Nauti Nights

He shook his head as he reached out and drew her to him, pulling her onto his lap.



Crista leaned into him, her head resting on his shoulder as her arms looped around his neck.



He kissed the top of her head before he answered her. “The mercenary and his team didn’t have a name for the woman, only a description, which they gave. No name, and the physical features of the face, though similar, weren’t yours. The buyers aren’t talking yet. Cole knew your name, but only after Johnny visited in the detention center. In the small talk, Johnny told him to get fucked, pretending to be you. He had the money and he was free; Cole wasn’t. That would have drawn those mercenaries right to your door. They learned different during the interrogation Cranston and Natches led after Johnny’s visit. We suspect even they weren’t certain exactly who they were dealing with. Johnny’s slick like that, Crista. He always was. I’m just surprised that he could actually kill in cold blood. I didn’t expect that out of him.”



Neither had Crista. But she had a feeling Johnny had disappointed Dawg as well. For all Johnny’s faults and his mother’s influence, Crista had the feeling that Dawg had managed to hold out a measure of hope for his other cousin.



“He was the one who told Natches’s father about the sharing, when we were teenagers,” Dawg said then. “I thought Dayle had killed him when we got to the house with Uncle Ray. Natches’s mother had called, calm as hell, and told Ray he needed to come for Natches before Dayle killed him. There was blood everywhere, and his father was still trying to beat the hell out of him. He was in the hospital for a week and refused to admit his father had done it. He still has scars on his back. And Johnny cried when we confronted him. Blubbered like a baby and swore he hadn’t meant for it to happen. That he had been playing, poking at Dayle because he was always so critical of him.”



Dawg’s voice echoed with that past horror.



“He meant to do it?”



“I don’t know,” Dawg mused. “To this day, I still don’t know. But I suspect he knew what would happen. We all knew not to push Dayle where Natches was concerned. He took great pleasure in beating the hell out of him whenever he could justify it.”



Crista blinked back her tears.



“And your father?” She already knew part of Dawg’s history, had known it even before that first night she had spent with him.



“He wasn’t as violent as Dayle.” He shrugged negligently. “And I knew how to fight back.



Natches never fought back, and I never understood why.”



“Because of Janey.” Crista lifted her head and stared up at Dawg, suddenly suspecting why Natches had never fought back.



“Janey?” he asked.



“Natches’s sister.”



“I know who Janey is, but what does she have to do with this?”



“Maybe he didn’t fight back because he was afraid Dayle would turn his aggression on Janey.



Maybe he was trying to wait until she was old enough to run if she had to.”



Janey was a lot younger than Natches, at least ten years younger. She would have been ten or eleven when Natches was publicly disowned so long ago.



“Maybe,” Dawg said thoughtfully before sighing heavily. “God help the bastard if he ever hit her, though. Natches would murder him.”



“Do we really have to do this, Dawg?” she finally asked on a sigh. “Push Johnny like that? It could be dangerous.”



“Only for Johnny.” His voice darkened, sending a shiver up her spine at the danger that filled it.



“Mark my words, Crista, I won’t let him get away with this. He knew what he was doing when he decided to frame you. And he should have known what would happen if I ever figured out what was going on.”



She parted her lips to argue further but found herself instead flat on her back on the bed and staring up at Dawg in surprise.



“Enough about Johnny,” he growled. “And I’ve waited long enough to collect on that little tease by the lake earlier.”



“Tease?” she gasped in mocking offense. “That was no tease, Dawg Mackay. You weren’t exactly groaning because you didn’t get to come, you know.”



“It was a tease, pure and simple.” His hand pushed the hem of her camisole top up over her stomach. “All I got to do was lick that sweet pussy while you drove me insane with your mouth. I need more. Sweet heaven, Crista. I need so much more of you.”



Her shirt was pulled slowly from her and tossed to the floor.



“Keep your arms there.” He pressed them against the mattress, above her head, as she had done with him earlier beneath the wind and the sky. “Let me unwrap you, Crista. My own special present. I must have been a very good boy at some point to deserve this.”



Her throat tightened at the emotion in his voice, at the tenderness in his touch, as he released the catch of her bra and drew it from her as well.



His hands cupped her swollen breasts, his thumbs raking over her nipples as his gaze darkened at the sight of the flushed tips.



“Would you have nursed our child?” he asked her, his voice incredibly deep, filled with regret and hunger, pain and longing.



“Yes.” Crista arched into his touch, feeling her nipples tighten further as his finger and thumb gripped the pebble-hard tip.



“Would you have let me watch?” His head lowered, his lips feathering over her collarbone as Crista arched to the heated caress.



“Yes.” She moaned the word.



His fingers were tormenting her nipples, making her wild for the touch of his lips, lips that were moving slowly over one flushed mound, his tongue licking at her flesh as it came closer to the aching tip.



“I love your breasts. How they feel, how they taste. How hard and hot your little nipples get for me.” His hands cupped the mounds again, plumping them, lifting one closer to his lips as his tongue arrowed on the stiff peak.



When his mouth covered it, Crista was on the verge of begging. Once the heat of his suckling mouth and the lash of his tongue took possession of it, she was begging.



