Hot-Blooded (8 page)

He speared her again. He removed his hand and smiled as if reveling in the desperation of her gasp. The high was excruciating, nauseating, and orgasmic. Her head swam. Her vision flooded with explosions of color. Her body ignited.

“Fuck me, Blake.” She panted through the words, barely able to find the next breath. “Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me …” The tables flipped. She became a doll. Used. Owned. Manipulated.

But only because it suited her.

“Oh, I’m fucking you, baby.” A drop of sweat rolled down his cheek and splattered on her shoulder. She woke from her daze. Maybe she finally hijacked the air she needed. Or maybe her dominant side grew wary of playing the puppet. Whatever the reason for this influx of clarity, she used it to her advantage.

Keahilani elbowed him in the gut, and he crumpled across her back. She weaseled away as he sputtered and cursed and then resumed her role as ruler by snatching his shaft and yanking him to the bed.

“Lie down.” Calculation frosted her words.

Scowling, he obeyed. She settled beside him, sheathed his dick with her lips, and owned it. He winced, and his knees drew up. “You’re fuckin’ killing me, Kea. God, please fuckin’ kill me. I wanna die with my cock in your mouth.” He fisted her hair, holding her in place. The thrusts deepened, cutting off her air supply again. She went along with his little choking game, held her breath, and grinned around him. This was child’s play to a woman like her.

She pulled hard, teasing him to the point of pain. Droplets of fluid pooled at the back of her throat. She swallowed. His teeth clenched as pants rushed in and out between them. He fucked her mouth until his eyes rolled. Then she squeezed his shaft at the base, cutting off the orgasm. She thumped his dick against her parted lips several times, teasing with darts of her tongue and skidding teeth along the thick veins. Her grip loosened, but she didn’t let him go. She sat up next to him, legs open, and leaned over, burying him in shadow. Her strokes hurried, and an eruption of pleasure mounted between her thighs. Suddenly, he wasn’t the only one being masturbated.

Two fingers churned inside her. She rode them with violent hip spasms while jerking him off. When hot, white shots popped across her fingers, she fell victim to her own orgasm.

She powered through the sensual explosion with nothing to hold onto except his shaft and lips, which appeared out of nowhere, found hers, and grounded her so firmly to him, she could have been covered with six feet of dirt and wouldn’t have noticed.

You didn’t take lips like that lightly. The possession in them could turn deadly in an instant with the right rival.

As the pleasure-filled storm below died a slow death, the lips above held her steady, gave her adequate time for grieving, and provided plenty of support in the aftermath of loss. His finger-banging slacked off to a gentle rub and eventually stopped altogether. When the kiss ended, he stared at her and traced a long, lazy line up one of his glazed fingers with his tongue. Reality accepted the change of command from fantasy, and she emerged from the vivid, waking dream a few ounces lighter thanks to the hole in her chest filled with emptiness.

The lust purged, she sat up and said nothing. He dipped his torso off the bed, fished in his shirt pocket, and retrieved a rolled joint, a pack of cheap, white-plastic-tipped cigars, and a book of matches. Then he grabbed a bottle of water from the table, uncapped it, and swigged half. He passed the remains to her, and she imbibed.

Twisting up the weed, he said, “You smoke?”

Shit. The heat reactor shut the rest of the way down as coolant flooded her chest. Her internal shields flew up and warnings in her head shouted for her to leave. She glanced to the window. “No.”

He cocked his head to the side and then ducked his chin. Was he disappointed she didn’t want to get high with him? Damn, the high she was riding now was better than any dope she’d ever smoked. But even if she wanted to, she couldn’t get fucked up before tonight’s meeting. It was too important.

Sprawled across the blood-dripped duvet cover, head resting on a pillow, he didn’t look at her. Just lit up a skinny cigar, inhaled, and exhaled stinky smoke through his nose.

There was no point in mentioning this hotel was a nonsmoking facility. The signs every ten feet in the lobby did a fine job of advertising. And what the hell did she care if he got charged extra?

