Page 50 of Resurgent
Chapter Fourteen
Liam
“Is this the place?” Charlotte’s lips purse together as she stares at the storage facility the cab has pulled up in front of, and images of those lips wrapped around my cock flood my mind. Despite her firmly placing blow jobs on the “no” list in Mexico, she’d blown me away in more ways than one last night. It had been beyond my wildest fantasies, and I realize again how fucking amazing this woman is.
We’d ordered room service and watched the sun go down together, sitting in companionable silence in the side-by-side, blue-striped chaise lounges on the wood deck of our private balcony. I’d sprung for the overwater bungalow—hey, what’s the point of having drug money if you can’t spend it—and while the inside was somewhat uninspired, the balcony more than made up for what the bedroom lacked. The deck was literally over the ocean and our view of it stretched all the way to the horizon. Had we wanted to, we could jump over the low railing into the clear, turquoise blue water for a swim. There were potted plants lining the walls on either side, affording us some privacy from our neighbors, and in addition to the two chairs, there was a picnic table.
We sat outside, me enjoying a glass of whisky while she had a glass of wine, as night fell over the ocean. It had been a long, exhausting, and emotional day, and I had no intention of doing anything with her other than curling my naked body around hers and holding her as she fell asleep.
She had other plans. After going inside to ostensibly refill her wine glass, she walked out the sliding shutter doors that were open to the view wearing nothing but one of those lacy thongs of hers that framed her ass like a goddamn work of art—an aquamarine color that matched the sea—and the white button-down I’d thrown over the bed when we changed into our swimsuits. It was unbuttoned, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage and the contours of the inner swell of her breasts. Her abdomen was flat and tan, her hard nipples poking against the fabric, and my cock came to life.
Wordlessly, she shrugged out of the shirt, dropped to her hands and knees, and crawled to me, her breasts swaying in the moonlight. When she reached me, she sat back on her heels and unbuckled my belt, slowly sliding it through the loops and tossing it onto the deck. Then she unbuttoned my shorts and eased them off as my cock sprang out, stiff and rigid. Scooting closer between my open legs, she took it in her hand, slowly stroking it as she said, “I haven’t given many blow jobs—actually, make that any—so you’ll have to tell me what you like.”
Then she leaned forward and licked up the length of me, closing her sweet lips over the already-slick head and slowly taking all of me into her mouth. Gazing up at me, her eyes locked on mine, she proceeded to give me the best blow job of my life. It wasn’t the smoothest or the most practiced—it was clear she didn’t know what to do, but that was part of what made it so good. Later, she laughingly called her technique the “blow job sampler”—trying different positions and doing different things with her mouth and lips and tongue to see what made me groan the most. But the little devil had been careful not to make me come. At first, I thought it was her inexperience causing her to switch positions just as I got close, but I quickly realized she knew exactly what she was doing, and I decided two could play that game.
She wasn’t kidding—she did have a strong gag reflex—but I found it made me even harder when she gagged on my cock and pulled back, her eyes watering, before giving me a smile and taking my cock back in her mouth with unvarnished pleasure coupled with her typical fierce determination. Arguing that she would be able to take the length of me easier if she laid down, I placed her on her back on the picnic table, her head hanging off the edge, and tied her there under the pretense it would help her focus. Standing in front of her, I’d pushed my hard cock into her mouth, thrusting in and out while I toyed with her nipples until she was writhing against the ropes that bound her spread-eagle on the table.
I pulled out at the last minute, my come decorating her lovely breasts as she gasped for air. After I took a moment to recover—did I mention it was the best blow job of my life?—I slowly walked around the table to stand between her legs.
“What are you doing? You came. Aren’t you going to untie me?”
I shook my head. “Nope. My turn. Good thing you’re tied open, because I’m gonna eat you like candy.” I smile at the memory. Damn, but I love the taste of her.
“What are you smiling about?” she says now, drawing me back to the moment and the warehouse that hopefully holds the guns that are going to save my life.
“Last night. And torturing you the way you tortured me.”
Now it’s her turn for a secret smile. “It was an exquisite torture. But you didn’t have to. Every time we’ve been together, your focus has always been on giving me pleasure. Last night, I wanted to pleasure you.”
“Oh, sweetheart, believe me, you did.” I rub my thumb over her pouty lips. “Did it ever occur to you that giving you pleasure gives me pleasure too?”
“Oh.” She flushes, then her gaze darts to the cab driver who is looking ahead. “Maybe we should go.”
I pay the cab driver, and using the combination Anthony had told me, unlock the storage shed and step inside, Charlotte right behind me.
“What the fuck?”
It’s empty. I stare into the empty space that is supposed to hold the guns I smuggled out of Iraq for the CIA and sold to La Frontera. Instead, there’s just cobwebs and a few crushed soda cans.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” The disappointment and confusion in Charlotte’s voice mirrors my thoughts.
“Yes. Anthony said this is the address I’d written down myself.” Both Charlotte and I comb the small empty storage facility looking for anything out of the ordinary, any indication that the guns had been here, or where they might be now. But we come up with nothing.
…
“Now what?” Charlotte says, taking a sip of beer. We’ve stopped at a local restaurant to regroup, eat lunch, and have a much-needed drink.
I’d hoped to avoid doing this until I had the guns in hand, but my back is against the wall. “It’s time to call Martin Gray.”
She nods. “Good idea. You’ve been trying to do this alone. I’m sure he’ll know where the guns are and can help.”
“I hope so.” Relief has flooded me since I found out I didn’t commit treason, that there is an explanation and an end in sight. Not finding the guns in the warehouse was a setback, but I’m sure Gray has an explanation. I don’t like admitting I need help, or looking incompetent, but under the circumstances, I don’t have a choice. “I’ll call him when we get back to the resort this afternoon. But while we’re here in Semporna, we should go talk to the guy who made the necklace. Just to make sure we leave no stone unturned.”
An hour later, we walk hand in hand through the streets of the small town. It’s a bit run-down, and a sharp contrast to the beautifully kept beaches, flowered sidewalks, and palm-thatched bungalows well-spaced out over the turquoise blue water of the resort we’re staying at.
After asking several local children, we finally find the workshop of Imran. After introducing ourselves, I say, “I was here some months ago and asked you to make a necklace.”
“No necklace,” he says. “I am a metal artist. I make talismans.”
