Bolt: Bolt Saga: Volume One Read online

  At last, with a harsh hiss, she releases me.

  At once, my knees give out.

  I plummet next to her, still gripping her head. Damn good thing because I can force her to look at me. To see the apology, too late to do any good, in my eyes.

  “I’m sorry.” I kiss her desperately, hating myself more as my dick jerks from the taste of myself on her lips. A snarl rips up my throat as I yank away. “I’m so damn sorry.”

  Her forehead crumples. “Why?”

  I struggle for the right words. Because you sucked my cock so well, I forgot my own damn name. And, oh yeah, I also forgot about the band of lunatic scientists who turned my blood into electricity a year ago, meaning I just turned you into—

  What?

  What have I done to her?

  I have no answer for that—just as I have no words for what starts to happen to the woman in my arms. Only now do I realize I’ve harbored some dark fears about what to expect if this ever happened—and the reality before me doesn’t match any of them. The lightning fire in her eyes, the ruby tint of her lips, and the sensual flare across her cheeks aren’t anywhere near the horror of a woman in the last moments of her life.

  “Emmalina,” I croak in place of kissing her again. “Emma,” I revise, daring to stroke her cheek. After the climax, my fingertips have returned to their normal color. “What can I do? How can I—”

  Her high gasp cuts me off. Her body jerks, and she falls against me. I lower to my haunches, letting her sag sideways into my arms. She slides a hand under my shirt, scoring my abdomen in time to her spasms. The second her bare ass lands atop my spent cock, she turns into a ball of sensual slithers. What the hell? Is this what death throes look like? I’ve seen a lot of shit for a guy three years shy of thirty, but a dying person isn’t one of them.

  “What can you do?” She laughs, taking me from mystified to disturbed—especially as she grinds her backside harder atop my cock. “Haven’t you already done it?”

  I rest my forehead against hers. “Fuck. I’m so—”

  “Proud of your handiwork?” She ropes both hands around my back and digs her nails into my shoulders. Her eyes dilate, the pupils huge islands in cyan seas. “Well, you should be.”

  I narrow my own gaze. “I…”

  “You want to hear me say it, Mr. Richards? Fine.” She gulps hard. “I never thought it could be like this. I never thought anything could be like this. Happy now?”

  I guess I would be—if I knew what the hell she’s talking about.

  Like a physical punch, comprehension hits.

  As soon as I shove aside my guilt long enough to look at her. Really look at her.

  The pulse in her neck, throbbing wildly. The needy huffs of her breaths. The subtle swivels of her hips…and the light dew of sweat along their inner curves.

  Holy fuck.

  My jizz isn’t killing her.

  It’s getting her off. From the inside out.

  For a second, I just stare harder. Then release a sound of such wild incredulity, it comes off as an arrogant snort.

  “Oh, aren’t you clever?” She stabs the words at me with a turned-on grin, though the look fades as more arousal jolts her.

  I preface my reply with a smirk that feels so fucking good. “Clever?” I drawl. Yeah, I’m dicking with her. Because I can. Because I’m so full of joy right now and can’t dance on the ceiling about it. I much prefer watching her pleasure from this prime seat. “Miss Crist, I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  “The hell you don’t.” She laughs until the invisible arousal stabs her again. With a fierce punch, she arches her hips higher. “Ohhh!” Her nails burrow deeper into my shoulders. I let out a dark snarl, welcoming the pain.

  “Tell me,” I order. “Don’t hold back, Velvet.” Because you just turned my hell into complete heaven. “I want to hear it all.”

  She responds with an extended cry, coinciding with her new contortion. “Lower,” she finally gasps. “It’s… It’s flowing lower.”

  “Toward your pussy?” When she nods, I dictate, “Tell me, Emma.”

  “Y-Yes. T-Toward my pussy. So hot. So intense. Shit. Shit! You bastard. You amazing, dazzling b-b-b…”

  “Yessss.” I tuck a hand under the roll of her skirt and press my fingers over her abdomen, picking up on the movement she’s describing. Her skin is hot, tingling. Her body is alive, trembling.

