Microsoft Word - FortunesFool.rtf (28 page)

underside of the shaft. "When I see you bound and helpless, my mouth waters. I am powerless over any man, save you. With you, I can do

anything I choose."

She felt a tremor work its way through him. Sweat saturated his hair

and ran down his neck and chest. When he opened his eyes and looked at

her, she saw defiance at war with surrender in his eyes. She knew what

he saw—the concubine.

She ghosted her thumb over the head of his cock, the lightest touch

she could manage. His breath caught, hitching in his chest. He jerked his hips back and away, trying to get free of her grasp. She held on and dug her fingernails into the shaft 'til he froze.

"I can give you pain," she murmured, directing her voice down the 183

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column of his neck. "Or I can give you pleasure."

There was a long pause. The air around them seemed to churn with

emotion—fear, lust, anger, frustration.

Then he canted his hips forward and up, offering himself to her. It

was all she needed to get the job done. She pulled and twisted, speaking low into his ear about all the ways the concubine would torment the

doomed prisoner. Her hands. Her mouth. The length of her smooth, soft

body rubbing against him like a cat in heat. Delight that never satisfied.

Bliss that only prolonged his agony.

Without warning, Colton made a low, urgent sound and went taut

from the ground up, his body a pained line of need. A beat...two

beats...and then his cock spat a stream of white in a high arc that landed three feet away, over the place where the redhead bled out.

Leah didn't step back this time, or break physical contact as he

jerked through the aftershocks. No time for niceties now. She gave him

thirty seconds, then she slid her hand under his chin and wrenched his

face up to look at her. His eyes were bloodshot and shadowed, but his

skin was hot and buzzing with electricity beneath her fingertips. His cock never softened against her palm.

"Again," she said.

He flinched. Then he nodded and gritted his teeth, plainly preparing

for imminent discomfort.

"Shh." She moved her hand from his chin to his brow and brushed back the salty-wet hair. "Shh...it's okay." Then she dropped into a low crouch before him.

This was going to be tricky. She hadn't been forced to contort

herself in the service of sexual satisfaction in a decade, and it showed in the way the muscles in her back protested.

"You don't have to do that." His voice sounded creaky, like an unused garden gate. "Just use your hand again."

She looked up at him through her hair and said, "Won't work this

time. You're over-stimulated."

"But—"

"Shh. I know what I'm doing. Just...kneel up."

He raised himself high on his knees with a grimace of obvious pain.

The floor must've been killing him, but she couldn't do this alone—he'd

have to meet her halfway. She licked her lips, preparing herself. It had been a long, long time, and this was different than a handjob. Less

clinical, more intimate.

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She let her hand drift over the cut of his hip, tracing the line of

muscle and feeling the sweat that pooled in the curve. When she let her

mouth follow in the shadow of her fingers, Colton groaned and rocked

forward, as if he could already feel her lips on him where it mattered

most. She shifted her grip on his cock, leaned in and ran her tongue over the leaking slit. Back and forth, lapping like that same cat in heat.

He jerked away with a muttered curse, leaving a smear of slippery-

wet across her lips. She followed him with a gust of breath over his cock, then steadied it again within her fingers. When she spoke again, she let her lips brush the head. "You can't get away. Surrender is your only option."

She felt a jolt go through him as he let the back of his head fall

against the bricks, once...twice...then a steady, reckless rhythm that

spoke more of his frustration than any words. Literally pounding his head against a brick wall.

"Stop that." She flickered her tongue up and down the shaft, pausing to give special attention to that tender spot just under the crown, where all the nerves converged. "We don't have time for a tantrum."

He glared down at her. "Fair warning—if we get out of this alive,

I'm gonna track you down and fuck you stupid."

"I bet you say that to all the girls."

She moved in for the kill, going at him with the flat of her tongue,

long Popsicle licks and swirls. He muttered a string of curses, which she cut off mid-obscenity by catching him in her mouth, sucking him down

to the halfway point. His hips flexed once, and then stilled on a shudder as if he'd exerted some supreme act of will over his own response.

She pulled off to whisper, "Go ahead. Do it."

He didn't seem to hear her. She glanced up and saw the rigid line of

his jaw, and how he chest heaved with constrained gasps. Not good. He

had to let go and let himself take what he needed, because this release

had to count. Had to quell the craving. They didn't have time for another round of storytelling and happy endings. She leaned in and drew hard on

the very tip of his cock to get his attention.

"I said, go ahead. Fuck my mouth."

She looked up again and he was staring at her. The expression on

his face—desperation underlined by uncertainty and maybe a little

hope—made her smile.

"Don't want to hurt you," he whispered.

"I'll let you know if you do anything I don't like." She used her teeth 185

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then, ever so lightly.

He seemed to get her point.

Then it was all she could do to keep up as he snapped his hips in a

quick staccato, pushing past her lips for all he was worth. She relaxed her jaw and did her best to take it. Called on every trick she'd ever learned, and a few she made up on the spot. Closed her eyes and let instinct take over, tongue and teeth and hollow-cheeked sucking.

She glanced up when he made a ragged, broken sound. His face had

gone a dark red that bled over his neck and chest. She could hear the low keening build in this throat. She grabbed his hip with her free hand and pushed back, letting him slide from her mouth just as the muscles in his thighs and belly bunched, and he came, warm and wet across her lips and

chin. He held the arch in his spine another second or two, then fell

forward, swinging in the chains.

She rubbed at his hip, as one might caress a horse that had won a

hard race. With her other hand, she swiped at her chin. "Well done, Detective."

"I think that's my line. And for God's sake, call me Marcus." His voice was quiet and thready, as if he'd finally run out of steam. His gaze played over her face. "Christ, your mouth."

