Page 227 of Tell Me Lies

He kissed her pussy, then used his tongue to dive deep. Her taste fueled his passion and increased his need as he stroked her button with his tongue. If he held back much longer, he would burst so he shifted position and hammered her with his dick. He entered with force, but her body received him without complaint or struggle. As he sank deeper, his body reacted like a hungry lion deprived of food. He became greedy, craving more and taking it with force.

As Javier worked his stiff cock up and down in ancient rhythm, his body burned with the need for release. Tiny bursts of pleasure flickered within like heat lightning as they moved in tandem, both seeking and needing.

“Javier,” she shouted out his name, chest heaving with effort and desire. Sweat slicked their skins as they came together and when he could wait no longer, he punched into her with swift, harsh strokes that fired wild, crazy waves of pleasure. “Fuck me harder, finish it, please.”

Physical delight spiraled through Javier, and he forgot everything else but his dick and the woman he enjoyed. In those seconds, the two were one, a single unit straining together for the ultimate release. He stilled as orgasm struck, powerful and intense, consuming him in sensual fire. He shut his eyes and savored the pleasure as it rocked him to his core. It lasted forever and not long enough. Javier’s strength, his power, and manhood flowed into Cecily’s body, giving as he took, conquering even as he surrendered to the rush.

When the waves of pure erotic bliss eased, he remained connected for a few more moments. He hated to break the connection, but he did, shifting his body to lie beside her. Cecily met his gaze without blinking as a small smile flirted with her lips. He had ravaged her and yet she had seemed to glory in it. Javier stretched out a lazy hand to caress her breasts, then let it rest on her belly. He wouldn’t linger long, never did. When his energy revived, he would rise, shower, then dress. She would leave… His thoughts froze.

“Chingators!” Javier spewed the word aloud. This one couldn’t leave. In the moment of desire, he’d forgotten this wasn’t any woman but one who watched him take a target. She could finger him to law enforcement and send him to jail. He always had a woman after a hit but never one who had witnessed his act. Javier faced a new situation. What the fuck would he do with this Cecily? He couldn’t keep her, like a pet cat, but if he sent her on her way, his life as he knew it could end.

His profession put him in the position where he’d been observed and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t see anything he might have done differently. No, he hadn’t expected anyone to come to the rooftop terrace at that hour but short of locking the door or blocking it, he had no way to prevent Cecily’s arrival on the scene. Javier’s dick, his favorite body part, had betrayed him. He brought her home for a valid reason, but he’d taken her without remorse or thought. He hadn’t thought past the end of his cock or beyond filling his need. Now he had her with no way to get rid of the woman.

Javier had put himself into a corner and right now, he had trouble envisioning a way out of this debacle. He could kill her, but he wasn’t a madman. He didn’t kill out of passion. In the sandbox, he’d killed for survival and to follow orders. In New York, his hits were jobs, his career, and the way he paid his bills. He used his prowess the same way some fucker good with money and numbers made a killing on Wall Street.

Sated, weary, and spiraling down from an orgasmic high, he decided he’d think about it tomorrow. He would devise a plan, one that would keep him both free and from killing Cecily. His eyes became heavy with sleep and when he closed them, Javier slept.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had slept with a woman in his bed, definitely not since he returned from his service.

There was a first time for everything.

Chapter Two

He woke slowly, his head thick and his thoughts confused. Javier hadn’t drunk anything, but he felt hungover, as if he’d tied one on until he passed out. As his senses engaged and awareness returned, he smelled cum. That triggered a memory, and he cracked open one eye to find Cecily in his arms. He untangled himself and she rolled over, still asleep. Javier realized she possessed a beauty he’d failed to see last night. Her lips appeared puffy from vigorous kissing. A blend of cum and remnants of her perfume wafted toward him, and his cock twitched with interest.

Javier almost acted on it, considering waking her with passion and finesse, but instead, he climbed out of bed and hit the shower. He scrubbed his body with his favorite sage-scented bodywash and let the water pour over him, rousing and refreshing. After toweling off, he padded through the apartment naked, a usual habit, and made coffee. With a cup in hand, he returned to don simple shorts and a t-shirt. He had no plans to leave home, but he did remove the envelope of cash from his jacket. He shifted the Remington painting and put the bills into the safe behind it. Javier kept a substantial amount of money in the safe, but he also had a very healthy bank account. He would maneuver some of the cash to deposit without it being traced.

With that task out of the way, Javier pulled back the curtains and sipped coffee as he gazed across the East River. He liked his coffee hot, black, and strong. No need for sugar or cream. As he gazed at the Queensboro Bridge at Roosevelt Island, he pondered his dilemma. Maybe he should leave the city for a time, go elsewhere, and drag the woman along. Sooner or later, the heat would die down over the Wall Street guy’s murder. Maybe with a little time and a lot of schmooze, he could count on Cecily’s silence.