  “There,” she confirms, arching up toward me again. “Now there…and there. Oh, shit. It feels so—”

  “Words, Emma.” I need them. I need to know every damn detail about this. I’m a caveman who’s just discovered fire but now needs the instruction book for the blowtorch.

  “C-Can’t,” she rasps, thrashing her head against my arm. “So much. So m-m-m-m…”

  “Then you’ll show me.” I run a hand down, pushing against her inner thigh until her most wicked fruit is visible. “Yeah. Just like that.”

  She breathes harder, the coral and pink layers between her thighs like a rose in a rainstorm, fluttering as lightning strikes their core. I’ve never witnessed anything more incredible. What guy gets to see every moment of a woman’s climax from a viewpoint like this? The clenches of her ass. Her glistening pussy lips clutching around her tight dark slit. The sweet swell of her clit, all but glowing like her hottest ember.

  I lean in, gripping one hand into the valley between her torso and thigh, and spread her a little farther. I can see every shimmering drop of the cream she squeezes from her trembling core—now blended with the milk she just drank out of my cock.

  “Holy. Fuck.”

  I rasp it.

  She screams it.

  I watch, entranced, as she falls apart in my arms—again and again and again.

  And again…

  Every time more of my fluid hits her tunnel and her clit, she’s flooded with fresh ecstasy, taking her through wave after wave of wordless pleasure. Every time, I’m taken to a new high by the incredible creature in my arms. How all of this hasn’t Tasered her trust and passion is beyond my comprehension but not my gratitude. She may be the one on her fifteenth climax, but I’m the fucker celebrating the biggest win of the night. I’m holding a gorgeous woman in my arms, watching her lose her shit because of me. I’m mindless, weightless, infinite… A feeling I never dreamed I’d know again. A nirvana I’d written off a long damn time ago.

  But now isn’t the time for that morose mental path.

  Now is about a lightning strike named Emmalina Crist and learning more ways to make her feel good. After what I’ve just witnessed, I’m not exactly sure how that miracle will be accomplished but am open to exploring the possibilities.

  Wait a second. Open? No. Open is for trying new food or looking at a new avenue of auxiliary revenue for the hotel. I’m not open.

  I’m obsessed.

  I follow the path of her sated sighs, soon learning she likes circling caresses along the length of her arm. Her groans deepen as I curl my other hand to comb her brilliant blond hair.

  After a few minutes filled with nothing but her soft groans, she murmurs, “Mmmm. That feels so good.”

  I lean over and kiss her forehead. It feels so good, so right. I do it again. Then question myself. Was that right? I’ve never been a postcoital cuddle muffin or whatever the fuck they call it. It’s always been easier to live up to the infamy of my media nicknames, all serving as convenient red carpets to roll out before ushering my bedmates right out the door.

  But the carpets are still rolled up. The excuses, all gone. No. They’ve been blasted into obliteration—though not by the force of the lightning in my veins. They’ve been turned to dust by the woman in my arms. By her artless passion, her captivating honesty… This astounding blend of her and me for which the word chemistry feels like a goddamned insult.

  She feels right.

  Better than right.

  She feels fucking great.

  And no way in hell do I want her anywhere near the door.

&nbs
p; Which is why I inhale with determined meaning and answer her with what sounds like sappy pillow talk, but for once I truly mean it. “A lot more where that came from, Bunny.”

  She snaps open her eyes, and a giggle spills off her delectable lips. “Now I know I must be dreaming.”

  I frown. “Why?”

  “Because the mighty and mysterious Reece Richards just called me Bunny—after getting me off so many times, I lost count.”

  I quirk my lips. “So, I assume it’s a good dream?”

  She smacks at my chest before sighing again. That sound. If Guinevere and Cleopatra sighed like that, no wonder Lancelot and Mark Antony went willingly to their ruin. “Hmmm. If you must know…”

  “Yeah.” I kiss her forehead. “I must.”

  “It was very good.” She curls closer, looking languid and gorgeous. “I just don’t want to wake up.”

  “Then don’t.”

  “Not an option.” Her forehead furrows. “I mean, with all due respect, Mr.—ermmm…”

  I’d laugh if her uncertainty wasn’t so damn palpable. “Why don’t you just call me Reece?”

