Wicked Intentions

20

I laugh so loud, they can probably hear it downstairs in the lobby.

She tries to get out from beneath me, struggling and cursing, but it’s all part of the game. As soon as I give her my full weight and take her face in my hands, she stills, panting, glaring at me with killer intent in her eyes.

“Wrap your legs around my back,” I say, panting too, “and tell me how much you hate me while I make you come.”

Her thighs become a vise around my waist. Her eyes burn. “I do hate you.”

I flex my hips, and her lashes flutter. She whispers, “I do.”

Her breasts are smashed against my chest. Our skin is slick with sweat. We’re both breathing hard and our hearts are pounding in tandem and the electricity between us is gathering into a crackling, dangerous whirlwind, like the vortex of a tornado just before it touches the ground and destroys everything in its path.

I kiss her, biting her lips. I taste blood. Desperate for release, she sobs against my mouth. I know she can’t hold back any longer.

“Yes, Angel,” I whisper. “Now.”

Her back bows. Her neck arches. Her fingers claw into my ass.

Then, with a groan and a tremor that racks her entire body, she’s over the edge, taking me with her as her p***y throbs rhythmically around my c**k.

Fuck. f**k. f**k.

I’m aware that I’m grunting the word repeatedly, but my thoughts are incoherent. A white-hot ball of energy gathers at the base of my spine, pulsing, getting hotter and more unstable with every breath. The pleasure is almost unbearable. It’s the most exquisite sort of pain.

Then she screams my name, and I lose it. I bite her on the shoulder and come so hard, the room dims.

I collapse on top of her, take a moment to get my bearings, then strip off my pants, shoes, and the gun strapped to my ankle, and start all over again.

Rain falls steadily outside in the humid night. Crickets sing. Frogs croak. Somewhere off in the distance, a dog barks. We listen to the symphony of nature in silence as sweat cools on our skin.

I murmur into her hair, “You okay?”

Angeline is lying on top of me, using my body as a pillow, her head tucked into my neck. She sighs in contentment, nods, and burrows closer.

For the past ten minutes, I’ve been combing my fingers through her hair, stroking my hands over her skin, memorizing every curve and plane of her body that’s within reach. She’s a delicious weight: warm, soft, and feminine. I’d like to keep her like this forever.

She says sleepily, “Who knew Mr. Happy would be such an amazing hate f**k?”

I pull a face and repeat in disgust, “Mr. Happy?”

“Yeah. Because you’re such a shiny, perfect golden boy. Always smiling like you don’t have a care in the world.”

She makes me sound like a golden retriever. I don’t know whether to be amused or insulted. “Excuse me, Angel, Mr. Happy is what some guys name their d**k. And secondly, that wasn’t a hate f**k. That was…”

Before I can come up with something that can accurately describe the s****l gymnastics we just engaged in, Angeline says, “Guys have names for their d***s?”

“Of course. You don’t think we’d leave our most cherished body part anonymous, do you?”

She lifts her head and gazes at me. Her eyes are soft. “That must be an American thing,” she says, kissing my chin. “You’ve all seen too many Arnold Schwarzenegger movies.”

I stroke a lock of hair away from her cheek. “On behalf of Arnold Schwarzenegger, I’m insulted. Not once has he ever named his d**k in a movie.”

“So you’ve obviously seen them all.”

“I fail to understand the correlation between the two.”

She smiles. “That’s because you’re a man.”

“Wait. You’re telling me women don’t have names for their unmentionables?”

She laughs, shaking us and the bed. “Unmentionables? Been reading one too many Victorian romances, have we?”

I purse my lips, assuming a prim librarian’s expression. “I also enjoy needlepoint and decoupage, dearie.”

“Sure you do,” she says. “In between target practice and shopping for hotel room security devices.”

“Thought we weren’t gonna talk about work, Angel,” I murmur. When she heaves a sigh that sounds almost regretful, I add, “Unless you’re ready to tell me what you really do for a living.”

“Mon Dieu,” she mutters. “Could you please stop being so observant?”

I chuckle. “So don’t be sweet, and don’t be observant. You want a clueless asshole, that it?”

“They’re generally a lot easier to handle,” she grouses.

“But much more boring.”

“And far less dangerous.”

That gives me pause. When I speak, my voice comes out husky. “You’re not in danger from me in any way.”

She turns her face to my neck. “Silly man,” she whispers. “You’re the most dangerous thing I’ve run across in years. Maybe ever.”

Pressure swells inside my chest. A sensation of warmth spreads through my limbs. I close my eyes and smell her hair because I can, because she’s lying naked in my arms, probably more naked than she allows herself to be with anyone else.

I feel privileged. And I want more.

“So when I visit you in Paris—”

She laughs softly. “You’re unbelievably stubborn.”

“As I was saying, when I visit you in Paris, the first place I wanna take you is this bistro on Rue Vertbois that has decaying nineteenth-century décor, incredibly snobby waiters, and the most indecently huge portions that they don’t allow you to share.”

“L’Ami Louis,” says Angeline, nodding. “I love that place. The confit de canard can make you cry.”