Page 53 of Altered By Fire (Undercover Sinners 1)
Hanging from the bedpost near his head … are the fucking keys.
It's no chore to spend time with West, so I lean down and tease the pierced tip of his cock with my tongue, playing with the metal for just a moment before I take him deep, putting my palms on either of his hips to keep him from bucking upward. But I'm experienced enough that I can take him all the way to the base, leaning down and putting my ass up in the air. It's tempting to wake Colt, too, but then I'll never get those keys.
Weston tastes fresh, clean, a little bit like soap. He must've freshly showered. That turns me on for whatever reason, and I end up moving faster, running my palm up West's belly, my nails teasing his muscles. Just before he's about to finish, he throws his head back and closes his eyes. I pull away, reaching up and grabbing the keys in my palm to keep them from jingling. At the same time, I flick my tongue over the head of his shaft and take his cum all over my face and breasts.
"Shit, I'm sorry," he murmurs as I stuff the keys in the pockets of my sweats. Weston hands me a rag, and I wipe up, giving him a mysterious smile and tossing the dirty fabric back at his face. "Natalia …" he growls, but I'm already slipping out the door and heading back down the stairs.
For a second there, I just wait to see if he might follow me, but I guess the gunshot wound's got the better of him because the house stays quiet. Good. I sneak back into the church, unlock the door, and let myself into a dark little chamber with stairs leading down. Looks like it goes to the basement.
There's a light at the bottom, and the sound of voices … and crying?
I head down the steps because, fuck, curiosity's always gotten the better of me. Even though I know I shouldn't be doing this, I keep going, creeping my way down the steps until I find myself in a huge, cavernous crawl space filled with antiques and old pews. There are old oil paintings stacked in one corner, several rickety metal desks stacked in another. All of this stuff creates a maze that I have to pick my way through in the dark as I head toward the source of light and noise.
As I'm moving, I pass by a small locked room that, based on the piles of paper inside, and the ancient computer screen I can see through the windows, was probably an administrative office of some kind. I'm not two steps past it when the door shakes and the knob rattles. A man's face looms up out of the shadows and I stumble back, almost knocking into a pile of junk and catching myself at the last second.
"Goddamn it!" Hawke snarls, storming over to stand in front of me. But I'm so still, or maybe he's just not expecting me, so he doesn't bother to turn and see me there, crouching in darkness. "Shut the fuck up, for God's sake. You've got plenty of food in there and we'll see you right when you get out."
He glares at the man in the office window and then shakes his head, running his fingers through his short, dark hair.
"Mace, I'm off to bed, okay? Just … finish him off and we'll dump the body in the morning. If he doesn't tell us what we need to know tonight, he's clearly never going to."
"Sure thing," a deep, rumbling voice answers. It's a voice like mountains, strong and unyielding. Mace. My stomach twists to hear these two men talking about this captive man like his life doesn't mean shit. And by the look of him—the silver hair, the disheveled outfit he's wearing—he's clearly the missing priest.
"Thanks," Hawke breathes, and then he's disappearing around the corner and up the stairs. I try to remember if I re-locked the door behind me and then have a brief moment of panic when I can't decide if I did or not. For a few minutes there, I stay crouched, shaking and breathing hard, listening. But Hawke doesn't come back.
Instead, I start to hear that soft, whimpering sound again, followed by a curse. And it isn't Mace who's cursing. In fact, the person who's cursing isn't even doing so in English … but in Russian.
Peeping my head out, I crawl forward and peer around the edge of a bookshelf to see Mace, standing above a bloodied, bruised Dmitri. Most of his teeth are missing, his fingernails. And even though I know for a fact that he's a piece of human trash, that he killed his own wife in cold-blood for no reason, the whole scene sickens me.
