8: Bolt Saga, Book 8 Read online

  And just like that, the world is right again. We’re all right again. The joy of it detonates through me, supplying everything he demands from the willing reaches of my heart. “I will. You’ll have it all,” I rasp. “I’ll come for you, Reece. My pussy needs to come for you. Oh…God. I’m close. I’m close…”

  “Me too. Oh, my little fucking Velvet…”

  “I’m…I’m going to…”

  “Wait for me, baby.”

  “I can’t!”

  “You can. You will.” He secures the leg he didn’t dip into the pail, the one now powering most of his thrusts. “Fuck, Emma! So good! So…fucking…”

  “Reece!”

  “Now!” He bellows it while screwing into me so hard, I swear I feel it in my eyes. Once he’s in, he stays, pushing at the walls of my sex as his cock bursts and floods me with streams of heat and electricity and energy. The fireworks double the slam of my climax. It’s beyond intense. Beyond reality. Beyond any pleasure I’ve ever known possible. I’m lost to a long scream as Reece utters from between his bared teeth, “Emma. Emmalina. Holy God. You’re tearing me apart. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

  He’s completely serious.

  He really doesn’t want me to stop.

  And, insanely, makes good on his promise by riding me through a third and then fourth climax, each implosion even better than the last. Holy hot pursuit, Bolt Man. In this case, I can’t even laugh to myself about it, because it’s the truth. As much of a turn-on that it can be to watch the man go after criminal assholes, there are no graphic novel adventures that can take the place of a front-row seat for the guy’s pursuit of giving pleasure…over and over and over again.

  The Carnal Crusader has triumphed yet again.

  Up, up, and holy fuck me away.

  When I’m finally nothing but a ball of satiated mush, he stands—a miracle in itself because I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to do so again—and kicks his pants off the rest of the way before lifting me out of the chair and carrying me into the living room. There’s another big throw blanket draped on the back of the couch, which he pulls free and uses to wrap around us both.

  For long minutes, we both are simply still, catching our breaths and regathering our thoughts, as the Paris afternoon gives way to a warm spring night. Outside, the buzz of traffic becomes a calmer hum. The lavender and daffodils on the air give way to night jasmine, along with the aromas of more savory foods—resulting in a lion suddenly making itself known in my stomach. Then again.

  After the second growl incites Reece to a long chuckle, I press my flushing face into one of his pecs.

  “Oh, dear. I’m so sorry.”

  “For what?” He pushes his lips to my temple. “In the last twenty-four hours, you’ve had a few cups of coffee, one apple croissant, and two-point-five pink macarons.”

  I giggle. “Yeah, but what macarons.”

  “Now my favorite cookies.” He nestles me a little closer and starts to scrape the hair off my face. Dear God of all that’s good in this world. What’s the next entry in the postcoital guidebook after hot mess? I’m sure the French have some eloquent phrase for it, and I’m glad they’re all out shouting and honking at each other on the street instead of up here to see my rat’s nest hair and fucked-twice clothes.

  Then again, maybe they’d all just be jealous.

  Not that I want to dwell on that useless emotion ever again.

  Not that I’m promising myself that I won’t. But right here and now, I’m just promising myself that I’ll try.

  “Hey.” His murmur vibrates into my hair, already sizzling because of the lasers he’s just pried into my mind. Damn the man and his crazy ESP, which always seems tuned to the frequency of me. “What’s going on up here?”

  Okay, so the sex fuzzed him out a little too. His lasers aren’t fully back online, since he actually had to ask. And it’s not that I don’t want to spill to him, but I’m enjoying the small respite from our deep and intense mode, especially after he turned the apartment’s kitchen into a temporary chapel. Which still has me wondering if we should prioritize Notre-Dame on the sightseeing list for tomorrow…

  “Emmalina?”

  I sigh. So much for pretending I didn’t hear him this time. “Yes, sir? How can I be of service to you this fine evening?”

  “Hmmmm.” He props his head a little higher against the couch. “For starters, how is it possible that you’re still wearing every stitch of clothing you got here in?”

