J. Kenner - Wanted

He was speaking fast, but every word was measured. As for me, I was holding my breath, taking in every word, understanding that he was giving me a view of the inside of Evan Black, and I was doing my damnedest to see the truth behind the tale he was spinning.

“Maybe he gets arrested and sent to one of those teen work camps. The whole scared straight bullshit. But let’s not write a typical ending. Let’s not have it really work. Let’s touch on some irony. Let’s have our boy meet some other kids. Two others, and they become tight. But scared straight? Not hardly.”

Cole. Tyler.

I remembered Jahn telling me that the three had met at some camp when they were teens. Holy shit.

“And then when the three got smart,” he said, leaving the kitchen area and circling the bar, “they learned how to dodge the system. How to take risks. How to do whatever they needed to do to get by, because they all three knew that the universe doesn’t play fair.” He was right in front of me, all heat and power and control. “And if the universe doesn’t play by the rules, then why the fuck should they?”

“They shouldn’t,” I said as my pulse pounded in my ears.

He stroked my bare arms as I stood there feeling exposed despite the fact that I’d slipped the short-sleeved cover-up on over the tiny bathing suit. “You don’t want a safe bet, Lina,” he said, his voice low. “Do you?”

“No.”

“You want a man who lives on the edge. That’s the kind of thing that gets you hot, isn’t it?” His fingers toyed with the white zipper pull at the base of my throat.

“Yes,” I admitted as he pushed the cover-up off my shoulders. It fell to the floor in a puddle of white terry cloth. Evan’s palms caressed my arms, sliding up and down, and it wasn’t mere friction that sent the heat coursing through me.

“You want a man who likes to fly,” he said, tracing his fingertip over the curve of my breasts along the outline of my bikini top.

My breath became ragged. My skin felt prickly. And behind that tiny scrap of material, my nipples were painfully hard.

“You want little bit of danger.” His finger slipped under the material to flick my nipple, making me gasp. “You want to know that the man in your bed doesn’t play by the rules.” That same finger trailed down my belly to the band of bikini bottom.

I shifted my stance, spreading my legs a bit, and feeling my cheeks heat when I heard his soft, knowing chuckle.

“Tell me I’m right,” he demanded, though he already knew it was true.

“You’re right,” I said.

“Tell me you want me to fuck you.”

“I do.” I felt the charge through me, like I was touching a live wire. I closed my eyes. “I want you, Evan. I want you to fuck me.”

“Take off the top,” he said.

I opened my eyes and found him looking not at my breasts, but at my face. Our eyes locked, and I swallowed, the force of the emotion I saw in his eyes making me weak. I reached back, then untied the string between my shoulder blades. Then I reached higher and brushed my hair aside before tugging at the bow that was the only thing now holding the top in place. I let it fall, then stood there in front of him, my breasts bare and heavy, my nipples hard and tight and practically begging for his touch.

He moved closer, then pressed his thumb against his mouth, making it wet before rubbing it slowly over my sensitive nipple. I felt the shock of his touch all the way through me, making me squirm as liquid pleasure pooled between my legs, warm and enticing.

He reached out, cupping my breasts in his palms, then bent to suckle me, so slowly and thoroughly that I had to reach out and grasp the back of a stool for fear that I would collapse to the ground.

When he pulled back, I felt the chill of the air on my damp breasts and saw his soft smile of satisfaction. I dragged my teeth over my lower lip, wondering where he would touch me next.

I wasn’t surprised when he told me to drop my bikini bottom. I did without hesitation, and I saw the heat flare in his eyes. I saw, too, the bulge at the front of his shorts.

He knelt in front of me, then ran his fingertip down my pubis. I was bare, every fold visible and swollen with desire. I was sensitive—so damned sensitive, and when he bent close and blew a soft stream of air across my clit, I thought I would come right then.

“That’s my girl,” he said. “I love looking at you.” He leaned closer, then slowly licked me along my slit all the way up to my belly button, the sensation so surprising and erotic that I cried out, unable to hold back either the sound or the shimmers of pleasure that shook my body.

He stood, and I wanted to scream with protest. I wanted more. I wanted his tongue on me, his fingers stroking me, his cock inside me. I wanted it all right then, all at once. I wanted to be so overwhelmed with sensation that I lost myself, and floated away in a haze that was only Evan.

