Broken Wings (A Romantic Suspense) (53 page)

Sure enough, when I descend the staircase, Victor is still under the car he’s working on, tinkering.

“Honey,” I say, planting my fist on my hips. “It’s quitting time. Come on.”

Sighing, he ducks out from under the car. He is, of course, covered in grease.

“Let me get cleaned up.”

“I’ll go get started on dinner. If you don’t show up in fifteen minutes I’m coming back to get you.”

He gives me that look and heads off to clean up as I walk outside and across the long gravel drive to the house. We bought a manufactured house; it came in big sections on trucks and they put it together for us. For the first year we lived in the cramped apartment above the garage, which now serves as a storage room. Inside, I want to collapse into a chair but instead I put a pot of water to boil for macaroni and cheese and toss a pack of hot dogs in a pan to heat up. Simple fare, but as long as we’re eating together it works for me.

Victor comes in after exactly fourteen minutes.
Cleaning up
means de-greasing himself. He kisses me on the cheek and ducks into the bathroom, and the shower starts. A half an hour later he comes out clean, and dinner is ready. There’s still a faint smell of oil about him, as there always is, but I’ve started to like it. We serve ourselves, bumping into each other purposely at the stove, and sit down in front of the television. Victor wears a thin t-shirt, and his tattoos show through.

I lean on the arm of the sofa while I eat, with my legs over his. He twists off the cap of his beer, then mine, and our fingers brush when he passes it to me. I scarf down my food in big bites, barely chewing. Vic eats and swigs from his beer, and I drink mine down in big gulps. Before we moved in here I’d never even had a beer- when we dared out eat back during our college days I never drank, and I would occasionally take wine at the stupid parties my father made me attend while I was working for him, but only because I had to. I’ve learned to love the hoppy, bitter taste of the brews Vic picks out. He’s a beer snob.

Our plates end up on the coffee table, beside a few empty beers for each of us. I’m feeling tipsy, and daring.

So, I slip onto his lap. He snatches the remote and turns off the TV, and his hand slip up under my t-shirt, and he pulls me into a kiss as I straddle him. My hands slide under his shirt. His skin is still damp from the shower, and so is his hair. I twirl a finger in it. He lets it hang to his shoulders now, in thick coal black curls. He starts to tug my shirt up, and I stand up, pulling his hands. Without a word, he follows me down the hall and almost pushes me onto the bed. I fall face down and he tugs my jeans down as I undo the button. Once they’re over my hips and ass they slide right off, and my underwear comes next, then his warm mouth on the small of my back, working his way up to peel off my shirt and unhook my bra.

He gets on top of me and slides his hands up my back, kneading the muscle. I twist and wriggle out of my shirt, and my bra, and lay there naked, sighing into the bed as he massages my back. He runs his hands down my legs, and rubs my feet. I don’t know how they end up so sore, but they do. It tickles a little and I can’t help laughing. When I do, he smacks me lightly on the butt and I laugh harder and wriggle out from under him, then spring on him. It’s his turn. I get his boxers down and he’s already hard for me, but I press his erection against his stomach and rub my belly against it as he pulls his shirt over his head. I slide up, so he can feel the heat between my legs, and bury my face in his soft hair and breathe deep.

My trick, he calls it. I sit up and slide my sex along the length of his shaft, and the look on his face is priceless. He can’t keep his hands off my breasts, my ass, my neck. He pulls me down and kisses me and rolls on top of me. Once he’s on top he tickles my sides and grinds his cock against me, kisses me hard. I want him now and he knows it, so he holds back, kisses my throat, nips and suck at the soft skin, starts working his way down. I groan and roll my hips, urging him on, but he slows, stops, slowly kisses his way across my collarbone from one side to the other before he shoves his face in my armpit and sniffs. I try to push him down, but he struggles.

I’m still laughing at he takes my nipple in his mouth, slides his arms around me and sucks. My sex is throbbing, my thighs slick, but still he takes his time, making happy little noises as he sucks. Shivers pass through me, but not from cold. I push on his head and he finally relents, licking down my middle to dive between my legs and softly lick my slit. With a groan I spread my legs and let my arms fall limp on the bed, close my eyes and savor the sensations as he slowly works his way around, tonguing and teasing the skin of my inner thighs before he gives me another lick, each touch making my clit throb. Then his mouth as his finger slips inside, and I can’t take it, I have to have him inside me.