  I quirk up a brow. Glance over my shoulder toward the kitchen floor, where my seared-apart panties rest in a puddle of sloshed foot bath water. “Not every stitch.”

  He chuckles. “Good point.”

  In the ensuing stillness, I violate my own mandate to keep this break light and frothy. But he did ask about the grease in my mental gears, and he has a right to know. About all of them.

  “You know, mister…” I push up a little, propping my chin on my curled hand. “That was pretty astounding.”

  There’s a new tightness at the corners of his eyes, and his lips form a firm line in the middle of his stubble forest. “For me too.” He circles his fingertips along my cheek, my chin, my neck. His gaze is steady, silver, and unblinking. Next to my elbow, his ribs expand and fall from his fuller breaths. “Thank you, my beauty.”

  “For what?” I’m truly perplexed.

  “For hearing what I couldn’t say.” The tension closes in over his brow now, setting furrows into it. “For just…being open.”

  I extend a few fingers up, smoothing the tips along both thick arches of his eyebrows. “I’ll always be open,” I whisper. “If you find a way to talk to me, I’ll always be here to listen. You and me…we don’t always need words.” I flow my hand back down and rest it on the middle of his chest now. “We just need these.”

  He slides his hand down and rests it against the middle of my sternum. “I’ll always hear you too.” A leaden gulp thuds down his throat. “Christ, Emma. I can’t imagine not hearing you. Not listening for you…”

  As he cuts in on himself with his own frustrated grunt, I lean up to capture his lips once more with my own. “I know,” I tell him once we’ve dragged apart. “I know.” Then I kiss him again, knowing he needs that too—especially because of where I’m about to go with our subject matter. “For the record, not all of the drama here was your doing, either.”

  Reece shakes his head. A bunch of his hair flops into his fresh scowl, but I steel myself against pushing it out of the way. Lydia’s right about that stuff. It needs its own Instagram page, especially so I’m not so tempted to indulge myself in times like this.

  “Let’s not go there.” He throws up one hand. “I know, I know. You feel like you overreacted and then ran away before we could talk it out. Both valid, both true—but both wouldn’t have been necessary had I trusted your input about this part of the game. Last-minute necessity or not, I was still approaching all this like the sole guy in charge of the mission instead of the guy with a partner at his side.” He glares up at the ceiling and shoves a hand through his hair. “It wasn’t until I ran the plan by Foley and he asked me if you’d been briefed about everything that I even comprehended the misstep.” His mouth thins. “He was the one who laid the proverbial cards on the table for me—though we happened to be standing in the john at the Brocade, right before you and I left for the airport, when he did.”

  A laugh tumbles out of me—spurred significantly by the first half of his confession. A man with a partner by his side. Holy hell, that feels nice.

  “Well, maybe it was your turn for the crazy public restroom confrontation of the week.”

  He chuffs. “Except that Foley’s message wasn’t so crazy.”

  “And maybe Tyce’s wasn’t either.” I hate putting a figurative sledgehammer to our exchange, but as long as we’re revisiting reality, I take the chance to plunge in and go there. “Speaking of which…did you hear from either him or your dad during my petit somme?”

  His
hair falls back into his face as he gives me the physical negative on that. “To be honest, I’m not expecting anything this soon.” He lowers his hand, scrubbing it down his face. “Dad and his squad are likely regrouping. Floating all the test scenarios and hypotheticals, weighing whether it’s better or worse to give the prodigal Bolt Boy another chance.”

  I press my hand to the middle of his chest again, scraping my fingertips in the dip between his muscled slabs. “I know this can’t be easy, baby.” I don’t hold back on the empathy, as much for me as for him.

  He curls his other hand around to brush my ribcage through my sweater. “It’s all right,” he affirms. “I mean, Chase is probably having the time of his life with the graphs and readouts. And it’s not like you and I are sitting around twiddling our thumbs.”

  I reward him for the optimism with a tinkling laugh. “Oh, yeah. Paris has been a blast so far.”

  Though he gets the humor and even joins in the chuckling, I’m all too aware that the sentiment doesn’t reach all the way to his eyes—even as he suddenly rolls up, springing off the couch as lithely as a panther hopping off a tree. “Up,” he commands after whirling back around, offering his hand. “You’ve got me on a mission now.”

