Black Widow
Cairo. Oh God.
“No. That’s impossible.”
“It’s not. I didn’t want to believe it either. But the monsters we slayed are no longer happy to stay dead.”
The quiet gravity of his answer freezes everything inside me. Long enough for Killian to place his hands on my shoulders and draw his fingers down my bare arms.
“How…when…why?” I don’t know where to start. Cairo was supposed to be our last assignment together before we sailed off into the sunset. Or wherever people go with the kind of toxic baggage we carry. Instead I ended up sacrificing what precious little I’d manage to wrest of my soul from eternal damnation. And still that hadn’t been enough. By the time I crawled away, broken and bleeding, I was less than nothing.
While I’m grappling with the connotations of the bombshell he’s dropped at my feet, his fingers shackle my wrists. The unbreakable hold and the unspoken command to submit in that act grounds my flaying senses and shifts my attention from one nightmare to another. A second later, he presses his body into mine. I’m too shocked to be pissed at the fact that he’s restraining me again, exerting his dominance.
These days, the role I’ve taken for myself includes six-inch heels and head-to-toe leather, with the odd exception when a client demands a specific outfit. But in my sneakers, I’m more than a foot shorter than Killian. I may be small but no man has made me feel vulnerable in a long time. No man except Killian. And it’s the kind of vulnerable that always turned me on. He knew it then. He’s counting on it now. Before I can demand to be freed, he widens his stance and brackets my hips with his thighs, using his body to dominate me even more.
“I’ll tell you everything,” he mutters in my ear, his voice so rough it’s nearly incoherent. “I promise. But it’s been over four years, baby. I’m fucking dying here. You have to give me something.” He rocks his hips into me, firmly imprinting the rod of his cock in the small of my back.
Dear God, he’s even thicker than I remember, and I pride myself on the sharpness of my memory. It’s saved my life more than a few times.
My pussy clenches, even as I force myself to shake my head. “I’m not going to fuck you, Killian.” I’m pleased with the delivery. Firm. Succinct.
His strained groan turns into a laugh against my neck as his fingers tighten around my wrists. “I’m aware of that. For reasons I still don’t know, you need to twist the knife in a little more. But I need something. Dammit, I need you,” he pleads.
My insides threaten to turn to jelly. “Blow jobs and hands jobs are off the table too,” I snap.
His thumbs caress the insides of my wrists, linger over my racing pulse. “Fair enough. I’d probably make a damn fool of myself if you put those beautiful lips on my cock right now anyway.”
“You act like we’re negotiating. This isn’t a negotiation. This is me telling you everything you want is off the table.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. That’s not going to work for me.”
“Killian—”
“I’m going to let go of your wrists now,” he interrupts. The edge is back in his voice. Sharper. Rougher. “Stay put. I’m not chasing you around the apartment again.”
“You—”
“Shh. You’ve stated your terms. I’ve heard you out. Now you hear me out.” He releases one wrist, and I feel his hand on my hair. He tackles the knot, and the band holding my ponytail is tugged out a moment later. Impatient fingers slide through the tresses, and he makes a gruff sound under his breath as he grips a handful and imprisons me again. “I’ve barely been able to eat or sleep these past four days, knowing you were here within reach. I told you the years have been hell. These past days have been beyond pure fucking torture. A lesser bastard would be content with having you in his arms, alive and so fucking beautiful, once again.”
His mouth trails my jaw and cheek, and I shudder at the brush of his rough stubble. I close my eyes and desperately try not to think of the other places I want that stubble to rub.
“But this bastard, your bastard, is going out of his mind with the need to taste you again. If fucking you is off the table, I’ll take the next best thing.”
My body goes furnace-hot, and my mouth drops open. “No…that’s not…you can’t—”
He whirls me around and slams his mouth on mine. Like two meteors colliding, the explosion is cataclysmic and intense enough to stop my heart for a second. Then he slides his tongue across my lower lip, and everything goes into free fall. Killian devours my mouth with an intensity that makes me almost fear how close to the edge he is. But with my own hunger clawing right up the crazy peak to join his, I chase the sensation with a rabid ferocity I know I will be ashamed of once this ends.