She licked at her lower lip and tasted blood where it had split. "The hazards of friction. It'll be all right."

"Sorry."

"Don't be. I'm not." She pulled away and stood, stretching her back.

She'd be sore in the morning, but not as sore as he'd be, so she didn't

bother feeling sorry for herself. "You should try to sleep before—"

The sound of voices and footsteps beyond the door made her jump

and stumble backward. Early...no way had it been two hours.

"They're coming. Get out of here," Marcus said, low and urgent.

"I can't just leave you—"

"Go, God damn it. Just remember to call Sanchez."

The voices came closer—near enough that she could make out the

Madre's accent. The sound of it made her stomach curl in on itself with

fear. She turned to look at Marcus, and all at once he seemed far away.

Smaller too, as if she were looking at him through the wrong end of a

telescope. Quickly she reached for the cell phone where she'd left it on the pile of clothes. She clutched it hard in her hand and looked once

more over her shoulder at Marcus's slumped, exhausted form. The brick

walls surrounding her warped and grew fuzzy, then began to fade into a

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black void that stretched...and echoed...and stretched...

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Marcus watched Leah grab his phone and turn back to look at him.

He wanted to speak, to say "Thanks for trying, babe, you did your best,"

but he could barely muster the energy to lift his head, much less

coordinate his brain with his mouth. And as he watched her dissolve into the thick, sex-soaked air—first growing translucent, then disappearing

entirely—he had to wonder if she'd been real in the first place, or just another cruel, fucked up feature of the Madre's little game.

He let his head hang low and listened. He heard the door bang open,

and the shuffle of feet on cement, then two voices—Shannon the

barmaid, and the Madre Donnatella DeTagliera.

"Tell me,
cara
," Donnatella said, "how does our guest fare this evening?"

Through slitted eyes, Marcus watched Shannon's boot-encased feet

approach. He fought to stay motionless as she pressed cold fingers into

the pulse-point on his neck and said, "Someone's interfered with him, Madre. He's alive, but barely conscious."

"What else?" Donnatella's words were like a whip-crack over his head.Shannon stepped back, as if to survey him. "Clarice's blood is smeared on his chest and face, as if someone has run their hands over

him. And his..." She cleared her throat. "...his male member is limp and wet. There's evidence of recent release."

When the old woman spoke again, her voice settled like frost over

the room. "You will find the responsible parties and bring them to me for punishment,
sí
?"

"Yes, Madre. Belinda and Kathie were with him last."

"Then we shall begin with Belinda and Kathie." The hem of

Donnatella's long red skirt hissed against the floor as she moved toward him. "But first, let us see if we cannot revive our guest. I hear his breathing, so shallow and quick. I suspect he's not as sleepy as he

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seems."

* * * *

took a breath and smelled fresh linen...her own perfume...the litter box in the bathroom, in need of a change. Familiar. Home.

She shifted on the mattress, lifting her hands to her face, and nearly

screamed when the cell phone fell out of her open palm and onto her

chest.

Real, then.

She turned her head and looked at the clock. It read six AM.

Real, and happening in real time.

She rolled over to face the window, stared out at the breaking light

of dawn, and tried to reason her way through the situation. It didn't do her much good. Panic kept getting in the way of linear thought.

Get him out. Save him. Do it now, don't waste time, do something
.

She reached for the cell phone, where it lay on the bedspread.

Turned it on and played with it for a few seconds, figuring out how to

scroll through the programmed numbers. There—Gus Sanchez. Thank

God.

She dialed and waited. Somewhere in the small city of Santa Rosa,

she knew another cell phone was ringing. Three times...four...

The voice that answered was deep and gruff with sleep. "Sanchez

here, and the fuckin' mayor better be dead if you're calling me at this

hour, Colton."

Leah squeezed the phone tight in her hand and prayed her voice

didn't squeak. "Uh, hello. This isn't Detective Colton, but he asked me to call you and—"

"Jesus Christ, did Colton leave his phone with one of his Goddamn

groupies again? You tell that bastard he can—"

"Please listen, Chief Sanchez. Detective Colton's been kidnapped.

He's being held..." Son of a bitch. She had no idea where he was being held. None. "He's in a basement, in a club owned by a woman named

Donnatella DeTagliera. He asked me to call you—"

"Let me get this straight. Colton's been kidnapped, but you've got

his cell phone? Why didn't he use it himself, if he could give it to you?

And who the hell is this, anyway?"

"My name's not important. You just need to—"

"Listen, lady, this isn't funny. You can tell Colton that if he wants to talk to me, he can come to the Goddamn station tomorrow morning at

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nine. Until then, fuck the hell off. And don't call this number again, or I'll have the GPS on the phone traced and you'll be arrested for falsely

reporting a crime."

"No, don't—"

But Chief Sanchez had departed with a final click in her ear. Leah

turned off the phone and tossed it onto the bed. Then she slumped, letting her head rest in her hands.
Groupies? What the hell does that mean?

Okay, time for Plan B. She glanced at the clock again. Six AM in

California meant nine AM in Massachusetts. Plenty late enough. She

reached for her own phone and dialed. It didn't ring on the other side—

not even once—before a chipper, if decidedly elderly, feminine voice

answered.

"And a very good morning to you, Leah."

"Hi, Gram. What's new?"

Her grandmother snorted into the phone. "Cut to the chase, dear.

What's the trouble?"

Leah sighed. "Right. Well, there's this man—"

"I'm delighted to hear it. It's been far too long for you, and it's never good to go without. Oh my. He's a handsome one, isn't he? And so

popular with the ladies. But..." Concern crept into her grandmother's tone. "Oh dear, he's got himself in a bit of a pickle, hasn't he? And you...oh, Leah. You cut it far too close there, at the end. You should be more careful."