Last Hit (Hitman #1)(24)
Author: Jessica Clare

"But first," he says in that delicious, low voice that I love, "I will please my woman until she screams."

I have never screamed with intense emotion in my life. But I don’t correct him. Maybe tonight I will.

"A woman’s cunt is soft, delicious thing," he tells me. "Like flower with delicate petals." His thumb strokes down the center of my panties, and I feel him outline the seam of my sex. I am so damp that the panties stick to my skin, and it makes the visual obscene. I am horrified and fascinated by it all at once.

"Should I be this wet?" I ask him.

"Only if I am lucky man." His mouth brushes over my panties and I suck in my stomach involuntarily. It’s like I don’t want to get in the way of his touch. "You will give these to me tonight, Daisy," Nick tells me as he tugs at my panties, at one of the small, white bows that are set at each hipbone. "So I will dream of this moment tonight when I sleep."

His words make me feel so erotic. Like the damp seeping in my panties is the sexiest thing he’s ever had happen to him. I make a wordless little whimper, and am embarrassed at how loud it is in the car.

"Slide these off your hips, kitten," he tells me, and his voice is a persuasive purr. His fingers tug at the hem of the panties, and he glances up at me with those gorgeous eyes. "So I may look at all of you. You show me, da?"

"Yes," I tell him, and the excited quiver in my voice is matched by the one in my fingers. I’m fumbling as I pull at the fabric, and then it moves down my h*ps and onto my thighs. The thatch of my hair is displayed to him, and I feel nak*d. He has not even seen my br**sts, and yet I am showing him my most feminine parts.

Nick groans as if in pain, gazing at the sight of me. His hands take control and he has my panties in his grasp. He tucks them into the pocket of his jacket, and then I am nak*d from the waist down, my skirt bunched up at my hips.

"Part your legs," he commands. His gaze is riveted on my flesh. "Show me your desire."

I suck in a breath again, but I do as he commands. I like that he’s in charge and is telling me what to do. I feel better with him in control, guiding me.

But he simply stares and stares, and then his gaze flicks to my nervous one. "You are most beautiful thing I have seen."

And then it doesn’t matter that we’re in his car and that he’s hunched over awkwardly and that I’m sitting with my clothes all rucked up. I am beautiful and sexy in his eyes. I spread my legs wider for him in an invitation, hardly daring to breathe at my own boldness.

Nick mutters something in Russian, and his mouth grazes along the inside of my thigh. I tremble at the feel of him there again. It feels more severe with my sex bare to him. I’ve got nothing left to shield myself.

He looks up at me, and his eyes are dark, his pupils dilated. "I’m going to touch you with mouth, Daisy."

I nod, unable to look away from him. I’m twitching with need. I want him to do this. I need it.

Almost in slow motion, his firm, hard mouth descends on the curls of my sex. I watch as they press to my mound, and I feel him there. It sends an excited thrill through me, but it’s not blowing me away.

I must be wearing my emotions on my face. "Patience, kotehok," he says. "I have not yet begun pleasuring you."

"I know," I say. "I just—"

And then he licks me.

My words die in my throat. I’m stunned by that private, utterly personal lick. It’s right up the seam of my wet flesh.

He groans. "Perfection."

I’m stiff, my senses on overload. It’s almost too much for me to absorb. I push at him, not sure I like how personal this is. I’m not good with personal. I don’t know how to handle it.

"No, Daisy," he tells me, and his voice is ragged. "Let me have more. I will make this good for you."

Then he burrows, and I feel his mouth part my flesh. His tongue glides along my slit, going deeper and stroking along hot, needing skin. My body jumps in response. His hands trap me in place, pushing down on my thighs so I will keep them apart for him. And he slides his tongue along my sex again.

I whimper. The sensations are overwhelming: tickling, wild, and erotic. I’m really not sure I can handle it. My hands go to his hair again, but I’m not sure if I’m pushing him away or encouraging him for more. "Nick—"

He lifts his head to gaze up at me, his mouth slick with my own wetness. "The way you say my name with my mouth on your cunt—it is a dream." He lowers his head again, but not before adding, "I want to hear it when you come."

I love his words. They’re so naughty and direct, even when I can’t be. And they take the fear out of me. I relax a little, and encourage him with petting motions as his mouth moves back to my sex—my cunt, he calls it—and begins to explore with the tip of his tongue. He makes light, tracing motions, outlining each fold, and I watch, breathless, as he bends over me.

I like his mouth there, but I’m still waiting for the fireworks. He’s avoiding my clitoris, and I wonder if he knows it’s the most sensitive part. If not, I don’t want to correct him. I’m more interested in watching him, the way his lashes look like dark fans as he bends his head and licks me.

It’s nice—pleasant, even—and tickly now and then. But it’s not the explosion he had. I guess it’s not the same for women.

His tongue glides to the top of the slit of my sex, and then he flicks it over my clitoris.

I stiffen as fire rushes through me. "Um—"

"Feel good?"

"Uhhh." I can’t think of a coherent thing to say. I push at his head because I want it back there again. That’s where the fire is.

