Page 41 of Penny for Your Saints

She rides me slow and deep, our eyes locked together like a direct line to the soul.

The thinking part of my brain tells my hands to be still, that my animal desires should be satisfied with this—already a bounty of sensation, of pleasure.

Yet my insatiable omega nature demands that I indulge. Though the heat is not yet upon me, I cannot deny my own secret wants.

I let my palms creep up over Louise’s wrists—where she braces herself on me to steady her ride—guiding her hands to my neck.

For a split second her eyes widen, and there’s the nigh imperceptible flinch of her wrists beneath my touch. Then her lips split into a wry smile.

“Were you jealous of Sébastien? Is that why you yanked me off that fence so damn hard?” she teases, that mean edge to her smirk only making me harder inside her as she begins to squeeze.

I’m not going to last long like this; Louise leaning carefully into the pressure of the choke as she bounces up and down on my cock.

I make a hollow sound somewhere in my chest as I piston upward.

“Good boy!” Louise praises me—a breathy whine in her voice as her eyelids flutter.

This forces me to lose control completely–my body tic-ing and convulsing wildly beyond my control.

Louise lets her grip go as she throws her hips down; allowing me sweet oxygen once more as she fully seats herself on my cock—her lock tightening around me as I cum deep inside her.

“How’s that?” she croons, sighing and adjusting her legs so that she’s balanced back on her knees—no longer loaded in a squatting position—our bodies linked together until her lock will release my key.

There aren’t even words I can use to describe the sensation, I’m tongue tied and feel almost like I’m slightly drunk—my cock still sensitive enough to draw moans and breathy sighs fromme as she nestles herself against my chest—still straddling me where our bodies meet.

I’m about to say something about all the things we’ve got to do once we’re no longer stuck together, but the soft warmth of Louise against me—her breasts pressed against my chest, her hair tumbling over my collarbones and shoulder, the heavy floral iris wafting up from the toss of scarlet waves.

Something about our breathing together makes everything sort of blur at the edges until—without knowing–we fall asleep.

It took longer than I would have liked to do my dirty work and get back to Safehouse D.

The drive to Goosewing Lake took almost four hours one way. Given, I didn’t take more than half an hour to do my business, record my evidence, cover my tracks, and skedaddle back to the loving arms of the scaffolding wrapped apartment building at the far end of Beach City’s meatpacking district that has served as our hideaway since we were ousted by the raid on the Liberty City flop.

I pull to the end of the metered parking at the end of the block and put the boxy station wagon in park—a pair of decoy plates freshly applied to the stolen shit-box at a gas station outside city limits. Just as I’m about to pat down my pockets and confirm I’ve got everything—the broad-shouldered figure of Michael Duboze comes into focus at the parking meter beside my car.

Mike feeds half a handful of quarters into the meter until it hits its prepay limit and turns around to knock on my driver’sside window—pointing at my passenger door; the locking mechanism pressed tight against the plastic interior.

I roll my eyes and pop open the lock, moving a stack of newspapers from the seat to the floor as he folds himself into the cramped passenger seat.

“What’s so important now? You can’t just keep showing up like this, Mike.” I shake my head at him, adjusting the rear-view mirror so that I can get a good look at the sidewalk behind me leading up to the car without being too obvious.

Mike takes a deep breath and adjusts his tie before tapping the dashboard just above where his knees touch the fake wood paneling between the broken air conditioning vents.

“Are you sure about this, Frank?” he asks gravely.

“Sure about what, Mike?” I growl, the phone in my pocket and the 10 minute video stored in its memory—one of the more dangerous weapons I’ve wielded in my career.

“If you do this now, there’s no going back. You know that, right?” He levels his gaze at me.

“What would you have me do, Mike?” I sigh, dragging a hand down my face. “Her intel was useless, she didn’t even know her parents didn’t work for Bronson & Bronson, she was looking into Covartis—not the Windmill or the Feds.” I grip the steering wheel, even though the car is in park. “If we get her on our side—maybe we can use her to get to The White Knight.” Michael’s mouth sets in a grim line.

“And what if she’s the answer to the cure? You’re really going to use her as bait for The White Knight? What makes you think he won’t just burn her, too?” he snorts derisively.

“Because, if she really is the missing link, the ‘cure’—then he can’t afford to burn her either.” I grin, doing my best to look like I believe my own bluster.

“That’s a pretty big ‘if’ there, Frankie.” Michael blows out a long breath.

“Good thing I’m a gambling man.” I give him a wink and check my rear view; just like that—he’s gone and I’m once again left to the business of destroying Louise Penny’s understanding of her carefully plotted and curated life—her world.

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