She glanced in the mirror across from the bed as she stood to look for her clothes. Her skin was red and splotchy from where he hit her. The vague shape of a handprint marred her neck. Dried blood covered her cracked knuckles. It had been a long time since she’d gotten that violent with a guy.

Damn, that was some great sex. She wiped her mouth and turned to him. She had to memorize every detail of his sated face so she could privately gloat later.

He held up the cigar. “How ’bout unleaded?”

Her mother had died because of goddamn cigarettes. She opened her mouth to refuse, but then changed her mind. This wasn’t the same thing. And even if it were, maybe taking a drag would be a twisted way to honor Mahina. After a few seconds’ consideration, she lay down beside him and accepted.

They both gazed at the ceiling instead of each other, which was fine by her. After a couple of puffs of the foul-tasting cigar, she passed it back to him. He took one more drag, inhaled—you weren’t supposed to inhale cigars, were you?—and pitched the remains into the water bottle. The cherry snuffed out with a soft sizzle. He set the makeshift ashtray on the granite-topped nightstand.

They lay together for what seemed like an eternity. With nothing but the sounds of sated breaths and heartbeats shaking the bed in slowing rhythms, she could’ve easily nodded off. Keahilani checked her watch and sighed.

She’d already broken protocol by not telling her brothers about the meeting. Now she was late for predressing. To protect herself and her identity, she wore her Pele disguise at all times while at the condo. But she’d left the outfit at the surf shop. She’d have to retrieve it and change at the resort next door, then head over. Two strikes. There was no wiggle room for a third.

She sat up. “I gotta go.”

Blake’s eyes were closed. Maybe he didn’t hear her. Maybe he was asleep. Or maybe he didn’t give a shit.

Though her body already ached from surfing and the subsequent extreme bedroom sports, she dressed quickly. Once she gathered the boards, she slipped toward the door. A quick glance back knocked her heart out of whack. Blake’s bare chest rose and fell at a steady but slow pace. What a pity she wouldn’t have the pleasure of his company again. Pressing her lips together, she opened the door, walked out of Blake’s life, and braced herself for whatever hell awaited her at the condo in two hours.

Chapter Seven

As soon as the door shut, Blake sprang off the bed, fumbled into his clothes, and peered through the door’s peephole. No sign of Kea. He snuck down the long corridor, keeping close to the walls.

That witch had cast all sorts of spells on him, but when he offered her a toke and darkness clouded her face as she refused, he suspected he’d found something better than a fantastic lay. He
might
have found a lead.

He ducked his head around the corner near the elevators just as the doors closed. He hit the button and followed her down to the lobby. Lots of tourists shuffled around, so it was easy to blend into the crowd.

Blake had always been naturally drawn to people with secrets, and if his internal sniffer was correctly calibrated, Kea was full of them. The way her eyes narrowed when he brought out the joint and the tenseness in her shoulders when he offered it to her told him she’d imbibed at least a few times. He couldn’t decide if her refusal to share was something personal or fueled by the fear of getting caught. Either way, this chick had been around pot before. Which meant she was worth a follow. It wasn’t like he had anyone else to investigate.

As expected, Kea returned to the dive shop. He planted his ass on a bench far enough away to keep track of the comings and goings without appearing obvious. About thirty minutes later, his instructor exited the building wearing a pair of dark sunglasses, carrying an armful of bulging Mahina Surf and Dive paper shopping bags. She got into the Prius he’d noticed earlier and drove away.

Blake trotted to his rental car and tracked her to a swanky condominium resort a few miles down Kāʻanapali Beach. Possibilities whirred through his mind. Visiting someone? Surely she didn’t live there. Units at this place were easily a million a pop, and she didn’t strike him as a particularly rich person. Even if she owned the surfing store, she couldn’t have made
that
much bank.

