“Cut it out.” The words came in short pants. “That hurts.”
Liam slid two fingers into her, filling her even as her backside still burned and the threat of more to come drove up her arousal. “Good,” he said. “It’s punishment.”
There was that word again, the one that made Jaz’s channel clench.
Ignoring her whimper, Liam brought his hand down on her backside again, right on the spot where her cheeks met her thighs. Without pause, he issued another swat. And another.
Jaz shouted, gripping the edge of the counter.
Liam brushed over her clit, and the shout turned to a keen as a shattering release enveloped Jaz’s body. Wave after wave tightened her muscles until she was lying like a rag doll, only the cold granite against her cheek reminding her where she was. She pulled her arms in to—
“Stay where you are,” Liam ordered from behind. “We aren’t done.”
Wait, what?
Belatedly, Jaz realized that Liam’s fingers were still inside her. That they were moving again. Waking her body. As her heartbeat quickened with new need, the intrusion withdrew, the sound of an opening zipper and foil packet letting her know exactly what was coming.
Liam sheathed himself inside her with a harsh thrust, the invasion so complete, all she could do was gasp for breath. With Liam inside her, she felt the tension of his own powerful body, his muscles quivering with restraint as he held still. Let her tight channel adjust to his size.
Except she didn’t want the waiting. The adjusting. She wanted—needed—him to thrust.
She opened her mouth to curse him out, but Liam starting moving just then, thrusting in and out with harsh groans. Again. Again. In moments, he’d found a perfect punishing rhythm, pounding into her with sniper precision, every delicious stroke making her channel clench and pulse for more.
Jaz gasped for breath and curled her fingers around the other edge of the kitchen island, wet slaps of his sac striking her skin echoing shamelessly through the room.
24
Roman
Roman Robillard followed two men in military fatigues past a helipad and a formidable collection of Humvees to a large building that appeared to have started its life as a factory. The smell of soil and wet fallen leaves wafted through the air, proof of the rain he’d encountered on his way to New Jersey. Like any self-respecting climber, Roman was always aware of the weather. Cloud cover, temperature, wind—it all altered the chance of a successful climb. But sometimes, like now, obstacles came from man-made sources.
Or, in the case of Jazmine Keasley, the bitch who’d fucked her way into stealing his endorsement, woman-made sources. Roman’s fingers closed into a fist. The upstart had played the I have tits game, stabbing him in the back with her affirmative action bullshit the moment he paused for breath. He was the better climber, and everyone and their dog knew it. This gender equality crap had gotten completely out of hand a while back, but this crossed the line. This ridiculous escapade was now destroying not only Roman’s career, but the reputation of the entire sport.
Stopping by the front door, one of Roman’s escorts exchanged a few words with the sentry standing guard. Like the others, this man too had a Rambo-wanna-be look about him, with bulging muscles in place of a lithe body.
“Does he have an appointment?” the sentry asked Roman’s escorts.
Roman took a too-patient breath and repeated himself for the fourth time. “No. It was my understanding that your boss prefers to keep electronic communications to a minimum.”
The dark web was very clear on that part. While Obsidian Ops Security Corporation had a proper corporate suite in Newark, Colonel Jeffrey Lucius held the equivalent of office hours every third Wednesday of the month at Obsidian’s complex. That was where money could buy most any job that could be done by ex-special forces. Since Roman’s needs were on the left side of legal, the third Wednesday of the month it was.
The sentry spoke into his earpiece, then cocked his head while someone with more brain cells answered back. He opened the door for Roman. “Right this way, sir.”
The clang of metal on metal resounded through the space as the door slammed shut behind Roman and the escorts that still clung to either side of him like ticks. As if he were some kind of security threat. But then again, maybe Obsidian Ops’ obsession with security was a good thing. It spoke of professionalism. And after the absolute mess his cousin Devante had made of everything, Roman was ready to invest the considerable resources required to hire pros. Which he should have done from the beginning—but who knew Jazfuck would prove to be as persistent as poison ivy?
Pausing by a nondescript metal door, the shorter of Roman’s escort motioned for him to go inside. Roman did, finding himself in a spartan office with several computer monitors and a large man presiding behind a metal desk. Despite having seen Colonel Lucius’s photographs online, Roman had underestimated his formidable presence.
“I understand you have a possible mission for my men,” the commander said by way of greeting, his deep booming voice courteous but curt as he rose and came around to shake Roman’s hand.
Despite the man’s businesslike politeness, Roman felt a tightness around his chest. Maybe it was the direct way Lucius stared him right in the eye or the wide, too-confident stance, but Roman, even at his own six feet of height, felt dwarfed by the colonel.
“Yes, sir. I do. My name is—”
“Your name is Roman Robillard, and you’re a champion-level rock climber on the sponsored circuits,” Lucius cut him off. “Until you stopped passing your required drug testing and incurred a DUI or two.”
Roman blinked in confusion.
The commander watched him carefully, his expression edging toward amusement. “You drove your own car here. My men ran the plate and Google filled in the rest.” He perched himself on the edge of the desk. “I believe in doing my homework. It saves everyone’s time.”
“That’s wise.” Roman cleared his throat and clawed back his balance. There was too much at stake—for him and all the world’s climbers—to let Lucius’s parlor tricks distract him. “But you shouldn’t believe everything you read on the internet, Colonel. The drug tests were bullshit, and as for the supposed DUI collision, that was entirely on the asshole in the other car. Unfortunately, the confusion created fertile ground for a certain Colorado bitch to blow enough dick to sabotage my agreement with Vector Ascent. If allowed to continue unchecked, she is going to make a mockery of the entire sport. The whole damn industry.”
Vector Ascent was no doubt already regretting ever meeting Jazfuck, but in today’s world, you couldn’t fire a woman for incompetence without being accused of sexism. Since when did it become a sin to point out that half the population did not have a dick? Once she was gone, Vector Ascent would come begging—no, crawl begging—right back to Roman.
He’d make them stew a bit, but he’d accept eventually. Once they informed him on how much it was going to cost to clean up their mess. But he would come back. With great skill came great responsibility, and the climbing world needed Roman Robillard.
“I see.” Lucius cocked his head. “And what are you hoping O2 can do about this situation?”