Page 17 of To Claim A King
I held myself still for another second more, leaning down to bite the puffy pink skin of his lips. He laughedinto my mouth, his erratic breathing softly fading into deep, satisfied gulps of air. Gently pulling out of him, I flopped down by his side, sweaty and sated, the rage beneath my skin quieted to a light pulse. He interlaced our fingers as we stared up at the ceiling, our heartbeats in sync as we came down from the high.
I turned on my side and looked into the face of Lauchlan O’Donnell, the man I couldn’t get out of my head. His arrogance, his silliness—like he’d never held the weight of the world on his shoulders. He was light and easy, and despite his own shitty hand in life, he’d never let it ruin him like mine had ruined me. I envied it as much as I loathed it. I craved him as much as I wanted to despise him.
He was too damn… likeable.
Before I pulled myself up to grab a washcloth, I heard rustling on the far side of the room, followed by the click of footsteps across the hardwood floor. Hillary’s surprised blue eyes hovered above us in seconds, her appraising stare one of amusement, and light distaste.
“I’ll be ordering more coconut oil, boys,” she announced, before the click of her heels retreated toward the kitchen. “I’m pretty sure that’snotwhat it’s for.”
Lauchlan snickered beside me, and despite this shit day, and this shittier life, I laughed too.
Bellamy:Time’s up, Locke. Clients want closure on this one. What’s your status?
The text interrupted a riveting game I was playing, and I scowled at my phone screen for the rude intrusion. ‘Course, I hadn’t forgotten about Bellamy and The Six, and the mission that’d brought me into this sorry mess in the first place, but it hadn’t been on my list of priorities.
Not to mention I hadn’t come up with a plan, exactly, for the priceless painting now on the other side of the Atlantic—or wherever my beautiful Blondie had shipped it to. But, plans could be written in a moment, and I had a semblanceof one brewing while my sexy mafia man healed up on the couch beside me.
“Do you still have your forger bloke?” I asked Aaron casually as I threw a potato up in the air, catching it with the ease of a well... well-practiced potato thrower.
This place was empty of all entertainment. No TV, no magazines, not even bloody romance books, and the phones Joey had sourced for us were basic as feck. So, I’d found the closest thing to a ball within the confines of the kitchen cabinets—a potato. I’d been tossing it up in the air for what had to be a good hour; my wrist was cramping, but I hadn’t dropped it in over 200 throws, and I’d be gobbed if I stopped before gravity finally made me her mistress.
Aaron looked up from his crossword; he’d snagged the games section in today’s paper before I could, so at least he had some entertainment. “I do not believe they have gone missing,Rojo,” he remarked dryly as if I’d asked a dumb question. “Are you looking to make a copy after all?”
“Of Blondie’s painting? Yup.” I nodded, snatching at the rogue potato as it spiraled a bit too far to the right. It danced along my fingertips, threatening my perfect score.
Not today, my pretty potassium.
I turned my attention back to the healing Colombian, who was looking far better today than he had since Club Assassin; his lips were no longer parched and starched, instead looking particularly plump and pink.Nice and kissable, Daddio.
He eyed me expectantly, back to the healthy, rich color of amber. Aaron was very pretty, in a “don’t fuck with me or I’ll flay you” sort of way. I was quickly discovering that pretty and particularly murderous was exactly my type—or it seemed to be. All three of my companions happened to fit the description, and I just so happened to want to fuck them all.
Hell, I’d actually bedded two. Although, if you would hear them tell it, they would saytheybeddedme. Potato-potahto, really. In either scenario, I was getting freshly fucked, so the semantics hardly mattered.
Why was Aaron looking at me like I had three heads? Right. Forgery.
“I was just thinking,” I mused idly as I balanced the lumpy spud on my index finger, “when we get out of this mess, I’ll need an out with The Six.”
“I can admire your foresight.” My prickly companion set aside his crossword and swung his legs down from the couch, turning to face me. “But you are perhaps putting the cart before the horse, no? Or are The Six equally murderous as the likes of Antonio and Alvarez?”
I considered that for a second, but a second was all it took. “I mean, I imagine they’re less bloody about it than the likes of you, mate, but they’re not people I’d want a mark on my head for crossing.”
That they weren’t. Bellamy wasn’t a killer, but the higher-ups would certainly take a piece of me—likely my heart out of my chest—to send a message to any other squirrelly conmen looking to bow out of a contract. I liked being on a pedestal for certain things, but that wasn’t one of them. I stifled the shudder creeping up my backside, not willing to lose my potato-winning streak for a bit of fear.
He nodded curtly, as if taking my words to heart. I liked when Aaron took me seriously. He was a serious man, so for him to do so meant I was part of the serious club instead of the group joke. I eyed the spinning potato in my hand and quickly palmed it. It pained me after all that effort—and the very literal pain of my spasming wrist—but it was hard to be part of the serious club when playing with potatoes.
“I will connect you.” Aaron nodded thoughtfully. “But they will need access to the painting to forge it. You must compel your ‘Blondie’ for that one.”
Right. Well, surely Blondie didn’t want me to die a right sorry painful death at the hands of another criminal organization, so I’d make my appeal soon—with a few administered orgasms to sweeten the deal. I wasn’t above bribing her with my tongue in both ways to secure the forgery. Such sacrifices had to be made when a man’s life was on the line.
Speaking of—I looked at my watch. Hillary and Kellan had been gone most of the day, and their absence wasfeltin this cavern of a warehouse. I could think of a million ways Daddy Roboto could have entertained me today, but I’d chickened out each time I had the urge to kiss the feck out of those delicate lips. It wasn’t often a man could makemenervous, but shyte.
Flayer McFlayerson just might be my undoing. I wanted to pounce on that tight, slightly damaged body of his and suck on every square inch of bronze skin until he creamed all over me from pleasure.
“Wanna play a game?” I asked instead, nodding toward the kitchenette behind us. My Colombian god raised one eyebrow in question, but he didn’t say no. So I leaped at the opportunity before he’d decide his crossword was more entertaining than I was.
As if.
In my exploration of the place yesterday, I’d found a small bottle of Scottish whiskey in the office cabinet, unopened, and coated in plasterboard dust. Some sneaky little carpenter had likely stored it for a nip and had left it behind. Their loss, my gain.
