Bolt Saga 5 Page 9

  “Hey.” The prompt comes with a painful jab at my shoulder, but the barrel of a high-powered rifle isn’t supposed to feel like a love tap. Though my mind recognizes the full reality of that truth, I stare up the long tube with a strange sense of wonder, as if the broken glass on my mental window has started reflecting prisms. “Hey,” the gunman barks again. “Glow-and-Blow Barbie. Your jewelry and cell phone. In the bag. Now.”

  I blink a couple of times but still don’t move.

  “Em,” Lydia grits out. “Damn it. Listen to him!”

  “No.” The objection is nearly as shocking as the gun still aimed at my face—considering its mind-blowing source. But sure enough, Lawson Richards pushes forward, arms propped on the chair arms behind him, as if he’s ready to bust into Billy Idol throat kicks at the bastards. “Stand your ground, Emmalina. You know who has your back now.”

  I can’t help but peer hard at him. Stand my ground? Like this is a choice I’m making?

  “Fuck it to hell, you wankstain.” Another member of the Zorro posse rushes over—though not without his frustration giving away his thick brogue, making me nearly swallow my tongue. “That fucker is right. You do know who has her back, don’t you?”

  The “wankstain” flips the end of the rifle away from my face. Peers at me with beady-eyed interest before drawling, “Hold up. I do know her.”

  He chuffs his friend’s way, giving me the perfect chance to study him closer. Damn it. I was too busy fighting all the butterflies Reece first brought with him to pay too much attention to any part of Gregor’s face, let alone just his jaw and neck. Aside from the distinctive brogue, I wouldn’t be able to tell him apart from anyone else in a police lineup—until now, when I really memorize the man from the nose down. Blunt chin, thin lips, and hair the color of watered-down beer, from what I can tell of the strands he hasn’t tucked up into the head covering.

  “Yeah, yeah,” the gunman exclaims. “I got it now! She’s banging that guy. He’s in all those Hollywood gossip rags my old lady buys. Used to be some hotshot playboy, and then he came out as Bolt, but then he wasn’t Bolt…” He shakes his head. “Yeah, whatever. Now he’s just some uptight suit.” As he sidles a little closer, the confused twist on his lips gives way to a slimy smirk. “I bet he has enough flow so this little one can take care of her hot little bod, though.” He shoves Lydia’s chair away so hard, it tips over—but when I instinctively lunge for her, he stops me with a hand at the base of my neck. “Where you going, baby?” he murmurs. “I mean, maybe I’ll let you keep your own stuff…if you want to barter something else, instead…”

  “Billy.” Unbelievably, I’m thankful for the ringleader up on the stage now, growling at his distracted mutt. “What the fuckin’ hell?”

  “Jesus, brother. Take a chill. I’m just having a little fun.” Wankstain Billy steps back but repositions the rifle so the barrel catches on the dip in my dress’s bodice. As he pulls, the fabric gives until my nipples are nearly exposed. “Who wouldn’t want to know what it’d feel like to be inside the pussy where Bolt has been?”

  As soon as the words slither out of him, time gets another readjustment—only on this round, everything’s sped to double tempo instead of slowed down.

  First blink—the gun is gone.

  Second blink—so is Billy.

  Third and fourth blinks—watching the guy squeal from where he’s been hoisted, ten feet up and bouncing atop an invisible electric pulse as a second beam throws a pair of zip ties around his wrists and fuses them shut. Only then is he released, and he crashes down in the spot from which Lydia’s just risen. Wankstain Billy now finds himself with a five-inch stiletto in his crotch.

  “So much as sneeze,” ’Dia purrs, “and your little olives will be the garnish for my next martini.”

  I refrain from joining in her delighted giggle to spend blinks five, six, and seven whipping my head around—

  To have blinks eight, nine, and ten consumed by my joyful gasp. Then my conflicted tears.

  The majority of my emotion is pride. The stuff deluges me, welling and spilling at the sight of my amazing man stretching to his full height after retracting the pulse with which he took Billy down. As he rises back up, Reece shrugs off the last pieces of his convertible tuxedo while sweeping his attention to the front of the room. His boots scorch the cement floor as he swings that direction too. His profile, now embellished by a huge chunk of his hair escaping the pomade, is defined by undaunted fury and inescapable purpose.

