The Swan and the Jackal - Redmerski J. A. (читать книги бесплатно полные версии TXT) 📗

Gwen is a very confident woman hiding behind the guise of a shy Jane. She’s a hunter, like me. And she’s used to getting her way. She’s used to men who drool at the sight of her, who can’t get past staring at her breasts long enough to see that they’re being played.

Tonight will be interesting for her, if not an eye-opener.

If this were any other night and finding my ex-wife wasn’t a priority, I might want to hunt this woman a little longer. Take my time. Feel her out to figure out her game. I’d play it just because I can, and because she’s not so unlike me and would probably enjoy it, too.

“What is that?” she asks. “The accent.”

Her eyes seem to light up with the possibilities, as though the thought of sleeping with a man with an accent excites her.

I incline toward her, closing the space between us and inhale her scent. My gaze scans the curvature of her neck and the plumpness of her mauve-colored lips. “Swedish,” I answer and let my eyes fall on hers. I lean in closer so that she can feel the heat of my breath on the side of her neck. “I should tell you, Gwen”—her body leans into mine eagerly—“I never waste time with the mating ritual, getting to know one another before we fuck by offering little spoonfuls of personal information to break the ice.” I sense her body tense up and her breathing begins to deepen, but she makes no effort to pull away from me. “If you want to leave with me, then let’s go. I can promise you one thing.”

I pull away and look at her, waiting for her answer. Her eyes are wide and that plump mouth of hers sits partially agape. She’s no longer the confident, game-playing woman she was when she walked over here. She’s stunned for probably the first time in her life.

She hesitates for a long, contemplative moment and finally asks, “What can you promise me, exactly?” Then she laughs nervously and adds, “That you won’t kill me and throw my body in a dumpster?” She seems only slightly concerned about that prospect.

I smile and curl my fingers around my glass before bringing it to my lips and taking a drink. “No, I won’t do that,” I say and set the glass back down. “But I will have my way with you—that is if you can handle it. I won’t lie to you, I’m not gentle.”

She bites down tenderly on the corner of her bottom lip.

Gwen pauses and then turns slowly on the stool, facing forward. She takes another small drink and sets the glass down letting her fingertips linger on the wet rim. I’ve seen that look of excitement and conflict in a woman before. It’s unmistakable, the look of a woman who wants to taste the darkness no matter the risks. Her cream-colored skin is flush with heat. Her long, slender fingers continue to dance around the rim of the glass in a slow, repetitive movement. The inner ridge of her bottom lip stays moist as the tip of her wet tongue carefully traces it.

Quietly reading her thoughts, which are as loud as the music playing in the background, I oblige and drop my right arm from the bar, slipping my hand between her thighs and carefully breaking them apart. Without looking at me—and without objection—her body relents and her legs come uncrossed on the stool.

Like the rest of the bar, the area is dark, only the orange and red glow from various bar lights humming against the walls. The shadow plays against Gwen’s profile, accentuating the way her throat moves every few seconds when she swallows. And when my fingers slip behind the elastic of her thin panties in the bend of her leg, the shadow reveals her mouth parting even more with anticipation.

Grazing her little bead of sex, Gwen gasps lightly and both of her hands collapse around her glass on the bar, her fingers loose, but restless. Her legs part farther, giving me—begging me—more access.

I slide my middle finger inside of her and feel her tighten around me, wanting to hold me there. Her eyes close softly. Her back has straightened like a proper English girl. Her shoulders are slightly stiff, her breasts heaving between them with every pleasure-filled breath she takes, but tries to contain for the sake of being in public. And only when she feels the sensation of my finger sliding carefully out of her does she turn her head to look at me again. Placing my hand over the top of my glass, I let my middle finger fall between the others and dip into the whiskey before taking a drink. I set the glass down, afterwards placing the tip of my wet finger into my mouth and tasting her.

She just stares at me. Lustful. Conflicted. Confused.

Then I stand from the stool and remove my long coat from the back of it, sliding my arms down into the sleeves. Gwen watches me quietly, intensely, still fighting with the angel on her shoulder which lost to the devil on the other side the moment I touched her.

I drop a fifty-dollar bill on the bar beside my glass.

And then I walk away.

I don’t look back as I make my way to the front exit, passing occupied tables and busy waitresses and pushing myself through thick wisps of cigarette smoke.

As casually as I had gone in, I walk back outside into the frigid air, pulling my coat together in the front as the wind brushes bitingly against my face. Before I step off the sidewalk and into the parking lot, I hear the music and the voices from inside the bar funnel from the front door as Gwen steps from it behind me.

“I’ll take my chances with the dumpster,” I hear her say and I grin with my back turned.

I turn to face her, my hands buried in my pockets. She’s wearing a long coat, too, with a faux fur-lined hood draped around her dark hair where loose strands push against her face by the wind.

She is quite beautiful.

“I’m glad to hear that,” I say matter-of-factly.

She smiles, breaking a little of the sexual tension for the sake of conversation. “You’re really…blunt.”

I shrug and gently purse my lips.

“I guess I am.” I smile faint and close-lipped, offering my hand to her.

She smiles back and places her fingers into mine.

Chapter Fifteen

Fredrik

We’re at my house after a ten minute drive. Gwen talks a lot. Maybe she’s just nervous after getting into a car late at night with a man she doesn’t know, but I couldn’t care less what she has to say or what she might be thinking. I brought her here for one thing and it isn’t conversation.

“Wow, this is a nice house,” she says when she steps through the doorway. “From the outside, I never expected it to look so…expensive.” She looks back at me with dollar signs in her eyes as I pull her coat off from behind. “Not that the outside looks bad, it’s just…well, very different.” She smiles.

I don’t respond to the mating ritual. Already this is beginning to feel like the start of a dating relationship—even if it’s just with my money. And I don’t date. In fact, I don’t do ‘normal’. This is very awkward for me.

I wish she’d just stop talking.

I needed a house under the radar to make it more difficult to be found by the Order. So, I chose an old, small brick house and redesigned the inside to fit my expensive lifestyle. But the large basement, it got the most treatment. I wanted Cassia to feel safe in my home…despite the imprisonment.

I pull both of my coats off and break apart the buttons of my dress shirt. Gwen watches me with vaguely concealed lust in her eyes, and a little concern, which won’t go away until she’s sure I only brought her here for sex.

“How long have you lived here?”

Kill me now.

“Take off your boots,” I say, just to derail the pointless chit-chat.

“Huh?”

I tilt my head slightly to one side.

“I said take off your boots.” My standard expression never falters.

Gwen’s eyes grow a little wider. She bites down on her bottom lip again.

I pull my shirt off and drape it over the back of the nearby leather chair.