Nauti Dreams

“Then show me how it’s done.” Her fingers lifted from her flesh, dewy with her juices and he couldn’t help himself. He snagged her wrist and brought her fingers to his lips.

Her taste exploded against his tongue. Sweet and earthy. Nothing tasted as good as Chaya’s passion. He covered the tips of her tasty fingers, licked them clean, and watched her eyes darken as he caressed the sensitive tips with his tongue.

“I’ll show you exactly how it should be done,” he murmured. “You should be savored.”

He stretched out between her thighs, pressed them wide, and blew a breath across the dampened flesh, his gaze lifting to her as a tremor shook her body. “Savored in the most delicious ways. With a kiss.” He covered her hard little clit in a heated kiss, nudged it with his tongue, and felt it throb in anticipation.

“Just a kiss?” Her voice was hoarse with pleasure now.

“Hmm. A kiss wasn’t enough?” He kissed the silken folds, drew the taste of her juices onto his tongue, and hummed in appreciation.

“Not enough.” Her hands were in his hair now as she tried to press him closer.

“A taste?” He dipped his tongue inside those luscious folds, licked softly, slowly, felt the soft flutter at the entrance of her core and the echo of the clenching need building in the muscles there.

“Taste isn’t enough.” She writhed beneath him, her hips arching, pressing her pussy closer to his mouth as he kissed and licked and listened to her cries of pleasure building in his head.

Making love. He’d never made love before Chaya, but that was what he was doing now. Making love to her. Loving her with everything inside his soul.

“Kissing or tasting?” His own voice was ragged now. “Demanding little thing, aren’t you?”

He lifted his head, smiling back at her as she watched him, lashes lowered sensually, a sheen of perspiration on her face now.

And those sweet, lush breasts. They were swollen, her nipples hard, tight, and flushed with need. He couldn’t help but lift one hand, slide it over her stomach, and cup one of those sweet mounds as he went back to kissing, tasting. And licking. He licked around her clit. He laid little kisses on it, pursing his lips and drawing it inside the heat of his mouth until she unraveled beneath him, arched and cried his name in release.

Before the tremors finished sweeping through her, he jerked to his knees, lifted her legs until they lay against his chest, and began working his cock inside her.

Fuck. She was tight. So hot he had to clench his teeth, tried valiantly to think about car motors, anything, everything but the destructive, velvet grip encasing his cock.

And nothing worked. Nothing filled his mind but the scent and the feel of her. Her voice crying out his name, her hands gripping his wrists as he held on to her hips. Until he was buried fully inside her, balls deep in the sweetest, slickest haven a man’s soul could ever find.

“Natches. Oh God, it’s so good.”

Good wasn’t even a description. There was no description for this pleasure; it defied any poet’s ability to voice it. He tightened, arched deeper inside her and felt the sweat running down his chest as sensation upon sensation whipped over his body, dug into his nerve endings and filled him with ecstasy.

His head lowered until he could kiss her ticklish little ankle, before she jerked, a panting little cry falling from her lips.

He glanced up at her and grinned before licking over the side of her foot. And she moaned, her foot flexing as he lifted one hand from her hip to her foot, and as he began to thrust, let his teeth bite down, just below her big toe.

Chaya screamed with the sensation. He bit her. Bit her foot and thrust inside her, once, twice, and she was coming again. Exploding into a million brilliant fragments as his hips moved harder, moved faster. He was pounding into her, his expression tightening, sweat rolling down his neck as she felt herself flying from one peak to another, then joining him as his release flowed into her.

She watched him, the way his eyes narrowed on her, became sensual and heavy a second before they closed and a shudder wracked his body.

“I can’t get enough of you,” he breathed out roughly as he collapsed over her, allowing her legs to embrace his hips before sliding to the bed. “Every time, I only want you more.”

Running her fingers through his hair she smiled. “Good. Because I can’t get enough either.”

He rolled to his back, dragging her to him until she was draped over his chest, weak and exhausted and knowing there was no time to sleep.

They lay like that, their hearts finally easing in their chests, their breathing returning to normal.

“When you leave the boat, don’t look back,” he told her. “Don’t stop, don’t pause. You’re a woman walking away from something she can’t deal with.”

“I know how to do my job.” But her voice caught on a sob. Walking away from Natches without looking back?

“I know you do. But it won’t be easy, Chay. And you can’t pause. You have to keep going.”

She nodded against his chest.

“I have a duffel packed for you. Some clean clothes Dawg brought over in a plastic bag last night. Your other clothes. You’ll take your briefcase, but only your laptop inside it. They can tell by the way you carry it, the way you move, the way it hangs from your shoulder or your hand if there’s anything more in it.”

She nodded again.

“When it happens, when I meet with him, you’re not to come near until he’s cuffed. Do you understand?”

His voice was so hard, his tone cool, but she could feel the emotions coursing beneath the surface. As able as she knew she was, she had also come to realize something. He called her his strength, but she could also become his weakness. Just as he could become hers if anyone ever wanted to hurt him to strike back at her.

“Not until he’s cuffed,” she agreed, praying she could keep that promise.

“Let’s get you ready to go then.” He lifted her from his chest and moved from the bed with her.