He rises up, wipes his chin with his arm, slides on top of me and pushes his cock into my sex. I curl my fingers in his hair and savor the feeling of his shaft pushing into my walls, the feeling of my body swallowing him. Somehow I feel surrounded and enveloped as I take him inside me and he puts his arms around me and I dig my fingers into his back. He always fucks me harder when I scratch him, and tonight I want it hard. I’m celebrating. I urge him on with my legs, rake his back with my nails, moan and whimper and breathe in his ear, begging him to fuck me harder.

When he slows, he rolls and pulls me on top of him. I sit up and ride him hard, eyes closed, my nails digging into his chest as he holds my sides, steadies me as I ride. I could do this forever, but I’m so horny I can’t make myself slow down and savor it anymore. Soon I’m quivering, my back rounded as I lean over him, and he’s taken over again, thrusting into me from below. He pulls me to him, holds me close and digs his heels into the bed, driving into me. When I come he almost loses his grip on me, for my thrashing. It’s so intense all I can do is bunch up and squeak, the waves of pleasure too intense to breathe. He holds me tight as he finishes, throbbing inside me.

I go limp on top of him, let him slip out of me and snuggle up to his side. This is going to be one of those nights, and I want him to rest before we go again.

“I have something I really need to tell you,” I whisper.

“Yeah?”

“Victor. You’re going to be a father.”

He sits up, and I rise up on my elbows.

“The test was positive. The one I took on Monday. I went to the doctor yesterday morning and they called me with the results. I’m pregnant.”

I’m not sure how he’s going to react, but he whoops with joy, snatches me up off the bed and flops me down, so I’m lying with my head at the foot of the bed, and kisses me hard, holding me tight. I reach down between his legs and stroke him, and he growls in my ear.

Round two is going to start a little early.

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Mockingbird

by
Abigail Graham

Chapter 1: Apollo

I have a bad taste in my mouth.

Looking over the railing gives me vertigo. It's twenty stories down from the penthouse, not far by skyscraper standards, but far enough. The people down there on the sidewalk might be on another planet for how far away they are. I can see them moving, each dragging a long shadow in the afternoon light. It's seven o'clock and it'll be full dark soon. The city skyline takes the sun away from the ground faster than up here, nearer the clouds. A basso rumble rolls under my feet. The party is starting.

"What are you doing?"

I shouldn't have stopped to look. At the sound of her voice I almost drop the tray I'm carrying, perched on my upturned hand. I think I look ridiculous in this monkey suit; whoever chose red crushed velvet for the hotel livery deserves to die for crimes against fashion. I put on my best fake smile and my best dull please-don't-fire-me look. The heiress is staring me down with the fury only the offended wealthy can muster, and if I get fired I won't be able to steal that pretty necklace she's wearing.

Of course, I don't actually work here, but if she kicks up a storm and gets me 'fired' it would raise quite a few uncomfortable questions, such as what I'm doing here in the first place.

Just an honest thief, doing my job. Robbing the rich, giving to the poor… and myself. Mostly myself.

Veronica Maxwell is easy on the eyes. If I wasn't worried about her screwing up the job, her fury would be almost endearing. She has a rosebud mouth given to petulant pouting, high cheekbones, flawless skin, and shocking blue eyes, captivating, ethereal, and without a spark of human decency. All I need is to hear her grating voice for confirmation that the rumors are true. You wouldn't know it from looking at her, but she is a total bitch.

She flicks her perfect platinum blonde hair over her bare shoulder and scowls at me.

"Well?"

"Sorry, ma'am. Just got caught up in the view. I don't get up here much-"

"Whatever. My guests are thirsty, get your ass to work. If I have to talk to you once more I'll make sure-"

Oh my God, she's actually going to say 'I"ll make sure you never work in this
 
town again.'

"-you never work in this town again. Am I understood?"

"Of course, ma'am."