And it has to end. I didn’t run for this long only to be sucked back into his dark, addictive world where living on the edge became the norm. That world broke me, and I’m sure the pieces I managed to pick up are a poor, pathetic mosaic of the person I used to be. But she’s all I have. And I’m not giving her up that easily.
No matter how devastatingly divine his kiss feels.
His tongue strokes against mine in a slow, filthy dance that makes my knees sag in a response totally out of my control. He groans in mutual pleasure, and his cock jumps against my belly. And simply because this feeling, once birthed, demands nurturing, he repeats the move. Over and over until I’m hopelessly wet, and the hands I don’t remember wrapping around his waist are digging into his back.
We’re both struggling to suck in enough oxygen when Killian rips his mouth from mine and leans back. Eyes turned a dark, turbulent blue rake my face before they settle on my tingling mouth. “Jesus, baby, your fucking lips. This gorgeous, insane, fucking mouth.”
Before I can scramble enough brain matter to respond, he groans again, dips his head, and begins the assault all over again. My lips are on fire. My breasts are screaming for attention, and my nipples are as hard as diamonds. And that’s just what’s happening up north.
Down south, my clit feels like three times its normal size, and my pussy is clenching and unclenching with furious spasms that make me scared it’s going to permanently damage itself if I don’t fill it with a cock. With Killian’s cock. Like, right now. Before it shames me into a premature orgasm like that time when Killian challenged me to orgasm just by kissing. And I hopelessly, gloriously lost the bet.
No. God, no. I don’t want that reminder anywhere near my treacherous body. But Killian’s hands have joined in the mind-altering torture. His fingers are tracing over my neck, lingering on the pulse hammering at my throat. Then down my collarbone to follow the neckline of my tank top. He lingers there for the longest time, drawing out the time when he shifts lower. I barely manage to contain my scream when he bypasses my breasts to slide his hands down my rib cage. He grabs my waist and lifts me off my feet, and his mouth fuses with mine for another carnal kiss before he sets me back down.
And then he lifts his head. “Are you ready?” he growls against my mouth.
My brain scrambles for a few seconds, my functioning senses focused on where he hasn’t touched me yet. “Am I…? Kissing me wasn’t what you meant by the next best thing, was it?”
He nips at my bottom lip before answering. “Kissing you is a joy I’ll happily chop off a limb for. But no, that’s not what I meant. Not this time anyway.”
His thumbs trace the area just below the curves of my breasts, turning me further into a delirious wreck. “I…you…”
“I can’t wait any longer, baby.”
I become painfully aware of his destination a moment later when he shoves his fingers into the waistband of my yoga pants and tugs down with a decisive motion. Lycra and satin roll halfway down my thighs before I suck in my next breath. The fiery protest that rises to my lips dies when I catch a glimpse of Killian’s face as he stares at what he’s unveiled.
It’s a twisted mess of voracious hunger and intense pain. Of gnarled joy and censure. His color heightens as his nostrils flare slightly. “You kept it shaved,” he finally rasps. His eyes haven’t moved from my pussy. He seems incapable of looking away.
“Not…” I barely stop myself from saying not for you. Regardless of how I feel, those words seem petty somehow. Besides, they would also be a lie. The reminder that no other man has seen me like this since I walked away from Killian pierces through my fog of lust. I move my hands but they never make it to their destination.
Killian recaptures my wrists. “Stay,” he commands gruffly.
“Don’t tell me what to do.” My response is pathetically feeble this time. And he doesn’t dignify it with a response, save to slide his thumbs into my palms, straightening out my fingers before nudging them flat against the door. His fingers splay over mine for a second before he drops his hands.
Stay.