  She blinks. Then again. Clearly she’s wondering if this is the point where she wakes up from her dream. Her quixotic smile returns once I dip down and take her lips in a lingering kiss. Damn. She still tastes like passion, mixed with a lot of silken woman. I want to sample her deeper, so I do. Once the soft, slow tangle of our tongues comes to a reluctant end, I realize my face is tight with confusion. I’m nearly thirty years old and only now I am experiencing the best kiss of my life. Some worldly golden boy.

  “Hey.” Her gentle prompt breaks me out of my funk. “Are you okay?”

  I twist a sarcastic smirk. “Isn’t that my line?”

  Her look mimics mine, only she’s a lot more adorable. Her champagne-colored lips mellow into a soft pout as I finger-comb her hair again. The stuff is incredible. I’m fascinated by the strands of gossamer, which glow even without the help of my penlight fingers. I could run my touch through them all night.

  Her sleepy grumble tells me I might have the chance.

  “Reece?”

  I grunt in approval. That’s so much better than Mr. Richards. “Hmmm?”

  “You need to stop that.”

  “Stop what?” It’s tinged with a tease.

  “That.” She tries to bat my hand away. “I have to get up. I have to…go back.”

  “Back where?”

  “Work.” She whimpers, attempting another drowsy protest. “The… The work people. They’ll be—”

  “Fine.” I massage her scalp deeper. “They’ll be just fine without you for a while, Emmalina.”

  “Ohhhh.” Yeah, she really likes the head rubs. “You’re not playing fair.”

  “Of course I am,” I press my lips to her forehead. “I’m just better at the game than you, sweetheart.”

  “But this has nothing to do with games.”

  “I said they’ll all be fine.” After brushing my lips down to her mouth—I can’t keep myself from touching her and don’t even want to try abstention—I stress, “I’ll take care of it, Velvet Bunny.”

  Little tremors shake her form, the motions of a giggle without the sound. “Velvet Bunny.” She droops her face against my chest.

  I don’t say a word until her breaths lengthen and her body slips into the lazy curves of sleep. Only then, as I lift her from the floor and carry her into the bedroom, do I let my mind echo with her whispered word, letting it part the curtains of my memory. A new passage from my treasured childhood book filters to my conscious—and slices into my chest.

  Once you are real, you cannot become unreal again. It lasts for always.

  Always.

  It resounds so deep, I rub my chest after sliding Emma beneath the comforter.

  Always.

  Fuck. I’m weaving way too much symbolism into this shit. It’s just a stupid childhood memory of a word that never meant much to me—not that it should have, in my world of all-for-me-all-right-now gratification. After Angelique and the Consortium got their hands on me, I compelled it to mean even less. A concept I couldn’t and wouldn’t accept.

  Monsters don’t get to have always.

  And nothing has changed about the monster I really am.

  That means this gets to be my always. Moonlit peace. Depths of midnight. A starscape and a cityscape, their silent beams radiating the room. But none of it as beautiful as the person at my side, sleeping through satiation from our passion.

  She consumes my attention as I stretch beside her, tracing fingertips along her collarbone and shoulder. She tremors a little and turns toward me.

  “Sleep, Bunny,” I murmur. “I’ll watch over you, sweetheart.”

  For as long as this always will let me.

  Chapter Four

  Emma

  Some dreams are just better than others.

  But this one’s a freaking Big Mac of better. With extra cheese and secret sauce.

  So damn good, a lot of the details climb out of the sleep fog with me. I swear I can still smell Reece Richards on my skin, smoky and spicy. I can feel the lingering warmth of his climax on my throat…and everywhere else.

  Everywhere.

  I roll to my side, twisting the bedcovers against my pussy, moaning into my pillow as the sensitive surfaces swell to life…

  As if I really did climax over two dozen times for the man last night.

  As he did nothing but watch.

  Impossible.

  But so wonderful to think about.

  I trail a hand down and slip my fingers beneath my panties. The world beyond my closed eyelids is still too bright, meaning there’s time for at least a quick fantasy before prepping for work. This time, I’ll be awake for it too. Yessss.

