I wanted us closer, glued together, so I replaced my palm with my mouth. Kissed her hungrily, messily—teeth, tongue, and my cock fucking her with deliberate speed. Our cries of pleasure were muted only by the intensity of our kiss. She sucked my fingers between her lips, bit at me, cut her nails into my ribcage.
Our hands collided as I thrust us forward across the seat, so I wrenched them up and over her head. The position brought us nose-to-nose—and let me grind my pelvis against her clit every time I fucked into her. We were kissing each other with intertwined fingers and slick, grinding bodies. Delilah met me thrust for thrust, every nerve in my body screaming for more more more.
And then I was flying—off the side of the seat and onto the bottom of the limo, landing hard on my back.
Delilah had bested me yet again.
Just like in my fantasies, she straddled my cock and rode me with a fury. I gripped her hips and pistoned her savagely, up and down, reaching up and placing my hand over her lips again to keep her quiet. But the sounds that escaped were passionate, real, and so fucking raw a voice in the back of my head whispered a warning I didn’t want to heed. Not that what we were doing was wrong—unprofessional and complicated and breaking the rules.
No—the warning was shouting that every shared kiss, every caress, every touch was right.
I sat up, rolling my hips and dragging a sound from her throat she hadn’t made before. “Did you really think you were going to win this fight?” I teased, kissing my way up her neck as she fucked me.
“You like it,” she gasped, mouth sliding into a smile.
I twisted her around, slapped her palms on the seat in front of her, and pushed up to my knees. Flipped up her gauzy skirt and slid back inside her with a ferocity I didn’t know I possessed. She had to drop her mouth to the seat and scream.
I gripped her hair, twisted the tendrils, and fucked Delilah so deep I lost any remaining scraps of my self-control. I only existed to give Delilah the pleasure she deserved—and even as I was balancing on the precipice of orgasm, nothing else mattered except Delilah. I curved my chest over her back, hovered my lips at her ear.
“Feel how much I want you, Delilah,” I said. My fingers slid against her clit, and she whimpered. “I have meant every single word I’ve said to you as your husband. Every single word. All of it is true.”
She was shaking so much I worried she might fall over. I was hitting some angle inside of her that had her delirious, muttering nonsense words. My thumb worked her clit in purposeful circles until her internal walls clenched so hard that I closed my mouth around her shoulder to bite.
With my last remaining seconds of control, I took her mouth in a ravishing kiss as she orgasmed. I climaxed at the exact same time, our bodies chasing the same pleasure, the same heights. My mind went entirely blank, vision dark; I was crushing pressure and ecstatic release and then perfect stillness.
Delilah’s head fell back against my shoulder, and she let out that same adorable laugh from earlier. I kissed her on the cheek.
“I actually think,” she said, still breathless, “that was newlywed sex.”
I gave an open-mouthed chuckle against her shoulder blade. “That sex was for a woman who trusted her instincts. And led us right where we needed to be.”
She turned around and wrapped her entire body around mine—clinging to me on the floor of this limo. From the speed we were going, I sensed we were close to the quiet, historic streets of Old City.
Our time was almost up.
“That sex was for a man who is stronger and smarter than his past,” she whispered.
And I let her see how honest I was being when I said, “So are you.”
Delilah kissed my temple, clung to me tighter. How had this happened? This outpouring of emotion, the tender way she clung to me. But it was the same after the closet—a moment I imagined would be deviously filthy had ended sweetly.
“You know, I think we both won,” she finally said, giving me a small smile.
“I think you’re right.”
The limo slowed down. Her eyes were a storm of emotions that probably mirrored my own. Because I was turned on by our shared fantasy—but utterly captivated by the feelings that existed beneath.
The limo stopped, engine idling. My eyes cast toward the corner, where I’d secured the glass case protecting our bounty. Part of me knew Abe might be angry with us—but what could honestly go wrong? We’d had a successful recovery, against odds that were heavily stacked against us. I felt happy, indulgent, ready to take on the world with the woman sitting next to me.
I hadn’t felt this way since before Bernard had ruined everything.
I held Delilah’s hand to my mouth, kissed it.
“Are you ready?” I asked.
“Yes,” she replied, eyes bright. “I think I am.”
43
Delilah
Freya was a blur of limbs when Henry and I walked through the doors at Codex. As Henry left to place the Copernicus in our secure storage room, she leapt into my arms and squealed.
“I knew you could do it,” she whispered. She was dressed head-to-toe in the Harry Potter flannel pajamas she kept in her desk drawer just for nights like this. I felt a sharp pang when I recalled our conversation from earlier:
Strange things can happen when you go undercover.
Like having adrenaline-fueled sex on the floor of a limo with a man who made you feel as filthy as he did cherished?
I meant every single word. His honest confession had soared me to climax as intensely as the raw and passionate fucking I’d just received. His perfect cock, his dirty mouth, his throaty, ragged groans—the deep, glorious angle, the bruises, the scrapes, the screaming.
Followed by Henry’s fervent, whispered praise; his sweet and beautiful vulnerability.
As I stood there with Freya clutching me tightly, the awareness of what Henry and I had done fully sunk in. And if I’d somehow believed I could keep my feelings for him locked away, I now knew that to be a fool’s errand.
“I want to see the book,” Abe said tightly. He avoided looking at me but appeared exhausted and almost rumpled in his suit.
“Okay,” I said, exchanging a brow lift with Freya.
I’d picked up on his I’m pissed signals over the phone, but I was distracted by sheer lust. Now, anger was obvious in the way he stalked across the office toward the book.
“Cameras, please,” Freya said, miming grabby hands.
“Right,” I said, snapping off my bracelet. “Listen, Henry has the background on this, but I think we actually got a picture of a stolen text besides the Copernicus. A page from an Isaac Newton manuscript. Plus, I got photos of the Copernicus in its case.”
Freya shoved a lock of hair from her forehead. “Incredible. Francisco directed us to send everything to the FBI agents they’ve been working with. It looks like our kooky heiress might actually get in trouble. She can’t claim innocence when the book came from the museum where she’s president of the board.”
“I wonder how she got it,” I mused. “She must have hired someone, right?”
“I’m sure. Victoria’s got contacts for days.”
I tried to tamp down the peculiar sensation that rose in me at the thought of Victoria being led away in handcuffs, serving real time in prison. I’d never become so intimately involved in a suspect’s life as a police officer—there wasn’t time and it wasn’t appropriate. This—this deep dive into Victoria’s vulnerabilities to gain her trust—had me feeling itchy.