Standing beside it, he touched her face and gave her a hard, lingering kiss.

“When I get you back here, you’re not getting out of the bed for a week.”

“At least a week,” she promised, standing still as he moved back and stared down at her.

“I don’t like this,” she finally told him. “You shouldn’t be alone with him.”

His smile was tinged with bitterness, but no regret. “I won’t be. Remember? You’re my shield.”

And she had to be content with that.

“Go shower. I’ll get your things together.”

And then she would leave him alone. Alone to think, alone to remember, and Chaya knew it. Just as she knew there was no other way to convince the monster that Natches was alone.

Leaving him this time was breaking her heart.

TWENTY-ONE

Natches gave Chaya time to get started up the boardwalk before he stepped onto the deck of his houseboat to watch her leave.

Instantly he felt the rifle scope between his eyes, which meant, hopefully, he was drawing it away from Chaya. He smirked at the would-be assassin, daring him to take the shot, knowing none would be taken. But he was smart enough, instinctive enough to feel it.

Then he turned his gaze back to Chaya, keeping his expression carefully mocking, as though watching her walk away meant nothing to him.

It wasn’t forever, he reminded himself. Hell no. After this, he was never going to watch Chaya walk away from him again, he would make damned sure of it.

Shaking his head as though amused at something, he turned and walked back into the living room and closed the door behind him.

Chaya’s cell phone was tucked at his belt; it was turned on. According to her, even disabling the battery wouldn’t disable the wire.

All he had to do now was wait for Dayle Mackay to learn Chaya had left and to call. And he would call. Cranston was betting against it, as was Alex. Three against two, because Dawg, Rowdy, and Natches all knew Dayle would call.

He didn’t have to wait long. Two hours that he spent pacing the living room, going over the plan, trying to make certain he’d considered every angle, and the cell phone rang.

He unclipped it unhurriedly and flipped it open before bringing it to his ear.

“Yeah?” As though he didn’t know who the hell it was.

“We need to talk, son.” Grating, smug, Dayle’s voice came over the line clearly.

Natches stayed still, his fists clenching. He took the phone from his ear and flipped it closed, disconnecting the call. He didn’t want to appear too eager, did he? He had to swallow back the urge to throw up at the sheer confidence in Dayle’s voice.

How could anyone deceive himself to the extent that Dayle had, believing he would ever carry the right to call Natches “son”? Even with the slight evidence Dayle had been given, how could he ever imagine Natches would have a desire to speak to him? To kill, yeah, killing him might assuage a hell of a lot of anger, but in the long run, it would only end up pissing Natches off more.

Natches liked to think he wasn’t a man who fooled himself easily. He’d thought Dayle wasn’t. It seemed he was wrong, because a half hour later, the phone range again.

“What the hell do you want?” was his answer.

“We need to talk,” Dayle repeated, his voice throttled, anger evident in it.

“About what? Your treasonous activities? They’ve already caused me enough problems if you don’t mind,” he sneered. “If you’re going to save the world, try to do it without involving me. Okay?”

Save the world his ass. He almost choked on that one. Damn, he’d thought he was a better actor than this.

Dayle said nothing for long moments. “Some information is dangerous to have, Natches,” he finally replied.

“Yeah, so pull the damned trigger next time I step outside, why don’t you? That would just solve all our problems.”

Dayle chuckled. “That sixth sense of yours has always been good. Come to your aunt Nadine’s house, Natches. One hour. Just give me a few minutes to talk to you; that’s all I’m asking for. Believe it or not, we might have a few things in common.”

Uh-huh. They sure did. His blood and the fact that Natches really wanted to spill it.

But he stayed silent.

“I can’t imagine we have anything in common,” he finally stated. “And I doubt Nadine would let me in the door.”

“One hour, Natches.” Dayle’s voice gentled, and it sounded sickening. “I’ll be there waiting for you.”

This time Dayle disconnected.

Natches flipped the phone closed and returned it to the clip on his belt. He checked the clock. It was barely nine and he needed a beer. Hell, whiskey. The bastard was driving him to drink.

He pushed his fingers through his hair and walked upstairs. He buckled the black leather chaps he used for riding the Harley in winter over his jeans and pulled on the heavy boots he wore when riding the powerful machine.

The leather jacket, scuffed and beaten, was pulled from the closet and thrown to the bed as he moved to the dresser. He tucked a knife in the side of his boot. Picking up the jacket, he walked downstairs and pulled a beer from the refrigerator.

Hell, he wished Chaya was here. He’d lie on the couch with her again, hold her, and reinforce the shield. His lips quirked at the thought of that. It had taken him long enough to get beneath her shields, but once he had, the woman he found beneath there was more than a match for him. And he liked that; he liked that fine.

He finished the beer, tossed it in the trash, and moved to the couch to wait. He’d wait that hour before he left the houseboat. There was no sense in arriving early, or even on time. He may as well make an entrance when he arrived. He and Dayle Mackay had never pretended to stand on ceremony with each other.

He pushed his fingers through his hair and thought of the team moving into place. They knew where Dayle’s spotters were; that would make it easier. Natches knew Alex and his team—they didn’t make mistakes. And Dawg and Rowdy were black death when they wanted to be. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">