With his wealth, he could afford to go anywhere he wanted but if they traveled out of the United States, he would need a passport for the woman. Javier had one, for one of his aliases. Born Javier Jesus Morales, he often used Julio Luis Garcia. Most of his clients knew him only as Iceman. His reputation for cold, deliberate killing preceded him and prompted his nickname. He’d bought his apartment as Luis Hernandez. His passport was under Garcia so if he ever needed to flee, he could. He expected Cecily would have one, but he also wondered who she was and how high profile. She carried a small purse, but he hadn’t searched it yet.

Javier pondered potential locations. Without a passport, there were many spots. He racked his brain. They could go to Maine, to some of the old summer retreats that still existed to hide. It would be off-season since autumn loomed. He considered Colorado, maybe a remote cabin in the Rockies, a place with a spectacular view and clean, cold, mountain air. For a few seconds, he thought about California. He could probably pass as an Angelo but rejected the notion. Javier wasn’t into movie stars, sand, or sushi.

After refilling his cup, Javier settled into the corner of the leather sectional to think. These days, he had no family or friends in the city. Papi had died the summer before he started junior high and Mami moved to live near her sister in Miami after he joined the Army. His sister, Josefina, the one they had called Josie from birth, lived in Flagstaff with her husband and four kids. If any corner of his heart remained intact, it was the part he kept for his family. He loved his little sister, liked her husband, and adored his nieces and nephews. He showered them with gifts on impulse, had set up both college and trust funds for each. Javier wished he could go to Arizona. The Ponderosa Pines pleased him, and his spirit might rest easier there, but he rejected the notion. If he were there, he might draw danger and he wouldn’t put Josie’s family in the crosshairs.

Miami was out of consideration for the same reason. Mami lived there so he would stay clear. He saw her twice a year, on Mother’s Day and Christmas. Although he had many scattered aunts, uncles, and cousins, none offered a viable possibility, no one except Jorge.

Growing up, the brothers were close, best friends and constant companions. Three years older, he’d followed Jorge into everything from pickup basketball and stickball games to street gangs. Jorge represented one of the reasons Javier cleaned up his act by high school because Jorge got arrested for stealing video games with other gang members. He’d done time in juvie for the crime, but the experience scared him straight. After his release, scoffing at Javier’s decision to join the Army, Jorge moved across the country to Oklahoma. Javier never quite understood the appeal that the open plains of the Oklahoma Panhandle held for his brother. He’d visited twice but wasn’t impressed. The small-town life that Jorge embraced seemed mundane to Javier. After the Bronx, he would admit it had a certain calm and quiet. It probably would be a good place to raise a family and Jorge had three boys, his pride and joy. Javier did the same for them as he had for Josie’s kids.

Sitting on his couch on the Upper East Side, Javier realized Oklahoma might be his best option. Jorge thought Javier made a living as a security guard and never questioned the wealth he’d accumulated which was far beyond the earning potential of someone working security. He visited his brother’s family on rare occasions and at Christmas saw them at Mami’s.

Never one to make snap decisions, Javier decided he would mull over the possibility. He surfed the Internet long enough to research Cecily Randolph DeLauncy. Rich bitch, just like he figured. She had the air, the manners, and the expectation she’d get what she wanted. Daughter of Eddie Randolph, a Broadway star known for his skill to sing and dance, she’d grown up with luxury. Her mother had been a fashion model, then an actress, then a powerful force in New York society. Both died, however, in a boat explosion near Crete six years earlier. He skimmed the search engine results with interest, wise to know his enemy. The bitch had married Pierre DeLauncy, the French fashion designer. He had been eighty-five when they wed, and Cecily had been twenty-five. When he died last year from natural causes, his vast estate had been divided between his children from his first marriage, all more than old enough to be Cecily’s parents or even grandparents, and her. Interesting, he noted. Born to privilege and a social climber as well. She had been an only child and apparently had few, if any, relatives.

Hunger rumbled in his belly, so he rose to fix an omelet. Cooking ranked among his secret skills, one he seldom admitted to anyone. Growing up with working parents, he soon learned to pitch in to make basic food. After the service, as he embarked on his new career, he dabbled in cooking. Javier had gathered pots, pans, and utensils, then taught himself to cook a few dishes.

Lost in thought, he failed to notice Cecily until she spoke, her voice low-pitched.

“Javier?”

The woman exited the bedroom, wrapped in one of his sheets, and startled him.

“Caramba!”

She glared at him. “I don’t speak Spanish.”

Javier laughed. “From the way you cussed me last night, I figured you knew every fucking language, Bitch Eyes. You shouldn’t sneak up on me. I might have shot you.”

Although not impossible, since he didn’t have a weapon in hand, it wasn’t happening now. He seldom armed himself in the sanctum of his home.

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