  So yeah, I’ll admit it. Blinks eleven and twelve are wasted on a moment of pure lust. That’s before the tears take over. The other fraction of my emotion, backed up by the awful stabs in my gut, as full realization blares in my conscience.

  Ladies and gentlemen, Bolt has officially left retirement.

  “Fucking. Hell.”

  As if my supposition needs more endorsement, the snarls from the ringleader do just that.

  “Should’ve thought about that before your dog got off his leash.” Reece backs up the riposte by flinging one of his hands like there really is a dog leash in it—if leashes came in lengths of electrical pulses that extend over fifty feet and can lasso a grown man on the first try. But maybe they do, since the Zorro on the stage howls like a German Shepherd that’s had its chew toy snatched away. And then Reece yanks his arm back, toppling Zorro onto the stage. “Shame, shame, shame,” Reece growls, crackling the air anew as he adds a second electrical pulse, using both the tethers to drag the asshole down the stage steps. “This is New York, buddy. You’ve got to clean up after your dog.”

  “Fu-Fu-Fuck y-y-you!” The guy’s baritone comes out in jarring pieces as he bounces down the steps, though his defiance becomes a girlish squeal as Reece flings him against a catering cart, burying him in at least twenty-five bowls of pumpkin soup. He continues whimpering as Sawyer—fried zip ties clinging to his legs—swoops in to hogtie the jerk using lengths of catering cellophane. Thankfully, Sawyer pulls out more of the stuff to wrap around the asshole’s mouth too.

  “Holy crap,” Lydia breathes.

  “R-Reece?” Trixie stammers.

  “Fucking. Amazing,” Lawson utters.

  The exclamations hit the air as Reece whirls to confront new adversaries: the pair of Zorros who originally bound Sawyer and him. The jerks yell like Apaches on the war path—until Reece slashes his arm sideways, turning the air itself into one hell of a cock-blocker. Both the criminals endo over the barrier, groans cut short as they splat to the floor. I succumb to a guilty laugh, along with the rest of the room, as the party guests at the nearest table swarm the asshole pancakes and keep them subdued until Sawyer can make his way over with the industrial-strength cellophane.

  But the levity is short-lived. The last members of the Zorro posse, Gregor included, have now realized just how fucked their life choice was for tonight, and are scrambling to get out while they’re still ahead. Hoisting the bags of loot they have managed to collect, they race for the building’s rear exit—

  Until four white-blue lightning spears sizzle over everyone’s head and then dip and stab straight into the fleeing crooks.

  All four of them are halted midstride, impounded in place like kids who’ve played in the sorcerer’s yard and been caught. The long-distance Taser charges, courtesy of my boyfriend’s four outstretched fingers, haven’t even rendered them unconscious. They’re standing. Breathing. Even talking, if their terrified whimpers qualify as that. The only thing they’re not doing is moving.

  Once more, my tablemates all react at once.

  “Holy shit,” Lydia chokes.

  “Reece?” Trixie repeats.

  “Un. Real.” Lawson looks ready to pump a fist.

  This time, I add to their commentary. “That’s…new.” But regrettably, it doesn’t make my old emotions easier to handle. The second half of why tears still brim from my eyes and roll down my face. Along with the pride that swells from watching my man kick bad guy ass, times seven, in just as many seconds, th
ere’s a new admission I have to face. A fact that’s as real as the wizardly ways he channels the air in this room—in front of two hundred gaping witnesses.

  Bolt really has left retirement.

  And won’t be able to return again.

  The chaos in the room only becomes a crazier storm as the cops arrive on the scene. Their entrance, perceived by some in the room as more bad guys instead of good, incites a new round of screams. As soon as that’s over, a fire alarm gets tripped because the catering staff were forced to abandon their positions before food prep was complete. The stench of burned steaks tangles with the odor of toasted electricity, especially after Reece releases the four near-escapees into NYPD’s custody.

  Somehow, I manage to push to my feet—only to be tackle-hugged by my sister, who looks energized and terrified at once. After her mouth opens and closes a couple of times, she finally blurts, “That was epic!”