  I roll to my back and kick the covers free, letting the room’s warmth drench my skin. I get rid of my panties in an equal hurry, luxuriating in the softness of the sheets and pillows—and do I mean soft. New fabric softener for the win. My discount cotton sheets suddenly feel like thousand-thread Egyptian stuff, and I’m Nefertiti in the middle of them.

  With a fantasy pharaoh filling my mind’s eye.

  His stare, silver and charged. His face, striking and bold. His body, proud and etched. Oh, that body. His chiseled torso pulls my stare in, and I push heavy air through my chest as I trail the gaze of my dream-self down to the best part of him.

  Oh.

  That.

  He’s magnificent. Undaunted. So unafraid to show me how his cock wants me. I’m not even bashful about using the word cock.

  My sex clenches as I trail my fingers down, finding the most tender part of my clit. As I stroke those sensitive nerves, my mind blooms with an image of his stalk, long and gleaming and erect…

  And delicious.

  Oh yes. That too.

  As if my dream is actually a memory, I relive every moment of pulling him inside my mouth. All the way down my throat. He groans, amazed that I take him so deeply. Even I’m astounded. Somehow, his come has cauterized my gag reflex. I’m able to suck his cock all the way inside. Deeper and deeper…

  He grows inside me. Bigger and bigger…

  He fucks my mouth. Harder and harder…

  I release a sigh. Spread my legs. Dig my heels into the bed, thrusting my pussy into my hand. I moan, rubbing faster. Trying, with urgent need, to keep up with what the dream does to my blood, my nerves, my sanity.

  Needy gasps tumble off my lips.

  His hungry snarl tangles with them. A beautiful sound…only now it seems so real…

  Too real.

  I force my eyes open. Every muscle in my body stops. This isn’t my little bed nook at my studio apartment. I’m in a room twice that size, in a bed my whole kitchen could fit into, set on a platform overlooking everything between the Brocade and the Pacific Ocean. Golden sun spills over all the buildings, streets, and cars before glimmering on the sea along the far horizon. Just as distant but just as real is a memory of this room
by night…from the vantage point of Reece’s arms.

  Reece.

  He’d asked me to call him Reece…

  I’d agreed…

  In the same giddy haze I find myself now…

  And never want to leave.

  Especially as the man drops his sweats—the only thing he’s wearing—and kicks them aside, stepping onto the riser and bumping his knees to the bottom edge of the bed. If I didn’t just shudder with ten kinds of new arousal, I’d seriously start wondering about the dream angle again. But holy shit.

  “This is real.” I finish the thought aloud, needing to hear myself speak it. “You’re real.”

  “It is.” His gaze heats. “I am.” He slides one hand around the base of his erection. As he strokes that mesmerizing length, his body tautens into amazing lines of muscle. “And you are. Thank fuck.”

  At once, I start moving too. Any fragment of uncertainty or insecurity is scorched by the spell he casts on me. Is the air sparkling? And if it really is, why am I not surprised? It’s him and that bizarre but beautiful force field of his. He ignites my blood and electrifies my pussy in the same incredible second…

  A moan spills out before I can help it. Shit, shit, shit, this is good. And bad. And wrong, but so very, very right. Dear God, what this man and his body and his energy do to me. Every inch of my intimate triangle cries out now, demanding attention. I writhe against his incredible sheets, shameless in my lust. My thighs start to ache. My nipples pucker, painful and pulsing.

  It all gets worse—and better—as he hikes both knees to the bed and scoots his way toward me.

  “Spread for me, Velvet.”

  Velvet.

  That wasn’t a dream either. I shouldn’t be so damn happy about that, but I am. I shouldn’t be reveling in any part of this, but God help me, I am.

  I’ll return to real life after this. After one more little indulgence.

  With that promise to fate filling my mind and a surrendering sigh on my lips, I obey him. My attention is rapt as he widens his pose, scraping my inner thighs with his knees. The coarse hair covering the sinewy muscles of his legs is a turn-on plunging my lust to primal levels. Take me. Please.