It takes every ounce of strength in me to drop my hands and utter the word. “No. This…is as far it goes.”
His chest expands as he sucks in a deep breath. I know he’s about to talk me around. And, God, a part of me wants to. But this is ten kinds of fucked up. I remind myself of the reasons I left him in the first place. Because of where our type of combustible sex leads to. Insanity and ripped souls.
“Baby—”
“No!”
He steps back immediately but his eyes remain pinned on me.
Legs shaky, I reach for my clothes. There ought to be something faintly undignified in digging for your panties among the tangled elastic of your yoga pants while the man whose face you’re dying to ride watches you with unwavering intensity. Especially when all your fingers turn into useless thumbs.
My face is burning by the time I struggle into my panties. And when Killian silently steps forward again, tugs the pants out of my hands, and takes over the task of helping me put them back on, I’m so disgusted with myself that I remain silent and let him do it.
My hair band is nowhere in sight, so I make do with shoving the mess over my shoulders and behind my ears. “Now that you’ve…that we…” Oh, fuck off, brain. Get your pathetic self together. I need you.
“Now that I’ve reacquainted myself with how beautiful your lips taste? How you still get as wet as fuck just from kissing me?”
My face burns a fresh shade of what have I done? “Can we just get on with it?”
“Of course.” He steps close, places his hand on my back like we’re about to take our seats at a state banquet and not as if I’ve just clawed at his hair while kissing the hell out of him. “Let me show you the rest of the apartment. Then we’ll talk.”
I want to refuse. I want to demand that he open the door so I can leave. But the intensity of the orgasm I’ve just denied myself has fried enough brain cells to keep me mute. Plus, if he’s correct—and unfortunately Killian, when it comes to this part of his life, is rarely wrong—and it really is the monsters from our last assignment that have reared their respective heads, I’ll need every scrap of intel at my fingertips. And the man who once embodied my every obsession and darkest nightmare is the person to provide it.
So I nod. But when he goes to take my hand, I pull away. It’s either that or beg for him to finish what he started.
Sad amusement flickers over his face before he shoves his hand in his pocket. I avoid looking at the huge erection in his pants as we walk back into the living room. Jesus, he must be suffering. Killian is a master at delayed gratification, but I know what four years without sex feels like. I’ve just come within a whisker of demonstrating it in reckless abandon.
No matter how badass he is about it, it can’t be easy. Except I’m pulled up short by my line of reasoning a second later when it occurs to me that Killian may not be as hard up as I’ve been in the sex stakes. Unlike me, he may not have been as picky to the point of complete abstinence. Hell, he may not have held back at all.
He wasn’t exactly a monk when we met. Far from it. I witnessed a few awkward conversations with various women before his electronic black book was deleted. But had it remained deleted?
I shut off the part of my brain that threatens to become obsessed with that question, and focus on my surroundings. The living room is much larger than I initially thought. There’s a bar at the end of the open space with a wide range of bottled liquor displayed on the mirrored shelves behind it. Another smaller grouping of sofas next to the bar looks out onto a stunning view of the East River, where the sun is putting in a tentative appearance on the horizon. The soft, warm tones complement the art and make the room a stunning masterpiece, but I’m not here to admire the real estate.
“Okay, living room. Check.” My brisk tone earns me another barely there smile.
“Kitchen next.” He leads the way to the foyer but takes the left hallway this time. The kitchen, like the living room, reeks of money, taste, and class. Futuristic-looking appliances gleam on spotless surfaces, and a sleek breakfast island and stools are perfect for after-marathon-sex snacking. I try very hard not to picture another woman standing at the breakfast counter, making Killian’s favorite coffee while wearing absolutely nothing. Like I used to.
“Kitchen. Check.”
“Wait.”
I grit my teeth and turn to find him pouring a fresh glass of water from a jug in the fridge. “You never had that glass of water. You need to hydrate.” He walks over and holds out the glass.