But he wasn’t moving that fast. He was doling out pleasure, and as much as I wanted the assault, I had to admit that this was fine, too.

He held out his hand for me, then led me toward the stairs. “Where are we going?”

“The deck,” he said, and though I considered protesting—what if there were other people around?—I held my tongue. I was pretty sure we were alone. And even if we weren’t, I couldn’t deny the excitement that came from the possibility of being watched.

“It’s time for dessert.”

“Oh.” I decided not to ask what had happened to dinner. “What’s for dessert?”

“You are,” he said, with an enigmatic grin.

We arrived on the deck and he walked me to one of the large, padded lounge chairs. The sun had finished its descent and now the lake was dark.

“Lay down,” he said, and I complied, looking up at the night sky, the stars hidden behind the gray sheen of the city’s glow.

He ran his finger down the length of my body, slowing as he slipped between my legs, cupping my heat and then sliding two fingers deep inside me. I spread my legs wider, wanting more of him, knowing I was wet enough that I could take more, that he could stretch me as wide as he wanted.

But he didn’t. Instead, he moved away, smiled down at me, and returned below.

I remained on the lounge, frustrated.

And then, when he didn’t return right away, I slipped my own hand between my legs, slowly circling my clit, wanting to take the edge off the pressure building inside me.

“Naughty,” Evan said, his voice soft from where he stood on the far side of the deck. “That’s for me to touch, and me only.”

“I—”

“I’m very proprietary about what belongs to me,” he said. “But we’ll worry about your punishment later. Right now, I have a treat.”

He moved closer, and I could see that he was holding a bowl full of strawberries. There was a can tucked under his arm, too, and it took me a second to recognize it as whipped cream.

I laughed, then stopped when he pressed a fingertip to my lips. Then he took a strawberry and fed it to me. It was ripe and delicious, and I sighed with satisfaction.

“Now close your eyes,” he said. “And maybe I’ll give you a few more.”

I bit back a grin, but complied. Then I heard the shaking of the can. Then the aerosol sound of the cream being dispensed.

And then I felt the cool, soft, wet chill on my breast. Then down my belly. Then all the way to my sex.

“Oh, god, Evan. Holy fuck, that feels good. Strange. Good.”

“I’m very glad to hear it. Now open your eyes but don’t move.”

I obeyed and felt every tiny sensation as he took a single strawberry, then rubbed it over my cream-covered breast before popping it in his mouth. He took another, then another. And all the while it was all I could do to lay still.

“I’ve made a bit of a mess,” he said, with a devilish grin. “I better clean it up.” He bent his mouth to my breast, and I gasped and squirmed as he licked every bit of cream up, driving me just a little bit crazy in the process.

And then he used a berry to follow the trail down my belly.

My stomach muscles twitched as he moved lower and lower. My sex throbbed. I was so hot that I was certain the cream had melted into a liquid goo. But he wasn’t inclined to hurry. His tongue laved me all over, lapping up the cream, moaning with pleasure as he swallowed and tasted, nipped and sucked.

In front of me, the skyline rose, the buildings lit like jewels against the night sky. I felt much like those buildings, as if I was light from within, only a few pinpricks of illumination escaping from wherever his tongue had seen fit to tease me.

And he was teasing lower and lower until finally there was just the triangle of my sex. Then my slick folds, a combination of my own arousal and the froth of cream.

His tongue stroked me, deeply and efficiently, as if it was his obligation to get every last bit of cream. And with each lave of his tongue, I felt the orgasm building inside me, tighter and tighter and tighter, until finally I soared even higher than the skyline and burned at least as bright as the lights in the sky.

“Wow,” I said, when I came back to earth. “I like your dessert.”

I eyed him hungrily, noting his erection beneath his shorts before tilting my head up to meet his eyes. “Got any more cream?” I asked, then made a show of licking my lips. “Because if you do, I know exactly what kind of treat I want.”

His laugh reverberated through me. “Sweetheart,” he said as he unbuttoned his shorts. “You can have as much as you want.”

I spent the next few nights on the boat with him, popping into the condo only to reassure Peterson I was alive and get fresh clothes. Most nights we spent on the boat, making love under the stars, relaxing on the deck with wine, or snuggling in the stateroom and watching everything from Terminator to The Hangover to The Untouchables. We settled into a comfortable familiarity that I loved, and the only time I felt unhappy or insecure at all was when I remembered that this was all going to end—and that the end was coming soon.