  Seeing that ’Dia and her endorphins have temporarily fascinated Lawson and Trixie, I seize the chance to sprint to Reece—and am glad I have. Before I get to his side, he’s reaching for me. Once I’m there, a slew of alarming observations hit. He’s whiter than the wall. Breathing like a winded bull. I swear I can hear his teeth grating the enamel from each other.

  But none of it prepares me for what I confront in his eyes.

  Holy shit. His eyes.

  “Reece.” I can barely raise it above a whisper. “Dear God…”

  He shakes his head, silencing me. Which is probably good, because if I speak much more, I’ll scream for a paramedic. Not that they’d be much help. What kind of diagnosis would they treat? His pupils are nothing but pinpoints. And his irises—his lush, mesmerizing, gorgeous gray irises—are now stripped of all color. Surrounding them, in the parts of his gaze that should be white, are areas that resemble plasma balls that pulse with blue lightning in time to his breathing.

  As more first responders fill the room, he starts to sway. Then the tremors start. He clenches his whole body to hide them, but since I’m now jammed into the crook of his arm and halfway supporting him, there’s no way I don’t feel them.

  “Wh-What do you need?” I plead it while bracing my hand to his chest. “Should I get the paramedics here now and—”

  “No.” He all but seethes it, his nostrils pumping. “No paramedics.”

  “All right. Then I’ll make them transport you to the hosp—”

  “No!” He grabs the side of my face. “Lights. Needles. Exam tables. No hospital.”

  “Then what?” My voice breaks as my heart cracks. He did what he came here to do—kept me and every person in this room safe from the hit Angelique foretold—but at what cost? His powers? His sanity? His life? “Please, Reece,” I rasp. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what you need!”

  With a ponderous grunt, he pushes closer to me. Gathers me close with one hand digging into my shoulder and the other twisting my hair so tight, several hair pins pop out and ping across the floor. They dance on the cement like a bunch of mocking fairies, and I instantly want to murder them.

  Until Reece bores his gaze into me, surreal and violent. Then clutches me close, almost kissing me with his guttural plea.

  “You. I need you, Emmalina.”

  Chapter Seven

  Reece

  Before the words are finished on my lips, I pray that she understands. That she sees why I never showed her this side of Bolt. That I wasn’t just afraid of how she’d react—but because I’d never had the courage to fully face it myself. Who wants to think of themselves as a human electrical generator with no place to spill the rest of their freak show power surge? As a mutant who’s just routed the bad guys but is now a disgusting gargoyle in his own right, ready to take off someone’s head because his blood refuses to stop boiling…because that blood starts to collect in the worst place in his body? In the most painful pair of receptacles…

  And yes, thank fuck, she knows that part. More incredibly, she understands it. I see it in her urgent nod and feel it in the way she wraps a hand to the back of my neck in return and as her gaze flares from her own swell of awakened lust. As much as I crave to kiss her, I don’t. Just the effort of being this close to her, feeling her breath on my face and inhaling her honey-sweet smell, is nearly enough to unravel the few threads of self-control I still have left.

  “Okay,” she whispers after a few seconds that feel like five fucking hours. “Okay. I understand.” With her other hand, she grabs the side of my face. “Just hold on for me another minute, baby, okay?”

  Unbelievably, I manage to nod without fully mauling her. Christ, she smells so good. And the glow of her skin above the gown’s glowing bodice… My mouth waters, thinking of how good it must taste…

  “Hurry,” I growl as she drops her hand into mine and twines our fingers—but that’s the only command I’m capable of. Fortunately, she knows that too. With a loud shoosh of her skirts and a needy groan from deep in her throat, she starts yanking me toward a narrow stairway to the left of the kitchen doors.

  “Em!”

  We both stop, gritting mutual profanities, as the distinctive voice whips through the rest of the chaos. But Emma doesn’t turn. Thank God.

  “Not now, Dee Dee.”

  “But the police have a billion quest—”

  “I said not now.”