“Dawg. Please.” Her hands fisted in the blanket beneath her. “More. Harder.”



His touch was light, tender. She needed hard and hot. She needed the hunger she could feel barely leashed inside him. A hunger that was tearing through her, clenching in her pussy, spasming her womb.



“Harder, darlin’?” He licked over her nipple. “I don’t want to rush this. I want to build the burn inside you. I want you ready for anything, for everything I can give you.”



And she remembered exactly what he could give her when he touched her slow and easy. When each deliberate caress built the fire inside her to the point that pleasure bordered pain, and pain became a sensation so erotic that even the most wicked acts were the ones that brought the greatest pleasure. The most sensation.



“We’ll both remember this, Crista. Forever,” he swore. “Neither of us will forget.”



Because they were both aware, connected now in a way they hadn’t been before.



Crista stretched before him, her hips lifting from the bed as he gripped the band of her soft capris and drew them from her legs. His palms smoothed back up her legs, over the narrow band of her panties, and drew those from her as well.



Her eyes opened, her sight dazed as she stared down at him, watching as he spread her thighs slowly. His gaze became heavy lidded, drowsy with sensuality.



“Such a pretty pussy,” he groaned, his thumbs moving into the indention between her thighs and the tender folds of her sex. “Soft and pink. Your juices glistening on it.”



And they were. Already the silky wash of her arousal was gleaming on her flesh.



He didn’t stop to touch or to taste though. Instead, he pulled himself on the bed beside her, leaned over her, and kissed her with all the pent-up lust she saw glowing in his gaze.



One large hand gripped her wrists as she tried to lift her hands to touch him. He anchored them to the bed above her head and ravished her lips. His tongue twined with hers, tasted her mouth, and caressed her lips. His free hand caressed her breasts, her belly, her thighs. His fingers plumped her nipples, gripped and teased them, and fanned the flames glowing from them.



Crista writhed beneath the caresses. His calloused palms stroked over nerve endings that grew hypersensitive. His nails raked over her belly. And all she could do was endure it.



He held her easily beneath him, his hands and larger body controlling her writhing undulations. She was losing thought, losing control. The need for his touch overrode everything else.



Finally, as his lips lifted from hers, his hand strayed lower than her belly. Crista’s eyes drifted open again, meeting his a second before his hand delivered a heavy caress between her thighs.



“Oh my God. Dawg.” She jerked beneath him, her hips arching sharply at the small, heavy pat that landed on the swell of flesh on each side of her clit.



“Not too hard,” he growled. “Your flesh is so sensitive. So silken and unused to being bare.”



Another pat, kissing cousin to a gentle little slap, was delivered to the flesh again. A little lower, rocking sensation through the damp folds and vibrating inside her pussy.



Her clit swelled tighter with each heavy caress, the fierce throb become nearly painful as her sharp moans filled the air.



“So sweet,” he crooned, his voice a black velvet rasp as her thighs fell farther apart, opening for his touch. His fingers slid through the slick cleft, parting the plump, swollen folds before circling her aching clit.



“Dawg, please,” she cried out softly. “Don’t torture me.”



“No torture, sweetheart, just pleasure,” he promised, his fingers glancing over her clit before leaving the wet flesh and moving once again to her breasts.



He moved lower along her body. His lips slid over her neck, her collarbone. He caught a hard nipple in his mouth. He sucked it deep into his mouth, his tongue lashing at it, his teeth scraping it as Crista’s hands tore loose from his hold.



Her hands twined into his hair. Crista arched closer, her head falling back in pleasure while his hands twined into the long strands of her hair and pulled at them firmly. She pulled at his in turn, the action instinctive, the driving need for orgasm rising inside her.



Dawg was determined in his pace. His caresses were slow and easy, building the flames burning in her womb with deliberate strokes and heated caresses.



He didn’t give her a chance to catch her breath between levels. There was no chance for thought, no chance to regain control.



Before Crista realized where the caresses were leading, she was already ensnared. As his lips began to kiss a careful path down her torso and over her stomach, her thighs were parting farther, her knees bending, making room for his broad shoulders between them.



Release would come now, she was certain.



He could do to her what nothing or no one else could. Pleasure ricocheted through her body and ensnared her in a web of love and lust so intense she knew she would never break free.



His tongue licked over the newly bared flesh, and she knew why he wanted her to experience this pleasure. It was incredible. His tongue touched nerve endings she never knew existed. Each sip, each delicate rasp of his teeth and suckling kiss had her burning hotter, brighter. She could feel her juices flowing from her, moving from her pussy, easing into the narrow cleft of her rear as his fingers began to follow the path they made.



Minutes later, as his tongue finally delved into the narrow slit of her pussy, she felt the cool, slick lubrication on his fingers as they pressed against her rear entrance.



She knew that feeling. It was more than what he had done in the office; she could feel it. No toys were going to take her body this time.



The control, each deliberate kiss and caress, had been for one purpose. To one end. To claim every part of her.



“So sweet.” His voice rumbled against the ultrasensitive flesh he was caressing with lips and tongue. “Like sweet, warm syrup.”