"Sweet Daisy," he murmurs. "Now I make you come." When he bends his head low again, I am filled with anticipation so sharp that it aches.

But instead of flicking his tongue across my cl*t this time, he puts his lips against it and sucks firmly.

I cry out, shocked at how good it feels. My hands flutter over his hair; I need to hold on to something to anchor myself, and I’m afraid I’ll tug every lock of hair out of his head if I keep touching him. So even as I spread my legs wider, I brace myself against the car door. The intensity is almost too much, but he doesn’t lift his head. He just keeps sucking, and occasionally he flicks his tongue against my clitoris.

I don’t notice that his hands are moving until I feel one finger press at the base of my cunt, to the center of my core. It’s big and thick, and I gasp when he pushes forward. It feels as if he’s searing his way inside my body.

"Be calm," he tells me just before he presses his tongue to my cl*t again. "Let me pleasure you." And his finger presses deeper until it’s seated deep inside me.

Now, I am moaning and writhing at the onslaught of sensation. In all the times I have touched myself, I have focused on my clitoris, never like this. Even as his tongue presses against my cl*t in a teasing, circular pattern that makes me mad, his finger presses deeper. There’s an aching burn and a tightness, but it feels so good that I don’t even think about asking him to stop. I bear down on his hand, unable to stop my h*ps from moving or stifle the soft cries that fill my throat. It’s building, now. The intense pleasure I was wondering about? It’s arrived, and it’s every bit as wonderful as I imagined.

"So tight," he tells me. "Bozhe moi." His murmurs of Russian platitudes are stifled when he flicks at my cl*t again with his tongue. I feel another finger join the first, and I feel impossibly stretched, to the point that it’s painful.

But I don’t want him to stop.

I throw my head back as I mindlessly say his name over and over again. My eyes are closed—I can’t watch him anymore, because it makes things too intense, and my senses can’t handle his beautiful face cradled between my legs, those long lashes fanning over intense eyes focused entirely on pleasuring me.

His tongue’s not stopping now, pressing faster and faster against my cl*t in a steady pattern that is as maddening as it is wonderful. My h*ps rise to meet his mouth, and I’m pushing up against him, even as my hand is braced against the car door for support. It’s the only thing keeping me from collapsing. My entire body is stiffening, and I feel it building, that warm, delicious curling sensation that I need more of but don’t know how to get. All I know is that I’m getting closer.

His fingers pull out from my warmth, and I feel an aching, momentary loss. Before I can protest, he sinks them deep again. There is a stabbing ache followed by a blissful shot of pleasure that moves right through me, and the curling need increases.

Nick thrusts again with his fingers, and I am there.

Fireworks.

I am shuddering and gasping, on fire from the pulsing intensity of my orgasm. I cry out his name, and I am lost. Heaven. Pure Heaven, and Nick has given it to me.

I will never be the same again.

Chapter Nine

DAISY

Now that I have opened Pandora’s box, I can’t go back to the sleep of an innocent. My dreams that night were filled with Nick’s face, Nick’s hands, Nick’s mouth. When I wake up, I am restless and panting.

And when I move through my day, he is ever-present in my mind, an intriguing puzzle I intend to figure out. I sleepwalk through a late breakfast and clean our apartment and buy groceries—all the while Regan lays on the couch, nursing a hangover. She texted me late last night, asking if I was okay. I told her I met Nick and got a ride home, and that seemed to satisfy her.

If only she knew what had gone on in the car.

I am scandalized and titillated by what happened. Prior to last night, I only dreamed of what occurs with a man, but now I have so much more knowledge, so many wicked things to consider.

I touched his penis. I made him come. And then he pleasured me with his mouth—only his mouth, because I wasn’t ready for more.

I’m still not ready for more, not yet. I like teasing around the edges, playing with the concept of sex without going all in. Of course, I say this in the light of day; last night after our steamy session in the car, Nick walked me to my door and gave me a chaste kiss. I’d been the one to cling to him and beg him to come inside with me so we could explore more.

He’d turned me down. I’d said I wasn’t ready, and he would honor that.

I think of him when my phone buzzes, and I toss the sponge down on the now-clean kitchen counter and run to my room to answer it in private.

To my disappointment, it is work. Craig has texted me. Had a no-show. Can you come in?

I can’t afford to say no, though I am secretly hoping that Nick will ask me on another date of some kind. I sigh and text back. Of course. What time?

Six. Will pay overtime.

Thank you.

I have two hours before I have to go in to work. It’s not enough time to do anything, except perhaps more cleaning. And there is no text from Nick, which makes me feel odd and anxious at the same time. Did I go too far with him? Does he no longer respect me because I am slutty when he touches me? Should I play coy? I don’t know how relationships work; my father only let me watch children’s television shows and all the romance novels I read were stories from a different century. In those, the women are all impoverished heiresses and the men are all rakish dukes.

I feel too sheltered. Regan and Mike are casually sexual, but there is an undercurrent of unhappiness in their relationship. I don’t want to copy it.

But I can’t understand why Nick isn’t texting me. It must be something I did.