Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
As most wanted fugitives, they’re heading straight into the lion’s den.
Closing my eyes, I try not to think about it, to focus only on Peter’s lips trailing sensuously over my back. I’m on my stomach, and he’s kissing every vertebrae on my spine, his calloused palms sliding over my skin with delicious roughness, caressing and massaging me all over. Each touch of his sculpted lips sends tingly warmth spreading through my body, each stroke of his big hands relaxing and arousing at once.
“You’re so sweet,” he whispers reverently, raining kisses on the dip of my waist, the curve of my ass, the sensitive underside of my buttocks. “So beautiful all over.” His deep, faintly accented voice is like brushed velvet to my ears, adding to the heat building in my veins and the pulsing tension growing in my core.
His fingers slip between my legs, finding my slick opening, and I moan as he penetrates me with two fingers, stretching me, filling me until I throb with need. I’m already so turned on I’m on the verge of coming, and as he curls those fingers inside me, pressing on my G-spot, my body spasms, the release sweeping through me like a warm tidal wave.
I’m still coming down from the high when he rolls me over and covers me with his hard-muscled body. “I love you,” he murmurs, looking down at me as he holds himself propped up on one elbow. His free palm curves around my jaw, his thumb softly stroking my cheek, and the tenderness in his metallic gaze melts me all the way down to the bone.
“I love you too,” I whisper, my chest aching. “And I always will, my darling… no matter what fate throws our way.”
His pupils dilate, his eyes darkening, and when he leans in to claim my mouth, there’s a new fierceness in his kiss, a hotter, darker kind of hunger. His hand leaves my face and slips between our bodies, and I feel his cock press against my entrance as he wedges his knees between my legs, parting them wide.
Lifting his head, he captures my gaze with his and then thrusts in, penetrating me all the way in one smooth stroke. I suck in a breath at the sudden fullness, at the heat and pressure of him so deep inside.
“Tell me again,” he orders roughly. “I want to hear you say it as I fuck you.”
“I love you,” I gasp as he withdraws and plunges deep. “I love you so much.” He thrusts in even deeper. “I’ll always love you.” I sound increasingly breathless as his movements pick up pace. “I’ll love you forever and ever, for as long as we’re both alive.”
87
Peter
All my senses are on high alert as I approach the café where I’m supposed to be meeting Bonnie Henderson. Since the twins haven’t killed the captured sniper yet, I’ve decided to put her skill with disguises to use, and I look nothing like myself. My stomach is like a barrel, and not only am I freckled with reddish-blond hair, but I’m also sporting a receding hairline and a double chin.
If I had a mother, even she wouldn’t have recognized me.
Thirty-six of Esguerra’s men are positioned all around the restaurant, securing a ten-block radius against snipers and law enforcement officials alike. For now, there doesn’t seem to be any unusual activity happening, but that doesn’t mean anything—which is why Kent and Esguerra are camped out nearby, each with a backup team in case Henderson pulls a fast one.
And I’m fully expecting him to pull a fast one.
What complicates the situation is that a woman matching Bonnie Henderson’s description was spotted walking into the restaurant fifteen minutes earlier. I highly doubt it’s her—there’s no way Henderson would use his own wife like this—but it does mean I have to get close to the Bonnie lookalike to rule out the small possibility that any of this is for real.
When I’m directly across the street from the café, I stop and make sure my concealed weapons are within easy reach. Through the tiny mic in my ear, my teammates inform me that there’s still nothing suspicious going on, so I take a breath and cross the street.
I see her in the café immediately. She’s at a small table in the back, facing the door. My disguise works: her gaze slides right past me as I inform the hostess about my reservation using a nasal British accent. They have it ready—Yan’s made sure of that—and I follow the hostess to a table that’s some dozen feet from where my target is sitting.
I take a seat facing her. Opening the breakfast menu, I surreptitiously study her, searching for clues as to her real identity. The damnedest thing is, she looks just like all the pictures and videos of Henderson’s wife that I’ve studied over the years. Every little thing matches—even the fact that she seems older than in all those pictures, her thin face weary and aged. She’s still an attractive woman—I can see why Henderson married her all those years ago—but life on the run has clearly taken its toll.