Page 50 of Dangerous Passion

“I want to kiss you here.” His voice was deep and dark, as delicious as the coffee she’d drunk from his mouth. “Right here, a long kiss, over and over, my tongue in you.”

The vision blossomed in her head—she was spread-eagled on his fur blanket, legs wide open, his dark head buried between them. It was such a lascivious, erotic picture her vagina rippled with excitement.

He felt it. He didn’t smile, if anything his face grew harsher, the muscles along his jaw jumping as he bit his back teeth. His hand was moving more quickly and her hips were writhing around it. He knew exactly where to touch, and how. The muscles in her thighs pulled tight and her stomach muscles knotted.

“Come for me.” That deep voice was used to command. She had to obey.

As soon as he said the words, her body tipped over the edge and with a cry she started convulsing.

“Now,” Drake said, his voice guttural. In a second he was sheathed in a condom. He opened her completely with two fingers, holding her open for him as he thrust inside, the movement slow, strong. He thrust to the hilt, so embedded in her she could feel his pubic hairs against the soft tissue of her sheath.

Oh God, she was clenching now around the strong, thick column, tight clenches of her muscles in sharp electric pulses. They watched each other, deep grooves bracketing his mouth, his breath coming fast. Just as the contractions were dying down, Drake started moving, slowly at first. A gentle circling with his hips, as if stretching her, then sharp little thrusts upward.

Oh God, he managed to reach some spot in her she’d never known about because each thrust set off sparks of sensation, sharp, almost painful. His movements prolonged her contractions.

“That’s right,” he grunted, “keep going. Don’t stop.”

She couldn’t. With each passing second, the sensations intensified until her heart was hammering, the entire body throbbing. Drake’s strokes were sharp and hard, big hands holding her hips still for him.

It went on and on until the contractions were almost painful in their intensity. Grace cried out, shaking. It was simply too intense to bear.

Drake stopped under her, abruptly and she fell forward on to him, exhausted and sweaty, wrung out. Who knew herbody contained all that erotic energy? She was totally spent with the force of her orgasms, her mind a complete blank.

It took long minutes before she could take stock, her senses firing up once more, like a spent machine sputtering back to life.

Sensations came back slowly. The feel of him under her, hard muscles tense as steel. His breaths so deep her legs were stretched as far as they could go to accommodate his chest.

His penis inside her, still hot and hard.

Oh God, she couldn’t. There was nothing more in her.

She shifted slightly, feeling him surge inside her.

“You haven’t, um…”

His mouth was against her shoulder and she could feel his lips moving in a smile.

“No,” he said, his voice so deep she could feel the vibrations in his chest against her breasts. “But I will, count on it.”

Chapter Eleven

Rutskoi looked up at the skyscraper right across the street from Drake’s building.

Most of the building was made up of offices for everything ranging from import-export to dental studios. There were a few apartments, scattered here and there throughout the building. Most of the apartments were rented by companies for short term leases. Two he suspected were used by high-class sex professionals for by-appointment-only sex.

Rutskoi was tempted … but no. Not until the job was finished. But afterwards, hell. He’d have millions of dollars, and would earn millions more. There wasn’t a woman in the world he couldn’t buy, for the rest of his life, or at least until his dick gave out. And even then, there was always Viagra.

Bless the Americans and their inventions.

By a fluke, there were two apartments on the 30thfloor facing Drake’s quarters, both in the middle, across from where Drake’s living room was. A corner apartment or office wouldn’t do any good, because Rutskoi needed a straight shotfrom the center of the building into the room at the center of the building across the street.

Drake’s windows were treated with polycarbonate, probably lots of it, knowing Drake. His windows would be as bullet-resistant as you could get. Bulletproofdidn’t really exist—not even armored cars were entirely bullet-proof—but Drake’s would come close. Even a bullet fired from the most powerful weapon—and Rutskoi had the best, a Barrett 95—wouldn’t penetrate the treated glass at a sharp angle with any degree of accuracy. If it did penetrate, he couldn’t be sure of a kill shot.

He had to be sure. Absolutely positive.

So he needed to be in a place with a direct line of sight straight into Drake’s living room. It was the only room Rutskoi had been in and he’d counted the doors. Fifth from the south end.

The plans of Drake’s building were nowhere to be found, not even in the municipal zoning offices. Rutskoi had found the name of the architect’s studio that had designed the building and there, too, the plans were gone. Disappeared, like a puff of smoke.

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