzz came again, louder this time, followed in rapid succession like someone kept hitting it over and over. I hesitated, my body tensing. This was it. The real world, intruding.
Flint just grinned, a feral, predatory gleam in his eyes. He flipped us in one smooth, powerful motion, his cock never leaving my body. Suddenly, he was on top of me, his weight pinning me down, his hips driving into mine with a force that stole my breath.
The sound continued, a frantic, meaningless if jarring noise ripping through the living room.
But I didn't hear it. All I could hear was the sound of our bodies slapping together, Flint's harsh breathing in my ear, the blood roaring in my veins.
He was fucking me now, hard and fast, his thrusts deep and punishing, and I met him, my legs wrapping around his waist, my nails digging into his back, urging him on.
"Let them wait," he gritted out, his teeth nipping at my earlobe.
And I did. I let them wait. I let the whole damn world wait. Because in this bed, with this man, nothing else mattered.
There would be other jobs, other cases, other dangers. But there would only ever be one him. And one me. And finally, we were on the same page.
At some point, the irritating intercom noise stopped leaving me and Flint to just bask in the closeness.
Right here, right now, in this moment, I had no problems. None.
I was sweaty, boneless, and sprawled half across Flint with my cheek against his chest and one leg tangled between his. His breathing hadn't quite returned to normal. Neither had mine.
The sheets were a disaster.
So was my hair.
I didn't care.
Flint's fingers moved lazily against my spine, tracing patterns that didn't seem to have a purpose beyond keeping his hand on me.
That was totally fine.
I had spent the better part of the last week analyzing everything.
The Auditor.
Simon.
Guy Reardon.
Missing medical records.
Synthetic surveillance.
Elliot Brewster.
Flint.
Especially Flint.
Right now, I didn't want to analyze a damn thing.
I wanted to lie here, listen to his heartbeat beneath my ear, and pretend the rest of Chicago had ceased to exist.
The buzzer went off. Again.
Dammit.
Neither of us moved.
I lifted my head enough to look at him.
Flint stared at the ceiling.
The buzzer stopped.
“Excellent,” I murmured.
His hand resumed its slow path along my back.
I settled against him again. Thirty seconds passed. Maybe forty. The buzzer sounded again.
Flint's chest expanded beneath me with a long, aggrieved breath. “Persistent.”
“It could be important.” As much as I hated to even consider it.
“Nothing important happens before noon on Sunday.” His grumble was adorable.
“It is after noon.”
He frowned. “Then nothing important happens before Monday.”
I smiled against his skin as I tried to bury a laugh.
The buzzer stopped. Neither of us moved. Maybe whoever it was had finally taken the hint.
Flint shifted beneath me, and for one hopeful moment I thought he was planning to roll me beneath him again.
Instead, he reached down.
Right. Condom. Reality had rules.
I rolled onto my back while he dealt with it, and he leaned over long enough to press a kiss against my shoulder before getting out of bed.
The buzzer sounded once more.
Flint stopped. Slowly, he turned his head toward the bedroom door. If a glare could travel through walls, whoever stood downstairs had just been set on fire.
“Stay here.”
I raised my eyebrows.
He pointed at me.
I considered reminding him how well orders generally worked on me.
Then I glanced at the bed around me. Warm sheets. Pillows. Absolutely no serial killers, FBI agents, homicide investigations, or attorneys.
For once, staying put had some appeal. So I gave him a little salute before blowing him a kiss.
After shooting me, what some might call a suspicious look, Flint disappeared through the doorway. I could have objected to that narrow-eyed expression but he really did know me.
What I should have done was call him back. There was no rule that said we had to pay attention to the rest of the world. Frankly, whoever it was could just fuck off.
The thought was childish, irresponsible, and deeply attractive. I rolled onto my side and pulled his pillow against me. It smelled like him.
I was considering whether I could get away with another ten minutes of refusing to participate in reality when Flint's voice carried from the other room.
“Dammit.”
I pushed onto one elbow. “Flint?”
Silence.
I waited.
Then he said, “It's Brewster.”
Every pleasant, languid sensation in my body disappeared.
I sat up. “What?”
“Brewster.”
Well.
Fuck.
I dragged myself out of bed.
My legs lodged a formal complaint about the decision, which I chose to ignore as I padded into the living room.
Our clothes were everywhere.
His jeans were beside the sofa.
The shirt I’d borrowed had somehow landed near the kitchen. There was a sock beneath the coffee table. I had no idea where the other one was.
Flint stood naked at the intercom panel near the door, one hand braced against the wall beside it.
I didn't bother dressing either. Modesty seemed ridiculous at this point. Especially when I was definitely enjoying the view.
“What does he want?”
“No idea.” Flint's voice had changed.
The warm, lazy man who’d left the bed had vanished. This was the Flint who assessed exits and threats and knew exactly where every weapon in his apartment was located.
He glanced at me. His eyes traveled down. Then back up. Some of the severity cracked. “Mal.”
“Hmm?”
“Clothes.”
“He interrupted.”
“That isn't an argument.”
“It is to me.” I folded my arms and jutted out a hip.
His mouth twitched despite himself. Then the intercom sounded again and the amusement vanished.
“That was the front desk,” he said. “They finally let him up.”
“Finally?”
“He's apparently been down there for several minutes.”
That made me pause.
“Why didn't they call you?”
“They did.”
I looked toward the bedroom.
Oh. Right. We'd been busy.
Flint touched the screen beside the intercom.
The camera feed changed.
Elevator outside the apartment. The doors opened. Elliot Brewster stepped out.
For several seconds, neither Flint nor I said anything. I'd seen Brewster exhausted. Angry. Bleeding. Half-dressed—I grimaced. Professionally furious.
I'd never seen him like this. Disheveled. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows. No tie or jacket. No bad clipped to his belt. No sign of his holster. I didn’t even see a phone in his hand.
His hair looked like he'd been dragging his fingers through it, and shadows bruised the skin beneath his eyes.
He looked like absolute hell.