  On my feet now, and with every one of his tall, naked muscles at my thorough disposal, I slip my arms around his waist before forming my hands to the perfect spheres of his ass. “Ohhhhh,” I hum. “Am I part of that mission?”

  He dips his head, taking my lips in a slow, thorough, mushy mauling. And the best part? He does nothing to dislodge my caresses from his backside. “Mon petit,” he growls lowly. “You are the mission.”

  “This is sounding better by the second.” I quip it as he yanks me toward the bedroom, though my pout comes out as he keeps going, landing us both in the bathroom. “Hey. I think you missed a turn back there…”

  “Nope.” He’s all rogue panther mystery, even while cranking the shower on and tucking in his hand to check the water temperature. “We’re getting cleaned up, and then we’re going out. The museums and cathedrals may have to wait, but your ‘Paris blast’ starts tonight with dinner at Lasserre and that shopping you really need.”

  Okay, so now I’m squirming. And maybe jumping. A little. But honestly, I’m not certain what has inspired this excitement more—the treat of a date night ahead or the way in which he’s promised it. No. Commanded it.

  As they say in this land, mon freaking Dieu. The man has taken my breath away from the very start of our relationship, but instead of slowing down on the sigh factor, he just keeps cranking shit up. Higher and higher…and higher. Especially now. Especially today. From being the wicked beast who obeyed all my erotic commands to being the worldly wolf who now strips me and then steps into the shower with me, he’s taking me back to the clouds again—then even higher than that as soon as we’re beneath the spray together. With wordless authority, he twirls a finger, silently commanding me to pivot so my back is to him and the hot water cascades over my front. It feels amazing, but that’s just the prelude. I release a long, nearly orgasmic moan the moment he squirts some shampoo into my hair and begins to lather me up with smooth, sure strokes.

  “Ohhhhhh…” I tilt my head back so he can have better access. The motion also serves to pelt more of my body with the perfect hot spray…especially my taut breasts and tingling mons. “C’est divin. Merci beaucoup, monsieur.”

  “Trés bien.” Reece utters it with the same mesmeric mood that his massages dictate, his baritone flowing into my ear with sophistication. Paired with his expert touch, it’s not long before he has me mixing sighs with the steam, reveling in how pampered and treasured I feel.

  And utterly, divinely French.

  And along with that, perhaps a little bold.

  Perhaps a lot bold.

  “Reece?”

  “Hmmmm?”

  “Teach me some more French.”

  For a second, his hands halt against my scalp. The man knows me, especially when my voice alters into another vocal range. The tones I usually save for the bedroom. Or, in the case of getting to hide out with him in a little apartment along the Seine, the kitchen.

  “All right.” The rumble is his naughty kitchen voice too—and again, it’s a perfect accompaniment to how he touches me. And strokes me. And glides his soapy hands down, down, down, until he’s reaching slick fingers around to find the wettest, neediest part of me. “What would you like to know?”

  He circles a fingertip at the top of my cleft, putting secondary pressure on my slit, until I let out a high gasp. At the same time, he slides his other hand between my ass cheeks, quickly locating my tight rosette.

  “Oh.” It rides atop another sharp breath, coinciding with the slap of my hand against the shower wall. “Oh, my God.” And then the other hand.

  “I thought you knew that one already.” His own voice is so damn calm, it’s infuriating. I do get it. He can’t cut loose in here or the water will turn to lightning and neither of us will get to have a mouth orgasm from Lasserre’s spiced duck and pear soufflé tonight. But holy shit, that doesn’t make this power imbalance any easier. “So…how about ‘may I have another glass of wine, please’ or ‘my, how lovely the Arc is at night.’ Or maybe ‘which way to the ladies’ room?’”

  I lock my teeth. Let out a growling, furious moan. “How about, ‘Monsieur Richards, if you don’t get your cock inside me now, I’ll scream the whole building down’?”

  His chuckle is nasty and low against my neck—as his fingers work more leftover lather into my pussy and ass. “I have a better one. Je préfère regarder mes doigts dans votre minou.”