Unsure of whether to follow her up the elevator or wait downstairs, he went with his gut and hung out in the lobby, occupying himself with his phone. An hour later, a text from Scott popped up:
Butch has a meeting with a potential person of interest at 7. Be on standby.
An address followed. It was the resort adjacent to this one.

The hairs on Blake’s arms rose as he glanced at his watch. That was thirty minutes from now. Coincidence that Kea happened to be at a place right next door to where his coworker was supposed to show? What were the chances she’d come down around 6:45?

Nah, no way she was involved in this.

Right?

His mind raced through the day’s events, barreling through logic-laden roadblocks along the way. Hot surfer chick with attitude. Controlled on the waves, but explosive in bed. She didn’t tell him much about herself, which certainly wasn’t evidence of any wrongdoing. But he had turned the charm burner on full blast, and she’d dodged all the relevant questions, answering only the irrelevant ones.

Exactly what someone on the inside would do.

You’re out of your mind, Blake. She’s insane in bed, but she’s not dealer material.

Yet, his aroused instincts bubbled with suspicion. They were never wrong. Indecision churned his gut.

She could’ve had a lot of reasons to refuse the pot he offered her, but it was the
way
she refused. That flare of recognition gnawed at him. Guilt. Exposure. Fear.

He couldn’t put a finger on anything that would hold up in court, but Kea wasn’t just a pretty face on the hard body of a surfer. She was something … else.

Time to find out what. Blake opened his phone’s browser and launched a little investigation on his not-so-sweet beach bunny.

According to public records, Kai and Keahilani Alana were joint owners of Mahina Surf and Dive. This Kai fellow must’ve been either a relative or her husband. Blake’s cheek rippled. They purchased the property in 2012. No arrest records for either of them, nor could Blake find personal phone numbers or residence information.

On the off chance Kea and Kai were siblings, he searched Bane Alana. Blake found pictures of the kid splattered all over the big Hawaiian surfing sites, and even some of the international ones. A pro surfer, Bane been competing (and winning) for many years. Some of the photos dated back to when he was only eight or nine. And the best part? The same surname meant Kea probably wasn’t married to Kai after all.

Not that Blake would ever let a little thing like morals get in the way of his fun, but pissed-off husbands were among his least favorite job hazards.

The battery on his phone had dwindled to twenty percent. He shut off the device and stood to stretch his legs. The elevator door opened across the lobby. A tall, lithe figure as dark and light as a fire goddess perched atop a volcano emerged. Decked out in red and oozing confidence, the woman purposefully strode across the room toward the sliding doors near him.

Crimson streaks set her long, straight, jet-black hair afire. Dark glasses hid her eyes. A big, wide-brimmed hat complete with a dotted veil covered her head. Fire engine lipstick. She wore knee-high, stiletto-heeled boots and a stylish black trench coat whose front swung open with each step, revealing something short, red, and drool-inducing beneath.

Captivated by her sheer
presence
, Blake smacked his gaping jaw shut. She withdrew a cell phone and dialed without missing a beat in the rhythm of her steps. As she neared, he spun to face the window behind him and pretended to text someone.

“… look forward to meeting with you,” the woman said with a thick Hawaiian accent.

Blake’s brows shot up. Her low voice bore a stunning resemblance to that of the woman he’d fucked against the balcony glass hours ago. Keahilani, all decked out in a wig and designer clothes. Watching her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling window, he resisted the urge to turn around. Instead, he continued eavesdropping.

“Come alone. Don’t be late.” Her heels clacked on the tiles, and the door swished open before her as if announcing to the outside world the arrival of a goddess.

What the hell was she doing? Stuffing his phone in his pocket, he trailed her to the drop-off area in front of the lobby. A limousine with tinted windows waited, its engine purring softly. A well-dressed chauffeur hopped out and held the door for her, shutting her in a second after the car swallowed her legs.

Blake booked to his rental, keeping watch over his shoulder to see which direction the limo went. He was willing to bet his entire stash she was heading to the same place as he. A quick consultation with his watch confirmed the timing jibed with that of his gig with Butch.