Page 66 of Deep (Chicago Underground 8)
“I don’t have to hurt you,” he said, sound almost forlorn. “I just have to keep you.”
“I hate you,” I whispered, and I didn’t just mean him. I hated my adoptive parents, who had kept me out of pity. And I hated him for keeping me out of lust—a twisted, obsessive desire.
“Good,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Then it won’t be worse when I do this.”
That was the only warning I had before he bent his head. His hand kept my chin tilted up. I had no choice but to accept him, his lips firm and demanding against mine. He flicked his tongue across my lips, and in surprise I opened to him. Then he was inside me, licking me, tasting me, sliding his tongue with mine.
He rubbed his heavy body against my front, and without meaning to, my leg twined around him. I could feel his arousal through my jeans and his slacks—throbbing and insistent.
Then his hands were on my jeans, pulling down the zipper.
I fought it then, surprised, in denial. “No,” I said against his lips, still breathless. “Not here.”
“Here,” he said, like gravel, cupping my sex over my panties. “Anywhere I please.”
Then his fingers slid beneath the elastic band, and he was touching me intimately, his fingers slipping through wetness. I closed my eyes, face heating in humiliation. Humiliation that I didn’t want this, but my body did want this, even up against a dark warehouse filled with weapons and who knew what else.
“Just one,” he said softly, his fingers sliding against my clit, as if he had considered making me come again and again but compromised with one. Restrained himself with one.
Without meaning to, my hips rocked up against his hand, fucking it even as I shook my head. It broke our kiss—he didn’t seem to mind, kissing his way down my neck instead.
“I know this is wrong,” he murmured. “What was I supposed to do? This is all I am—steel bars. A lock. This is all I know how to be. I tried to keep you out, but then you walked back in again.”
“It’s not—” I broke off on a sharp moan. It’s not up to you, I’d meant to say, but it seemed like a lie when my body was panting and rocking over his fingers. Arousal twined around me like barbed wire, strong and sharp.
“Don’t cry,” he said.
And only then did I realize that tears were falling from my eyes squeezed shut. Plaintive sobs caught in my throat. That was how I came, my arousal slipping over his hand, tears falling on my cheeks. Talented, knowing fingers drew out my orgasm to its painful crescendo before stroking me gently.
He pulled from my panties and put them to his mouth, sucking the juices from them. His eyes fell shut, ecstasy clear in his sigh. “So good. I want to spread you out on hood of the car and eat you until you can’t move a single, fucking muscle.”
My whole body seemed to spasm with desire. This was what he did to me—he made me want insane things. He was made of steel bars. The only thing he could do was keep me, but he made it feel so good.
“Maybe later,” he said, glancing to the warehouse. “It’s time to go.”
I found my voice again, though it came out shaky. “Where? Please?”
Despite his obvious tension and arousal, the corner of his mouth quirked up. “You always were persistent. Since you asked so nicely, I’ll tell you. We’re going to see a federal district judge. The one who signed my warrant.”
And just like that, I was almost sorry that I’d asked.
Chapter Thirty
PHILIP PARKED THE town car beside a black Escalade that was already empty. The courthouse was located in the well-maintained part of downtown, stacked full of city offices and street vendors. They all sat empty now, partly due to the late hour—and maybe partly because they sensed it was better to be inside, the way that birds stopped singing in a forest when a predator came near.
Clean entry, clean exit.
I wasn’t sure what that would mean. Hopefully killing or hurting people wouldn’t qualify as clean.
Three men wearing all black and holding firearms joined Philip and I at the base of white concrete steps. I had expected them to go ahead, maybe crouching low and peering around every corner. That was how you saw cops enter a place on TV, with the head detective bringing up the rear—only coming in when things were established as safe to do his job.
This was the exact opposite, and I supposed that was appropriate because these men were the exact opposite. Not cops at all. Criminals.
Philip strode in front, walking with a casual confidence, a faint swagger I could imagine him using when the building was open. I followed closely behind him, with very little confidence and zero swagger. The armed men, including the one we’d spoken to outside the warehouse whose name was Marcus, followed in loose formation, weapons holstered. Their bodies appeared relaxed but were clearly ready for trouble. Their gazes clinically scanned every inch of the wide front steps.
When he reached the top, Philip didn’t pause—he opened the glass doors etched with the scales of justice and went inside. An old man in a security uniform sat at the desk. He swallowed hard at the sight of us but didn’t appear surprised. Philip headed straight for him, and I kept pace even as the other men fell back.
“Good evening, Joel,” Philip said.