I hurry on, and mentally pat myself on the back for not looking at her tits. She has amazing tits. Fakes so good you can't tell they're not real, and she's not shy about showing off the goods, parading around in a skintight off the shoulder dress covered in blue sequins, so she looks like a voluptuous, stormy sea every time she moves. If it were any tighter it would explode when she sits down, and move the slit in her skirt two inches to the right and she'd be putting on a show when she sits down. As it is, every time she takes a step one long creamy leg sweeps the air, a matching blue pump clacking on the floor. If it wasn't for the attitude I'd be won over by her looks.

If it wasn't for the attitude.

Time to work.

The creme-de-la-creme is here. The net worth of this room must be in the billions. I feel like a kid in a candy store. Watches, bracelets, necklaces, you name it, it's all here. I spot an iPhone with a diamond case that retails for $500,000, other gadgets equally blinged out. I consider myself a connoisseur of the finer things but I will never get my head around a diamond-encrusted phone.

Just seems excessive, really.

The job here is simple. Right now, I'm killing time. I wander around with a tray of champagne flutes. When they've all be snatched away and my tray is covered with empties, I go back and get more. If I was on the payroll I'd be making minimum wage plus very generous tips. Right now I'm just making tips. It would look out of place if I turned them down and hey, free money. Along the way I help myself to some goodies. My stupid crushed velvet tux has an extra dozen pockets sewn inside and by the time I make my first pass, half of them are full. A few wallets, mostly, and a watch.

Yeah, I'm good.

I've been learning this trade since I was nine years old. That's when my father took me in, after I lost my mother. I've been refining my skills ever since.

The party is jumping. There's a bacchanal atmosphere, the heart of a carnivale that never stops, only takes breaks for daylight. Smoke machines, lights, a DJ on the stage, you name it. Veronica has the top three floors of the hotel to herself, a massive suite with its own dancing hall slash orgy room. The dancing here is not very polite, and the hostess is not wearing underwear, as I see very clearly when she sits down on a leather couch that costs as much as a car and makes a show of crossing her legs. She looks not at me but through me. I'm like one of the ferns planted in a pot by the door to her.

I need more booze. I thread through the crowd, gathering empties as I go, through a service entrance and into the warren of hallways that serves the hotel. The suite doesn't have one door, it has twenty. When you're dropping a year's pay for a good job every night for your stay, servants come as part of the package. I deposit my tray on a cart and grab another, hoisting it to my shoulder all professional like. Carrying a tray of stuff like this takes practice. My knack for balance comes from walking tightropes and practicing kicks and punches standing on poles.

My partner's comes from practice. She gives me a look as she passes by, and the most subtle of nods.

Brenda, her name is.

You can put a treasure in a vault. You can bury it on a forbidden island, send it to the bottom of the sea or put it on a mountain, and the weakness will always be the same: Somebody knows where it is and how to find it. Any security system is only as strong as people, and people are, by nature, weak.

Brenda. Thirty six years old. Mother of three, Divorced, lives in a rent-controlled two bedroom flat with her kids, will soon be struggling to house them as the eldest, a girl, grows too old to sleep in the same room as the boys. Smoker, drinker, and most importantly, gambler. Of the illegal variety. She has an addiction to hold'em, knows how to play but doesn't know how to win, and owes money. She owes money to a title loan agency, to one of those late
 
night commercial lenders, and to some very unfriendly people who break legs when they don't get paid.

That would be a terrible shame. Brenda has great legs. She is the full package, in fact. I'd take her over three Veronicas any day. Long legs that look very nice in the fishnets she's wearing, great ass, big rack, and a sweet, warm smile. A real person, and she looks like she'd be wild in the sheets, too. Makes me wonder why the old man bounced her. He probably traded up, or just got bored. I consider myself a student of the human species.

Lesson number one: Love is bullshit. I don't have time.

Now, other pursuits…

I peel my eyes off of Brenda's ass. I can't afford to get either of us in trouble. Truth is, I can make an escape if need be, but I can't let her go down. She does have kids. I have a soft spot for women with kids, always have. Especially single moms. Almost makes me want to settle down sometimes, but no.