She must’ve sensed his confusion because she suddenly giggled. Her hands flew to her collarbone and unclasped the hooks along the side of her neck.
“Complicated clothes,” he grumbled. “No fair.”
The turtleneck soared over her head and landed on the limo floor, revealing creamy skin with a dusting of freckles. She grazed one hand across her collarbone and tugged at her bra strap. “I think you’ve undone this bra before, Magic Fingers. You should have no problem there.”
He thanked God for easy front clasps and had her bra off in seconds. Her swift shove, which plastered his back to the seat, surprised him. Looking up at her with wonder, the twinkling lights from Navy Pier showcased a hard curve on her left arm.
“What’s this?” His hand brushed from her shoulder to her elbow.
She squirmed away. “The scar is fine, Grant. It’s not your fault.”
“No, Dr. Taylor,” he said with a chuckle. “I’m not talking about your scar. I’m talking about this cut triceps muscle.”
“Oh.” She peered down her nose at her exposed skin as she straightened her arm. “I guess the swim practices are taking effect. Do you mind if I get a little muscular? That’s what happens when I swim.”
“Do
I
mind? It’s your body, Sophie.”
“I know
that
. I’m not asking for your permission. What I meant was, do you find a muscular woman…sexy?”
He exhaled. “Incredibly.” He grasped her hand and drew her on top of him, feeling her smooth skin collide with his, the graze of her nipples on his chest shooting sparks of tingles through his body. Then her mouth was on his, and she kissed him with an intensity he hadn’t felt in quite some time. How could he have gone so long without this? Without
her?
His fingertips glided up her spine then pressed in sweeping arcs along the fine muscles of her shoulders. She responded with deepening kisses and by unbuckling his belt. A tight heat built inside him, and her fingers curled over his boxers, then ripped them down. He felt his erection spring free, pressing into her belly. With a sense of urgency, he clawed at her suede skirt and growled when it didn’t budge.
Continuing to ply him with kisses, she guided his hands to the small of her back where he located the skirt’s zipper. He shoved the skirt down only to find her wearing tights. “Damn it! Freaking Fort Knox up in here.”
Her mouth lifted from his with a bright grin. “It’s
your
fault you’ve got blue balls, Mick.” But she took mercy on him by rocking back and sliding her tights and panties down to her crumpled skirt, which rested at the top of her boots. Her thighs were the color of freshly poured cream, and he thought he’d lose it the second she lowered herself back down, her slick heat coming into contact with his hardness.
“Sophie,” he breathed, pressing her to him and holding so tight. He shifted an inch, found his way inside her taut fire, and ohhh…he’d missed her welcoming desire for far too long.
He heard her gasp as his hips bucked, but her blissful smile told him she was just fine. They rocked together, and all he could hear was his quickening breaths and her soft moans. God, she was beautiful. Her resounding shudders moments later jolted them both, knocking a wine glass to the limo floor. Thankfully the wine dribbled away from her sweater.
“Whoops,” she squeaked, finally opening her eyes. “Sorry, Alex.”
He took in the disheveled backseat. “Tommy might need to clean up back here before he picks up the governor.”
She giggled. She reached up to caress his sweaty forehead, and he closed his eyes, reveling in her soft touch. Sophie massaged his buzzed hair as he stroked the length of her naked back, and her lips brushed against his, smooth and sweet.
“Are you feeling rewarded, McSailor?”
“You just reinforced my good behavior, Bonnie.” Despite the looming drug deal, he knew he’d sleep very well tonight.
12. Conquest
R
ICKER
M
ULLENS
was a free man, and
damn
, freedom felt good. He sauntered down State Street with his hands in his pockets and a cigarette dangling from his lips, thrilled by the looks of fear he elicited in passersby. Every time some bitch yanked her child to the other side of the sidewalk, a frisson of domination electrified his dick.
The Chicago Loop. He’d missed the energy, the depravity. What a travesty for a man of his stature to be stuck in that Gurnee hellhole for so long, with only his minions to entertain him. Steven had cried pussy tears at his release, of course. That boy would probably get shanked without his protection. His other boy would be fine, though. Bunky’s fine mouth would certainly get him places in life.
But another lanky boy now caught his attention: coming toward him about forty meters away, with a baseball cap slung low over scruffy brown hair. That teen slouch turned him on every time, and he wished the boy would show his face, but his eyes stayed on the concrete as he shuffled forward. Just as the boy passed him, Ricker shifted to the left and knocked into his shoulder.
“What the fu…?” The boy blinked up at him.
Sweet Jesus
. Big blue-green eyes, only a few zits, a sorry little scruff of facial hair, and the cutest pair of dimples.
“Watch where you’re going,” the boy said.
He laughed. His tongue swept across his lower lip. “Where you headed, sweetie? I’ll
cum
with you.”
The boy’s eyes got huge. “Stay away from me!” He took off at a run, his red Chuck Taylors slapping on the sidewalk.
He sighed as he stared after him. Normally he’d give chase—perhaps teach the boy a thing or two—but he had more important prey to catch. Older, hotter prey. Prey with the prettiest blue eyes…soulful, vulnerable eyes…
He shook his head with disgust. Where
was
that fucking Grant Madsen? Ricker’d been out of the clink for two days already, with shit to show for it. No Madsen found on apartment or employee records anywhere in the city. That piece of ass was still on parole, but he hadn’t shown to meet with his officer as far as he knew.
Tank had told him it would be easy to track down Madsen, but apparently he was going to have to shift to Plan B. And drumming up sexual interest in an adult woman—an essential element of that plan—was always a challenge.
