Spiker ran his hands down her back and lifted her up, barely breaking their kisses. Vanka ran her fingers through his hair, asking for as much as he needed also. He stripped her bra away and kneaded the muscles in her back.
“Take this off.” She pulled at the shoulders of his shirt until he’d ripped it overhead.
Her skin on his, the mounds of her breasts and pebbled nipples pressing to his chest—the sensation ran straight to his cock. Arousal thickened between her straddled legs, and a desperate shiver ran down his spine. The hell with taking his time.
Spiker lifted her off his lap and onto the couch. He tore away her clothes and stared. Her flushed skin, the perk of her breasts, the sweet, softness that led to her pussy . . . “Fuck, you are amazing.”
She reached for him and wrapped a hand around his neck, pulling his face to hers. Vanka nipped his bottom lip and wrapped her calf around his thigh.
“Fuck,” he amended, “you are mine.”
“I like that better.” Her hips lifted, angling the blunt crown of his erection to her slick entrance.
Her heat enveloped him, and Spiker savored every inch of true bliss that gripped his length. Vanka’s breath hitched, testing his restraint. He eased back and slid into her again. Sweat prickled the back of his neck. His body throbbed for an instantaneous explosion.
Vanka gripped his biceps. Her fingernails dug into his flesh. Her body arched as he filled her again. “You’re mine.”
Their kisses tangled as though they had been starved for one another. Spiker drove into his woman. She begged for his cock. Their gasping breaths galloped, and when her muscles clenched around his shaft, rippling with the threat of orgasm, he thrust and retreated and thrust again until the only sound was her crying his name.
There was no noise as electrifying as her unbridled pleasure. Spiker demanded her climax again and again until he nearly lost his grip on reality. They came together, violent and chaotic and riotous as a tornado crashing into a hurricane.
When their wild waves quieted, he held her in his arms and made himself a vow. The rest of his life would be spent like this.
EPILOGUE
The St. Regis
Abu Dhabi, United Arab Emirates
The premier hotel claimed unparalleled, quintessential luxury, and after less than five minutes on the property, Vanka mentally awarded the service and breakfast menu five stars. Their tea selection alone had won her over, but it was the artistic display of immaculate, fresh-cut fruit centered on a black plate, set against the white table, that solidified her decision. Beauty could blossom anywhere. “We should stay here next time.”
Spiker laughed and tipped his head toward the morning sun. “How often do you plan to swing by Abu Dhabi?”
“Ask me in an hour.”
He only smiled.
The waitstaff returned with their tea and coffee service, breakfast breads and jams, and fruit salad that lived up to her stolen glance. Speaking of stolen glances, she checked the turtledove-colored Louis Vuitton Tote bag that rested next to her feet. The articulated top handles leaned together like thick leather guards between the safely packaged Lacedaemonian Mask and the rest of the world.
Vanka had never kept possession of any work of art or historical artifact for this long before, and certainly hadn’t obtained any piece in the same unplanned, grab-and-go way. She’d become quite fond of the mask, even the slightest bit sentimental. If the mask hadn’t existed, Buck couldn’t have set their last assignment in motion. Spiker would have gone on sabbatical, and she might still be working for GSI. It had taken a domino chain of events for them to end up together, happily unemployed and in love.
Maybe they were not finished with the falling dominos. Vanka spread fruit preserves over a thick slice of date bread. “Did you notice the new eyes on us?”
“Yup. Just now.” Casually, he tossed a grape into his mouth. “How many do you see?”
“Two. At your six and eleven. How about you?” She tried the bread, then held it out to him as though she hadn’t noticed the men watching them. “This is amazing. Would you like a bite?”
“I’m good. Thanks.” He took his time and sipped his coffee, covertly scouting the nearby tables. “You have two also. At your one and ten.”
Her gut instinct served as a litmus test, and while she couldn’t be one hundred percent positive, the two men she’d sighted weren’t on GSI’s payroll, ready to enact Buck’s revenge. They were more like fit, swashbuckling do-gooders, stealth-trained to wreak havoc. “Think they’re a part of Titan Group?”
Spiker nodded. “Yup.”
Titan Group had previously hired a former colleague. “If we’re correct, I think Jason would fit in nicely, though I wonder . . .” She dabbed the linen napkin at her lips. “Should we be annoyed or take it as a compliment?”
He checked his watch. “Jason won’t be here for another thirty minutes. Ask me in an hour.”
The wait staff arrived with their omelets and asked about their meal. Spiker assured them that breakfast was delicious, and once the two were alone again, he picked up his fork. “Unless one of them makes an approach, I vote for eating over asking questions.”
The warm aroma of cheese and eggs couldn’t be ignored. She tabled Pandora’s box of possibilities and trusted the deal they’d made with Jason. “Good plan.”
Vanka glanced at her tote bag again, then tasted her eggs, ignoring the four men who had boxed their table in. It was surprisingly easy to do. They continued eating as though this breakfast were an ordinary meal—as ordinary as it could be given the lavish circumstances—then paid the bill, and waited.
Jason Green and another man crossed the garden terrace. Vanka’s nerves jumped. The involvement of others wasn’t how she and Nan had facilitated past deliveries. She and Spiker stood, and though their greeting to Jason was professional, it was also amicable.
Jason introduced the other man. “This is Jared Westin.”
Jared Westin shook her hand and then Spiker’s. Vanka appreciated the order; it was her meeting, after all. But she’d also worked long enough in this industry to know it was very much a boys’ club.
“So you’re the man, the myth, the legend?” she said once they had been seated. Jared Westin looked younger than she would’ve expected. Though, she hadn’t put too much thought into it.
The corners of the man’s lips quirked. “All depends on who’s telling the story.”
“Fair enough.” Vanka glanced at Jason. “Mr. Westin is familiar with our situation and agreement?”
“It’s either Jared or Westin,” the man interrupted, “No mister.”
Jared Westin—she hadn’t decided which she would go with yet—was very different than Buck Baer. Vanka asked Jason, “What do you call him?”
Jason grinned. “Boss man.”
“Well, you’re no help.” Jared “Boss Man” Westin almost laughed. Given who he was and how angry-scary-threatening she could see he might be, she liked that he had a few chuckles in him. “Jared,” she decided, “Jason’s explained what we have and where it needs to go.”
Jared nodded. “No customs. No records. No information.”