Page 27 of Beautiful Rush
“Checking out Tate. He’s like a fine wine. Gets better with age.”
She laughed. “I’m on my lunch break. So how about I buy you some lunch?”
“How about I buy you some lunch. What are you hungry for?”
“A milkshake.”
I pulled away from the curb and blasted the air con. She fiddled with the stereo, surfing through the stations until she stopped at G-Eazy’s “Him & I” and cranked up the volume. Feet propped on the dash, she sang along to the chorus.
“I’ll be the Bonnie to your Clyde.”
“You keep forgetting I’m a cop.”
“So do you, Kosta.” Proving that she saw a lot and knew me better than the short amount of time we’d spent together would suggest.
We got chocolate shakes and fries from the drive-thru. While I drove, she fed me fries and talked about her new restoration job—the 1972 Plymouth Barracuda that she and Tate had bought at an auction. Her face and voice were animated, her passion for the project obvious.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t reciprocate by telling her what I was doing with my days and nights. Last night I’d helped Dmitri and Leon move product to a different stash house, one I’d conveniently found for them. Sergei and Viktor were on lookout and reported back that the cops had come to raid the first stash house, just as I’d warned them. Right now, I walked on water. But one wrong move, one stupid slip, and the whole operation could be jeopardized. Four days in the Hamptons, playing the role of Konstantin Nikolevsky, wasn’t my idea of a relaxing vacation. Plus, I had to deal with Angel. And tomorrow was Friday.
“Hey,” Keira said, calling my attention to her, having sensed that I was distracted. “Are you okay?”
I reached for her left hand and entwined our fingers, shooting her a smile. “It’s all good.”
She looked down at our joined hands. It was such a couple thing to do and I’d done it without thinking. We ended up in Bushwick and she pointed out Connor’s graffiti pieces to me as we drove past them. I already knew they were his and that his tag name was Triste. I pulled into a parking spot across the street from Ava’s wall. Connor had graffitied it when Ava had lavender hair; it was blowing back from her face as if it had been caught in a breeze. She was holding a heart in her hands, a perfect depiction of how love probably felt, the beating organ ripped from your chest and held in the hands of the person powerful enough to either crush it or breathe life into it.
“That’s my favorite one,” Keira said. “That and the one he did down in Miami. It was a hand coming out of the ocean.” She sounded sad and pensive and I knew the story behind it. Connor had gone down to Miami right after he got out of rehab. A recovering addict, newly clean and sober, Keira’s father had fucked him over. Back in November, when Connor had confided in me about all the shit he’d been through, I told him he was one of the strongest and best men I’d ever known. I hoped he believed me because I meant it. I felt the same way about both Vincent brothers and even though they hadn’t been raised together, Keira was a lot like them. Stronger and more resilient than she knew.
“How are Connor and Ava doing?” I asked. I remembered them in high school, always together. And then Connor’s drug-fueled years that nearly cost him his life.
“They’re doing great,” she said with a smile.
I was glad to hear that. They deserved to be happy. She turned her attention to me, and I dragged my eyes away from the artwork and to her face. I’ve been with beautiful women before, but from the first moment I laid eyes on her, I knew that every other woman paled in comparison. Her beauty was breathtaking and required no effort on her part. The kind of beauty that people write songs and poetry about.
“I’m going away for a few days,” I said.
I caught the disappointment on her face. Just a slight downturn of her lips, but I saw it and it made me happy.
“I guess it would be a waste of breath to ask where you’re going.”
I remained silent just as she’d expected.
She stuffed the last few fries into her mouth and licked the salt off her fingers before she angled her body toward me.
I wrapped my hand around the back of her neck and pulled her close for a kiss. She tasted like salty fries and chocolate shake and the minty lip balm she wore that made my lips tingle. She climbed over the gearbox and straddled me, her hands cupping my face as she peppered soft closed-mouth kisses on my face, my closed eyelids, the corners of my mouth. Everywhere except my lips. I moved the seat back as far as it would go so the steering wheel wouldn’t dig into her back and tugged off the elastic holding her hair up. It cascaded down her back, framing her perfect face.
She pushed down my athletic shorts and freed me from my boxer briefs, wrapping her hand around the base.
“What are you doing?” I asked, my voice hoarse.
“Giving you something to remember me by,” she said, staring at my cock in her hand.
“Think you can handle it?” I asked.
“I’m up for a challenge.” She wrapped her lips around the tip, and I tried to restrain myself from thrusting my hips and fucking her mouth like I wanted to do. A curtain of hair covered her face and I gathered it in one hand, holding it back in a makeshift ponytail so I could see her face. She took her time, running her tongue along the underside. Slowly, softly, agonizingly. She palmed my balls and gave them a gentle squeeze as if testing to see how much pressure she should exert. I needed it harder and I needed more.
I wrapped my hand over hers. “Squeeze.”
She tightened her grip and flattened her tongue, running it up the length of me. Watching me from underneath her thick eyelashes, she circled the head with the tip of her pink tongue then flicked it over my slit. This was fucking torture. I groaned and she laughed and in the next instant, she deep-throated me, taking it all at once, my tip hitting the back of her throat, her eyes tearing up, but she didn’t stop. She sucked me hard, her pouty lips wrapped around my cock, her tongue circling my shaft and it was hands-down the sexiest thing anyone had ever done with my dick. Because it was her, the girl who could overthink a kiss but play chicken with my SUV and give the world her proverbial middle finger. I thrust my hips, fucking her mouth and she took it all, dismissing any notions that she was inexperienced in the art of giving blow jobs.
