Barefoot with a Stranger (Barefoot Bay Undercover #2)(69)

“Just like that,” he said, grinding against her. “Let me have you just like that.”

She gasped at the pressure. “Oh!” He knew she’d come like this. He’d made her come like this in the car. She gripped his shoulders and cursed her body for turning into a pool of hot, achy liquid.

But he was into it, too. As much as she was. Not inside her, but the rough denim of his jeans over his erection grinding against her wet silk panties was taking them both closer to reality.

“Make it sound good, Francesca,” he whispered in her ear. “Make it real.”

“It is real,” she hissed in his ear.

For a moment, he stilled, then pushed against her. “Yeah.” He dragged his hand down her body, between them, cupping her with his palm. “So real,” he murmured.

He pressed the heel of his hand right on her sweetest spot, making her let out a little cry.

“Inside,” she demanded. “Inside me.”

“Perfect, baby. Perfect.” She didn’t know if he meant her acting—which wasn’t acting—or her body’s response to him, but it didn’t matter. She was confused and excited and trying to stay in the moment but desperately, wickedly gone.

“Like that?” he asked, one finger inching into her. “Or more?”

Blood rushed so hard, her body lost it at the touch, the danger, the illicit, fake sex that wasn’t fake. Anyone listening would assume they were copulating like crazy and she…oh God, she wanted to.

Desire crackled through her. “More,” she whispered. “Oh my God, Mal, more.”

He obliged with two fingers, and it took everything in her not to reach down and grab him and tell him what she really wanted.

“Like that, baby?”

Fire shot through her, an orgasm so close she almost wept. She lost control. Just lost it. She stuck her hand between them, sliding into his pants, clutching his erection as if she could drag it right into her and ride it for hours.

“Oh.” He grunted and moaned and rubbed her harder, circling and stroking and torturing her. She did the same, squeezing and pumping and pulling an orgasm out of him.

“Mal…I have to…”

“Come with me, Francesca. Come. Now.”

She fell into the climax, still clutching him, still stroking, still dying for his entire manhood to fill her up, and as she rocked with one and another and another physical quake of pleasure, he lost it, too, coming as hard as she did.

Very slowly, still fighting for breath, he forced himself up. “Don’t move,” he mouthed.

As if that were possible.

“I gotta hit the head,” he said, moving around and making way more noise than necessary. “Don’t you get out of this bed, woman.” But he gestured for her to do exactly that, then put one finger on his lips to remind her to move silently.


Without making a sound, she managed to get one foot on the ground. Damn, her legs were shaking. Couldn’t they have two minutes of postcoital rest?

Apparently not. Mal was already lifting their two bags, his muscles straining as he picked them up off the ground without making a sound.

Put clothes on, he mouthed.

She nodded, glancing around for what she’d been wearing before. Too noisy to get back into jeans. She tiptoed to the dresser, spying a beach cover-up in the open drawer. That would work.

She gestured to it so he knew what she was doing and lifted the cotton dress, letting it go over her head soundlessly, falling to her thighs.

He pointed to her bare feet. No shoes, he mouthed. She nodded, then he indicated the bed, and instantly, she understood. She sat on the bed and rubbed her hands all over the sheets, moaning like a woman completely satisfied.

“Hurry back, sweetheart,” she said, patting the pillow. “There’s more where that came from.”

He angled his head toward the door, using the suitcases to tell her to go first. She tiptoed by him, snagging her handbag.

“I’ll be back,” he said pointedly in the direction of the listening device. “You just stay right there and wait for me.”

He nodded to the door, and she snapped the dead bolt. The minute they were in the hall, she closed the door tight.

“Run,” he ordered in a hushed whisper. “Straight to the car. Run!”

She flew down the hall and up the stairs, saying a thankful prayer that there was no one around. She darted outside, turned left, and bolted to the Prefect, yanking the door open. He was right on her tail, tossing the bags in the back, then starting the engine.

Which sputtered.

“Holy f*ck, not now,” he growled. “Come on, girl. Come on.” He sounded very much like he had in bed, cajoling an orgasm out of her. His jeans still hung open, his T-shirt stuck to his body with sweat from their pseudosex.

Finally, the Prefect engine hummed to life, and Mal threw it into drive and shot down the alley, flying through the streets of Caibarién like a hunted, wanted man.

Which, she had to remember, he was.





Chapter Twenty-two





Mal took a roundabout, convoluted, mangled trip over deserted roads, through wooded areas, and deep into the farmland of Cuba and lost anyone who might be on their tail. Yet, he was barely fifteen minutes from town and making his way to Ramos’s farm.