  I snarl at him again. There’s enough there that I don’t need the translation. “No. Please, Reece. Inside me. Get inside me.”

  He pushes tighter against me. His nipples are erect points on my back, and his cock starts swelling against my spine. “You mean baise-moi, s’il vous plaît?”

  “Yes!” I spread my stance and rock my ass back toward him, going half on instinct and half on calculated risk. Seven months with a man, and a girl begins to know at least a few things—like how the sight of her ass drives him wild. “Baise-moi, Monsieur Richards. Entendre et maintenant.” I rise up to tiptoes, rolling the top of my back crack against the sack at his base. “Here. Now,” I reiterate. “Please, Reece. S’il vous plaît. S’il vous— Ohhhhhh!”

  I’ve been so preoccupied with entreating him to take my pussy, I’ve completely missed how he’s moved back—and repositioned his cock at the ring to my ass.

  “Even here?” His demand is the texture of a lightning strike, sizzling and frightening but electric and beautiful. I watch, temporarily speechless, as he grabs a bottle from the little ledge next to my right hand. Lube. Of course. In the shower. How had I forgotten this place used to be Angelique and Dario’s love nest?

  A thought that should be squicking me out—but oddly doesn’t. Maybe it’s the memory of how she spoke of this place being filled with love and passion. More obviously, it’s probably because of Reece’s demonstration of devotion out in the kitchen.

  More immediately, it’s because of the spell the man’s weaving over me now. Slicking the warm fluid into me. Relaxing my muscles by massaging my ass cheeks and then spreading them out in preparation for how he’s going to fill me there.

  Dear God, yes.

  I need him. His large, rigid body behind me. His long, perfect penis inside me. Invading me until I can’t think of anything but the sun he’s flying me to, even if that means christening our Paris shower like this.

  Yes. Yes. Yesssss…

  “You haven’t answered me, Velvet.” Though the bastard’s voice and the throbbing pressure of his cockhead are already hedging his victory with wicked intent.

  “Yes,” I growl out. “Yes, even back there.”

  He works his cock in a little deeper. Shudders with pleasure as he rolls his hips in time to his fervent fingers against my clit. “Now…en francais,” he orders. “Baise-moi dans
ma derrière.”

  “Oui.” I stammer it readily, for at that moment, he pushes aside the covering of my most sensitive place and claims my center with intent that can’t be mistaken—nor denied. Just as he was my toy back in the kitchen, I’m now his…and it’s beyond amazing. “Oui, monsieur. S’il vous plaît, baise-moi dans ma derrière.”

  And perhaps…beyond even the sun.

  “Parfait.” His praise is a rough, dirty contrast to the fragrant steam and liquid heat surrounding us, which only notches my arousal a level higher. And then, with the soap and the lube assisting him, he fills nearly all of my back tunnel in one gliding, hurting, stretching lunge. The second his balls knock against my perineum, his cock throbs and spurts generous precome inside me—adding to the blinding, dizzying force of my climax. I wail from the delicious, consuming pain, working my pussy back and forth along his tapered, godlike fingers—rejoicing, at last, as the man’s groans climb to the frantic pace of mine.

  “My gorgeous, perfect Velvet.” He issues the words between my shoulder blades, swiveling his head to deliver feral bites to both those mounds of bone, as he starts a relentless, ramming pace inside my quivering ass. “Something tells me we’re going to be very, very late to dinner.”

  Worth it.

  This man is always, always worth it.

  Chapter Five

  Reece

  Somebody’s singing Elton John again.

  Only this time, it’s not the French guy on the stereo downstairs.

  I can understand the words now. And it’s a woman softly crooning the tune. And she’s singing about feeling the love tonight, only it’s not night. Definitely not night. The crazy-bright sunlight through the curtains tells me that much, along with the bustle of the city in full weekday mode.

  I roll over in bed, wrapping the sheets around my naked hips as a full smile takes over my lips. I remember now. It’s Wednesday, and I’m not waking up in some swanky hotel suite, fighting to recall even the first name of the woman in the next room. I’m in a secret apartment tucked along the Seine, and the female here with me has a fully memorable first name, middle name, and last name.