“Fuck Plan B,” he muttered, tossing his cigarette to the concrete and grinding it under his shoe. He’d much rather grind Madsen.
Nevertheless, forty-five minutes later, he strolled into an Asian fusion restaurant. He paused to check his reflection in the mirrored wall as he entered. His mother had always said he cleaned up well—when she was sober enough to notice her surroundings, anyway.
“Fuck me…” he muttered to his reflection. He
rocked
this black suit. It molded around his muscular torso, adding an inch or two of height, and no one would know he’d bought it off a thrift store rack minutes before—one of his first purchases with Mafia money, and it wouldn’t be his last. He’d toss the constricting black tie the second he ditched this place, though.
“Do you have a reservation, sir?” the hostess asked.
He’d spent his time checking out the restaurant as he waited for the crowd in front of him to clear, and he had a pretty good idea where Plan B needed to take place.
He gave her what he hoped was a sweet smile. “No
wonder
you’re the hostess. They put all the pretty girls up front.”
A blush spread across her ample cheeks.
Score
. The fat chicks always ate up his compliments.
“No reservation, no,” he continued. “But it is only one for tonight. No one to share my meal with. You must have a table for a bachelor who just left a funeral, right?”
Her face fell. “A funeral? I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you. My wife and I used to sit by the windows, and I would like to honor her by dining there tonight.”
She drew a hand to her mouth. “Your wife just died?”
He let out a heavy breath and looked down, giving a slight nod.
“I’ll find you our best seat, sir,” she promised as she scanned the seating chart.
When she marked off his table and grabbed a menu, he grasped her wrist and looked deeply into her eyes. “Thank you. You do not know what this means to me.”
“It’s the least I can do.”
After Lardass left him with the menu, he unrolled his utensils, marveling at the heavy cloth napkin. Gurnee hadn’t even bothered with
paper
napkins. He glanced around to see if he could spot the blonde who would be his waitress, and his fingers curled around the knife. It felt so satisfying to hold real silverware, instead of a motherfucking plastic spork. The handle of the knife fit so easily in his palm too. He remembered watching Enzo stick that shank into Tank, the oozing sluice of blood—
“What can I get you to drink?”
With a flinch, he looked up into blue eyes framed by wavy blond hair. Her eyes held the hint of shadows, but she seemed to possess a sense of optimism and perk he hadn’t expected.
“Um…” He searched for words.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
He waved her off. “Not your fault at all. I am…distracted. I will try to get with the program.”
“Take your time.” She smiled.
After he scanned the menu, he said, “Wine. Red wine. And lots of it.”
“Seems like you’ve had a rough day?”
“You could say that.”
The blonde’s fidgeting puzzled him until she leaned in. “Listen, maybe you wanted to keep this private, but Wendy told me about your wife. I’m so sorry.” She straightened again. “I understand why you need some wine.”
“Wow.” He shook his head. “Such unexpected kindness from strangers.” His lips trembled as he drew one hand to his heart. “I am overwhelmed, truly.”
“We treat our guests more like friends than strangers.” Kindness filled her voice. “Now, which wine would you like?”
He peered at the list. “Would you choose one for me?”
“Of course.” She pointed to a moderately priced selection. “I like this Australian Shiraz, but my more sophisticated diners prefer this Bordeaux.”
Naturally she’d chosen the most expensive bottle on the menu.
Goddamn greedy servers, working me for a hefty tip
. “Only the best for tonight. Please bring a bottle of the Bordeaux.”
“Right away, sir.”
As she headed toward the bar, he zeroed in on her ass.
Whoa
. Tank hadn’t told him she had such fine melons hiding under that black skirt. Quite squeezable and smackable—much tastier than the scrawny backsides of his boys. Maybe Plan B wasn’t so fucked after all.
They performed the little wine-tasting ritual—he hoped he was doing it right—and he let out a sated moan when the wine slid down his throat. “You have excellent taste,” he told her and watched her light up.
Having no clue what to order from a menu without a hint of sauerkraut or
spätzle
, he let her select his entrée as well. And knowing the Thai were dirty pigs, it surprised him how much he enjoyed the noodle dish. Of course, anything would be better than that Gurnee glop he’d forced down for several years.
“Your hair is
schyn
…beautiful,” he told the waitress after sipping from his third glass. It had been months since he’d ingested anything other than a bit of smuggled alcohol in his cell, and he knew he’d better hit the brakes on the booze if he wanted to pull this off. “It looks so soft, so smooth.”
“Thank you.” A pleasing blush spread across her face. “I have to admit I was admiring your hair too.”
“You
were?”
She blinked several times, seeming embarrassed. “I like blond men.” She shrugged. “Just something about them. They seem…more honest or something.” When her blush deepened, he was shocked to feel his zipper tent with the beginnings of an erection. “And I like how your hair spikes up,” she added. “It suits your face.”
“Such kindness from…
friends
.” They shared a conspiratorial smile, and he noticed with a sigh that the sickening sweetness of it all had made his cock go limp. “I will pass along your compliment to the barber. He just cut my hair yesterday.”
“For the funeral?” she asked.
He tightened his mouth. “Yes.”
“You know…” She leaned her hip against the table, almost sitting that perfect ass right next to his knife. “Wendy said you often sat here with your wife, but I’ve worked this section for a few years now, and I’ve never met you.”
She was playing right into his fucking hands. Plan B was glorious! He leaned in an inch. “You’ve been so nice to me…you deserve the truth. My wife and I
did
come in here together, years ago. But then…” He tried to suck down a sob. “I found out she was cheating on me, and we got a divorce.”