“Good,” he says. “Because I have. And you own me, too.”
Then he draws back. It’s a long, slow, sliding sensation that sets flames to my body, and slams back into me hard enough to make me shout. We’re on fire again, reaching for each other, my hands clawing down his back, his gripping my shoulders, my calves, holding me prisoner as he pounds into me, harder and faster, pain and pleasure blurring together. He drops one hand to press his thumb against my clit and I come, screaming as he keeps going, driving deeper and deeper into me until he finally clenches and releases himself. I grab him and pull him down onto me, holding him by the hair as I kiss him, savoring the taste of his release.
When he pulls out of me, this time he’s the one who lies down on top of me, and I cradle his head on my chest, the stubble on his cheek grazing my breasts as I hold him to me. This time, I’m the one who drifts off to sleep first, all my earlier worries floating away.
I’m safe with Stone. That much I’m sure of.
15
Stone
Getting into Skye’s apartment had been a cakewalk, but her brother’s place is proving to be the complete opposite. Three days after spending that first night at her apartment, I spend eight hours on stakeout down the block from his place, visor down, shades on, baseball cap sagging, my arms crossed over my chest so it looks like I’m taking a nap. Ian doesn’t budge from his computer desk for the first three hours straight. When he finally does move, it’s to the kitchen for cereal—which I figure out when he strolls back in a minute later drinking straight from the bowl, no spoon or anything in sight.
My biggest struggle is staying awake the whole time. I try everything from blasting music through my earbuds to daydreaming about Skye. The latter is a hell of a lot more invigorating, though it means I won’t be ready to spring into action if anything ever actually happens upstairs here.
Finally, eight and a quarter hours into the stare-down, I startle out of a fantasy about how Skye would look in a plaid schoolgirl skirt, bent over my knee as I slap a ruler across that thick, juicy ass of hers.
For a moment, I don’t know what woke me. After years of working for Rich, I’ve learned to set cruise control on my brain, and right now my instincts tell me to stop zoning out and pay some fucking attention to the job at hand.
Then I pinpoint it. A car has pulled up out front of Ian’s place, Pennsylvania plates, rust stains on the undercarriage, tinted windows.
One of Rich’s?
No fucking way. Even when his guys go undercover, they’d never be caught dead driving an American car, and this one’s a Ford.
I let my eyelids droop to half-mast and study the scene harder. The car sure as fuck wasn’t there a minute ago, and yet I can’t see anyone in the driver’s seat or around the apartment. My muscles tighten, adrenaline pumping through my system.
There.
Across the street from Ian’s place, crossing to a neighboring apartment complex, there’s a newcomer to the field. He’s wearing Dad jeans, a flannel button-up, and a baseball hat. Nothing too weird, except something about his walk seems off.
Most people would look at this situation and dismiss him straight off the bat. But something doesn’t sit right with me. It’s that cruise control in my brain again, telling me I’m missing something. There’s a puzzle piece here I don’t see yet.
Like why this guy, who’s dressed so normal as to almost cross over into weird again, parked in front of Ian’s apartment only to hike up the road to his complex. The parking lot at the neighboring apartment building has plenty of empty spaces.
Movement at Ian’s place again catches my eye. He’s standing up, for only the third time today—it’s a wonder he hasn’t melted into that chair or turned into a slug already. That alone wouldn’t be enough to make me move, except that he leans over to the window and peers out, up the street. In my direction first. Then he glances the other way, lingers on Mr. Too-Normal for a minute, and slaps the blinds closed.
Moving as slow as I can, I unlatch my door and slide out of my seat. Wait until my feet hit pavement, then ease the door shut. I don’t want to make that much noise.
I wait beside my truck, poised on the balls of my feet, until I hear a door slam. I dare a peek through the car windows, and sure enough, there’s Ian, outside the house for the first time today, an ugly neon orange jacket pulled around his shoulders and slippers on his feet.
What the fuck? I have time to wonder, before he slips straight into the car that Too-Normal deposited out front a few minutes earlier.
I watch him drive up the street, pull right into the neighboring complex, and wait, idling in the driveway, his head darting around the way guys who are nervous about being spotted do. Another minute passes, then Too-Normal strides out in a different shirt this time, a baseball jersey and his hat turned backwards. From this distance, I don’t get a good glimpse of his face—just nondescript, tan, and muscular.
He climbs into the passenger seat of his own car, then the two of them roll off down the road, leaving me scowling in their wake.
That’s either
some kind of deal, with a contact I don’t recognize—definitely not one of Rich’s—or there’s something about this job Rich isn’t telling me about.
Who the fuck is Ian Banner really?
Time to find out.
I speed across the street, hands already fumbling for my lock picks. This is a shit plan. I should wait longer, map out his schedule before I go breaking into his place. For all I know, he’s taking his neighbor to the corner store and he’ll be back here inside of ten minutes.
But I’m running out of time. For myself, for him, but most importantly, for Skye. I won’t let Rich send one of his dogs after her. No matter what, I will make sure that never happens.