  The ferocity in her voice has to be one of the sexiest sounds I’ve ever heard. Coupled with my unique view of her ass, even buried underneath the five billion layers of tulle and lights and crinolines, I’m half a second away from breaking my promise to her. I can’t hold on. My blood is screaming like a thousand lusty savages, and my nerve endings are the innocents they’ve just scalped. I’m raw. Raging. An electric storm trapped in a man’s body.

  Where the hell is she taking me?

  And for fuck’s sake, how much longer will it take to get there?

  Around a tight corner to the right. Another to the left. Past two rooms holding shit that looks like Christmas decorations and wedding props, until a closed door appears before us. There’s a security pin pad on it, and when Emma frantically punches in the code, it buzzes with infuriating denial.

  “Shit!” she mutters and then forces down a calming breath.

  Her second try yields an approving ding that has to be the second best thing I’ve heard tonight.

  We tumble into the room, a dressing area from the looks of the wardrobe bags, accessory trunks, makeup satchels, and hair product strewn everywhere. Not that I notice or care about any of it, beyond making sure I don’t knock Emma into something dangerous as I whirl her around and claim her mouth in a harsh, ruthless, tongue-filled kiss. She parts for me with a feral whine, stabbing her tongue out to be used, sucked, laved, and dominated by mine. At once, our passion spikes like some damn fire plume from a rock concert, searing us both until we’re breaking apart, gasping for air past the consuming flames.

  But I’m only getting started.

  I need more. So much more.

  Emma sees it. Knows it. As I step back toward her, I even wonder if the damn woman has climbed inside my mind and foreseen my intent, with her back arching so perfectly as I descend both hands, my electrified fingertips slicing open the front of her bodice.

  She gasps.

  I groan.

  Her bared breasts are ripe fruit beyond compare. Full and firm and succulent, each centered with a beautiful, puckered areola supporting a strawberry-colored nipple all but begging to be touched. I lift my hand, half my mind already feeling her flesh warming beneath my palm and seeing her tight peak getting redder as I pinch it…

  Until the glow of my fucking fingertips pierces my entrancement.

  And I grit out a new curse before dropping my hand into a fist.

  “Reece.” She moves forward, grabbing at my arm.

  I resist, releasing a low growl.

  “Please.”

  I drill a damning look down at her. She’s defiant, pushing in until her chest brushes mine. “I need
to fuck you, Emma, not brand you.”

  My words bring new heat to her gaze. Her nipples pebble against my chest. “What if I want both?”

  Fuck.

  She had to go there. And even though my brain expected her to, my traitor of a body didn’t. Just the thought of really doing it, imprinting her silken skin with my burning touch, my balls become time bombs, my cock their throbbing fuse.

  I resist the lure the only way I know how. By gripping the tatters of her bodice, twisting in tight, and using the torque to spin her around, facing away from me.

  “You don’t always get what you want, Velvet.” As I snarl it, I lift her voluminous skirts. She lets out a soft yelp, the vehemence of my move propelling her forward over the armrest of an overstuffed chair.

  “Wh-What about…what I n-need?”

  I’ve sliced away one spine of the dress’s crinoline cage. As my fingers sear through another, I utter, “That can be arranged.”

  The light strings attached to the huge contraption begin to sputter and die—though now I’m capable of providing my own light in the hunt for my ultimate treasure. In addition to the glow from my fingers, there’s a luminescent drop at the tip of my newly freed dick. I groan while peeling back more of my leather fly, working my balls away from their tight cage, as well. Dear fuck, this feels good.

  But not good enough…

  “Bend over farther, Velvet. Your head against that cushion. Your ass raised toward me. That’s it. Yes, damn it, that’s it.” One quick snap of her pretty lace panties, and I’ve got the view of so many of my fantasies. The creamy globes of her ass, parted a little so I can glimpse the slick pink flesh of her perfect core, its folds starting to pulse in time to her hot, breathy sighs.

  “Goddamn,” I grate, simply looking on as her mounting lust sends more blood to those perfect, pouting lips at the entrance of her most erotic triangle. It’s all full and slick and ready for me—and Good Christ, what all that desire has done for her tangy, torrid scent. Fuck. Me. She’s the pheromone that’s been custom-mixed by the angels for me, and I send them a fast, fervid prayer of thanks while breathing her in again.