Page 30 of Hit Man
His tongue slips between my lips, warm like baked bread and slick like honey. I give into him, feeling his palms cup my bottom and lifting me into him. My nipples rub against his chest and harden like two stones, creating a delicious friction and deepening my need for more. My tongue answers his, entwining and twirling and mating with him. It’s heady. Intense. Aggressive and hot.
And . . . over.
I gasp as he breaks away and releases me. He leans in close and whispers to me. “Slap my face.”
My head snaps up and I meet his eyes. “Seriously?”
“Dead.”
I feel a deep wrinkle form on my forehead.
“You don’t like me, remember?” he murmurs in a hushed tone. Once more, I get a nagging sensation that there’s a reason why he’s lowered his voice, that despite being in this garden, our conversation isn’t as private as I’d have hoped it might be.
“Is there a camera—”
“Make up your mind,chavita.You’re wasting my time. I’ve got a date with a blond in twenty.”
I can’t help myself. I stiffen. “You’re joking.”
“Diana’s waiting.”
Slap him? I’m six seconds away from grabbing that Cupid statue and whacking him over his man-whore head. Guaranteeing Diana a much longer wait.
His palm hits my ass.Smack. It’s all the encouragement I need.
But instead of slapping him, I ball my fist and punch him in the jaw. We’ve had sex. We kissed like animals in heat. We broke a goddamn bed together. And he’s going from my lips to hers?
My knuckles hurt but it doesn’t stop me from throwing a second punch. Which he brushes away with his hand before I can land it. Quicker than a blink, he grabs hold of me, spins me around, then shoves me forward, forcing me to move back toward the main path.
I resist, digging my heels into the hard earth. Furious as all hell. Never in my life have I lost my temper like this. Not even when I discovered Frenchie’s G-string beneath Howie’s pillow. And I’ll be damned if he’s going to walk away with the last word. I spin on my heels. He’s halfway in the other direction, almost out of sight. “Hey,” I holler.
He pauses and turns.
I treat him to a phrase I picked up from a Spanish book of insults I’d briefly thumbed through.“Que te folle un pez,”I grind out fiercely, still spitting mad.
His laugh seems to follow me as I hurry away.
“If there’s any way it’s feasibly possible,” I mutter beneath my breath, “I do hope you get fucked by a fish.”
9
Aubrey
Rain rattling off the adobe roof tiles jars me awake. I immediately stiffen then relax. I’m wrapped in a sheet, mercifully alone with my twisted dreams and conflicted emotions. Diego in my bed. Him inside me. Him kissing me like he means it, before pulling away with blatant indifference and showing me just how little what transpired between us means.
I sit up and roll out of bed.
My experience with him has given me something to take away with me. I’ve been barking up the wrong tree when it comes to men. My boyfriends have been a lot like me minus the pervy tendencies I seem to get off on so much. What I need in a man is this: someone who can be an intellectual by day, a cook in the early evening, and a dirty, filthy-tongued godsend in the bedroomall night long.
I sigh. It’s time I’m on my way. The bungalows aren’t equipped with phones and cell service here is impossible. Which means I’ll have to venture out into the rain and to the mansion to call a cab.
Rolling out of bed, I pull on a pair of shorts, a T-shirt, and sneakers. My hair is a disaster when it rains so I pull it back into a ponytail and secure it into a neat, frizzproof bun. Fortunately, I’ve brought a light raincoat, which, despite the recent pause in rain, I fold and slide inside my handbag before heading out.
The dining room is empty. Guests seem to be sleeping in on this dreary, overcast morning. I sip my coffee while a cook prepares my veggie omelet and pull my book out of my backpack:Sustainable Housing for the Poor.
Disappointment settles in.
When I was a kid living a middle-class existence in Sacramento, there was one house at the end of the block that everyone knew. Heck, how could you miss it? Its size could be measured by the three neighboring houses combined. Ronald Rolland lived there, a ridiculously wealthy real-estate mogul and investor rumored to own several Las Vegas casinos. I know all this because my best friend in elementary school, Margarita, a bubbly, friendly girl with a contagious grin, lived in the servant’s quarters. Her parents worked for Mr. Rolland’s household. That is until Mr. Rolland became interested in running as an independent-party political candidate and bogus talk about building walls between countries began. And the deportation of my friend’s family became a political example.