I take it with the fresh reminder of everything that’s happened this evening. God. Was it only a few short hours ago that I left the martial arts studio in Soho, convinced I knew what my next move was?
I feel as if a lifetime has passed since then. I drink the water, mildly surprised when I drain every last drop. He takes the glass from me, and we continue with the tour. By mutual consent we don’t linger in the bedrooms, of which there are three with a master bigger than my apartment.
The last room is the study. Killian gives me no warning as to what to expect when I walk in. Probably because he expects me to take the sight of my picture reproduced a couple of dozen times on the walls in my stride. I stop in the middle of the room and stare at the shadowed image.
Supersize, small, and in between. All showing the same single shadowed image of my cheek and jaw. My shock passes, and I face him.
“This is how you found me?” That question had crossed my mind more than a few times tonight.
He gives a watchful nod.
I hide a grimace. It was the day I let my concern get the better of me and took the more direct route to the Upper East Side instead of my usual circuitous one. It didn’t matter that Axel Rutherford, my boss, had demanded the punishment that put severe bruises and lacerations on his wrists after a session in the Punishment Club. The man I’ve come to see as more than a boss was going through a hell I vaguely recognized, so I set aside our strict boss/employee relationship and went to his Upper East Side apartment.
“You were sloppy,” Killian says in the voice I remember from when he was my trainer.
I shrug.
“Where were you going?” he presses, his voice growing a little more abrasive.
“Does it matter?”
His piercing eyes narrow a fraction. “Not immediately, no.”
Which means the third degree is coming. If I stick around. Which I won’t be. “Tell me about Cairo. How sure are you?” A small part of me remains hopeful that he’s got this wrong.
He remains silent for a few seconds, and then he jerks his chin at the two high-backed leather chairs behind his desk. He pulls out a seat for me, and I sit before a bank of state-of-the-art screens. I catch his wince as he sits, and my gaze drops to the erection that shows no signs of abating. My internal muscles clench in an empty muscle memory reflex, and I hate myself just that little bit more.
He activates an electronic keyboard, taps a button, and Killian Knight morphs into someone else. Computer genius extraordinaire.
He was famous for his coding skills long before he became a spy. And while adding such a dangerous profession to his résumé may have been a very risky thing, considering he was a tech god and therefore worshipped by nerds with social media hacking and surveillance skills at their fingertips, his ability to manipulate technology was the very thing that made him a genius spy too.
I watch his fingers fly over the keyboard for a minute. Three pictures flash onto the screen. My breath locks in my throat, and icy fingers crawl down my neck. Two of the four people are known to me. Ted Milton and Shane Richards. Faces from another life I don’t want to return to. Faces staring at the screen with lifeless eyes. “Oh my God. When did this happen?” I whisper.
“Over the past month. Ted was the first. He disappeared from his hotel room in London three weeks ago. They found his body four days later in an abandoned warehouse in the East End. Shane was taken the day after Ted’s body was found. He was booked on a flight from Dubai to DC. He never made it. He was also found a few days later.”
I struggle to digest the news, and the glaring connection I can’t hide from. “How…did they die?”
Killian’s jaw tightens. “They were tortured.”
My heart drops. Spies are primarily tortured for one thing only. Information.
“Do you get the picture now?”
I shake my head, still wanting to live in denial. “Were they still active?”
He frowns. “Yes, but what the fuck does that matter?”
“I’m no longer active. I’m out of the game, remember?”
His face hardens as his fingers fly over the keyboard again. Pages and pages of mumbo jumbo scroll across the screens, with the occasional fuzzy picture flashing past. He hits one key and the screen freezes. Through the jumble of code, I spot the name KNIGHT WIDOW several times. I’m almost too afraid to ask. “What am I looking at?”
“The number of times our code name and images have been searched for in the last six months by someone other than me.”
Dread punches me in the gut. “I…that doesn’t mean…”
“Yes, it does. It’s time to wake up, Faith. We’re being hunted.”