It was primal. It was real. It was what he wanted. Hell, he’d been wanting it, or some version of it, since seventh grade, and there was no damn explanation for that. Or if there was, he wasn’t sure he could face it. Esme Alexandria Alden, geezus, she had always been the one-the only one who turned him inside out. He wanted her, and she was standing next to him in a dark, and quiet, and private place, knowing it.
Arousal didn’t wash down through him. It had already arrived between his legs, hard, and hot, and heavy. She wasn’t running anywhere. Not moving an inch-and she was blushing. He couldn’t see the color of it staining her skin, not in the blue light, but it was there, in the downward tilt of her head, as if she had something to hide. It was there in her stillness beside him, the same stillness he’d felt in himself sitting at the table.
She knew what the two of them were about, and without another worrisome thought, he slid his hand around the side of her neck, cupping her face, and he lowered his mouth to hers.
Her response was to melt against him with a soft groan, her mouth open, welcoming him, her hands going to his chest, and that felt so good, to have her touching him.
But take it slow, he told himself. Don’t devour her, and whatever you do, pendejo, do not…do not scare her off. So for a long, endless minute, he kissed her, his tongue sliding deep, his mouth slanted over hers, just letting the taste and softness of her seep into him.
Yeah, this was all going to go just great.
Breaking off the kiss for a moment, he unsnapped and shrugged out of his holster and set the whole rig on a nearby table. Then he kissed her, picking the whole marvelous thing up again.
Her hand came up around the back of his neck, drawing him closer, and he gave in to it, letting her run this show, until she rocked her hips against him. It was a small move, just a brush of her pelvis up against his-and it was like getting plugged into a 220-volt outlet.
He stood perfectly still, holding her, his tongue making a slow foray across the inside of her mouth-his brain on fire.
God, it had been too long since he’d done this. She had no idea what she was doing to him-because she did it again, rocked against his cock, and his hands tightened on her, going to her hips. Slowly, inexorably, he started pulling up her skirt, hauling it hell and gone up over her ass, because he had to get his hands on her, on her skin, between her legs, under those panties.
And when he did, she felt like heaven. She was so wet and soft, his fingers sliding through her silken folds and into her vagina. His kiss got harder, his body pressing against her, and when she groaned, her legs widening, he knew she wanted exactly what he wanted. With one hand, he undid his belt buckle, no sooner getting it open than she was helping unsnap his jeans, unzip them, and push them down off his hips, so she could take him in her hand.
It was sweet, he couldn’t deny it, but what he wanted wasn’t sweet. What he wanted was to ride the edge she was putting him on and take it home. With his hand in her hair, holding the back of her head, kissing her, he pushed the scrap of red lace down-down to her thighs, then farther. He lifted her leg to get one side of her panties down off her calf and over her high heel, and with her leg wrapped around him, and her body so hot and warm up against him, everything in his world started coming together.
Hauling her back up against the wall, he pushed into her, one long slick slide of heated sex with her head going back, and her arms around his shoulders holding on for dear life. Nothing had ever been sweeter than to thrust into her again, and again, and again.
She had her tongue halfway down his throat, her little groans echoing in his mouth every time he pushed into her. Oh, geezus. He was so into her, driving deep, hot and hard and fast, and just feeling her come apart all over him.
“John… Johnny… Johnny-” She strained against him, riding him, and when she tightened around him, he went straight over the edge, pumping into her one last time, and oh, God, it felt so good to come inside her.
So amazingly good.
He held himself still, letting it all roll over him, her sweet, sweet softness, the way she smelled, the smell of them together, the sound of her breathing in his ear. She tightened around him again, a small contraction of her inner muscles, and he let out a soft laugh, nuzzling the side of her neck.
“Keep your legs wrapped around me,” he said, carefully pulling himself free and repositioning his arms around her to keep her close.
She sighed, and he kissed her ear.
“Esme,” he whispered her name and nuzzled her neck again. This was heaven. Easy, easy Alex in his arms, making love with him. He’d had a few girls. Once, he’d even thought he was in love-but this, with Esme, it felt different to be with her, different and better, more complete.
He kissed her again, his mouth partly open on the tender place below her ear. She responded by sliding her fingers up into his hair, and it felt so good.
“Come on, baby,” he said, carrying her over to the bed. “Let’s go do this right.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Picked up a tail-Dax guessed that was one way to put his problem, and it was true. He did have a guy on him, no doubt one of Lieutenant Loretta’s, but then there was this other part of his problem, the bigger part, the “trying to pick up a tail” part of his problem, or at least trying to pick up a piece of it. He was going to give it another five minutes, and then he’d head out, lose the cop, and make straight for Commerce City. The corner of Vine and Hoover, where Johnny Ramos had taken Easy, was a good location, within striking distance of Bleak’s warehouse without being too close for comfort.
From up on the catwalk, he checked the whereabouts of the plainclothes cop. The guy wasn’t bad at his job. He just wasn’t good enough not to tip off Dax. By far, the more interesting person working the room was Suzi Toussi. According to his reckoning of the sale tags, she was close to selling a quarter-million dollars’ worth of naked angels here tonight.
He was impressed and even thinking of buying one of them himself. The Johnny Ramos paintings were very cool, stark, very hard-edged, and Dax liked that. He wanted a coolheaded, hard-edged guy watching over Easy. But the other model, the blond-haired guy-the paintings of him were different, somehow more profoundly involving, more emotionally complex. One on the west wall, in particular, kept drawing Dax’s attention. It was one of the most transcendent paintings he’d ever seen, the kind of piece he wouldn’t mind looking at for the next fifty years, the kind of piece that might help a guy get through the night sometime-and God knew, every now and then a guy needed a little help getting through the night. Nikki McKinney’s process for her art included photography and paint, and for this piece she’d printed a life-size, high-contrast photograph of the angel in a creamy sepia tone on canvas and painted over the top of that in incredibly luminous, sheer colors, more like glazes, in a dozen shades of yellow, gold, and blue. The angel seemed to be in the act of lifting off the canvas, and in Dax’s eyes, there was no doubt about where he was going: straight to Paradise.
And there was something about him that said he could take you there, too.
He felt Jane come up beside him, from a moment spent talking to another guest. “I used to pray to that angel,” she said.