Gideon is a globe-trotting hitman with a woman in every port. After a disastrous mission in Buenos Aires, Gideon winds up in Europe where he prepares to exact revenge. Of course, things get complicated when his enemies concoct a vengeful plan of their own. Fortunately there are plenty of lovely ladies to keep Gideon preoccupied …
Lola Mack whispered, “Put your gun down, Boo. Come here. It’s cold out there. Colder than a witch’s tit in a brass bra. Your balls are gonna shrink.”
“You’re tired. You’ve only been asleep two hours. Rest.”
“I’ll give you a head-to-toe, deep-tissue massage.”
“You know how that will end up, right?”
“I’ll end up on my back with my feet on your chest.”
“I was thinking with you facedown, ass up.”
“I love it when your balls slap against me over and over.”
“I like big balls and I cannot lie.”
She smiled, her mouth wide and generous. “Don’t argue. Let me put you to sleep.”
I picked up a cup of café I had left on the dresser, took two swallows to get the taste of BC Powder out of my mouth, then eased back into the large bed. I kissed Lola Mack. Her tongue was sweet, like expensive wine. My skin was cold against hers, as cold as my dreams, as cold as the men I had fought since I was a little boy. Her warmth felt like heaven.
“Boo, I didn’t come all the way to Paris to sleep without you.”
“You came to sleep with me.”
“When I leave here I want to be bowlegged.”
I sucked her ear, sucked her neck, kissed her shoulders. She put me inside her. Slow and easy, I filled her up. Lola Mack covered her own mouth, muffled her moans, but with each stroke she set free soft cries.
“Lola Mack, what are you doing?”
That drowsy voice came from the other side of the king-size bed, beyond Lola Mack. Mrs. Jones pulled the sheets away from over her head and yawned. Lola Mack was a few years younger than I was, and Mrs. Jones was a few years older. She was young, but a more mature woman.
Lola Mack sang, “Wake up, wake, wake up, wake up, and help me.”
Mrs. Jones fluffed her hair, sat up, picked up the glass of 1999 Domaine Leroy Musigny on her side of the bed. She was an attorney, divorced, born in Jamaica, but raised in middle-class Los Angeles.
“Good Lord.” Mrs. Jones sipped liquid power and finesse that cost four grand a bottle, then chuckled. “He’s going to blow your back out.”
Mrs. Jones leaned in, slapped Lola Mack’s beautiful brown booty over and over, playfully gave her corporal punishment for waking her.
Mrs. Jones whispered, “So erotic. Sensual. It’s beautiful.”
I said, “You’re next.”
“Don’t you dare threaten me with a good time.”
Lola Mack made me turn over. She took me in her mouth. The warmth pulled my mind away from thoughts of killing and death. This was better than morphine. My breathing no longer felt trapped in my chest. I took long, intense breaths, ignored the flashes behind my eyes, hummed, held her long brown hair, felt her breathing deeply, slowly.
Mrs. Jones said, “Damn, Lola. Damn. Look at you.”
I reciprocated, went down on Lola Mack, gave her tongue and fingers until she told me she wanted more. I eased between her sweet, brown thighs, grinded against her, sucked her neck, kissed her shoulders.
She eased me back inside. It aroused her and calmed me.
Mrs. Jones whispered, “I love watching you two make love.”
Soon it was Mrs. Jones on her belly, facedown, moans rising.
Lola Mack sipped wine and watched, then joined in.
All of us together in the same bed, this felt like yesterday as well. Once upon a time, years ago, for a season, I’d retired and lived the perfect hedonistic, decadent lifestyle with Lola Mack and Mrs. Jones.
We made love like we were trying to escape pain and find something better than the world had offered. I fucked to calm the noise in my head, to make the flashing go away. We moved around the bed, evolved from position to position, from triangle to triangle, until Mrs. Jones mounted me reverse cowgirl.
As Mrs. Jones rose and fell, Lola Mack kissed me again. It was one hell of a honeymoon kiss. She inhaled my moans, then she backed away, crawled, and faced Mrs. Jones, singing. Lola Mack was playful. She touched the attorney’s face and lips.
Then Lola Mack went to her bags, pulled out two vibrators. After playtime with the toys, after being upside down in my arms, both of them were on the bed, exhausted.
I was an assassin, but I had also grown up in many brothels.
I had my father’s blood. And I had my mother’s blood.
I knew just as many ways to please as I did to kill.
But that hadn’t been enough for Arizona, not at the start.
And it hadn’t been enough for Hawks, not in the end.
Lola Mack asked, “Did you come?”
I shook my head. “Just wanted to please both of you.”
“You’re pretty hard.”
“It’s not good for a man to be that excited and not finish.”
“Not good for his health?”
“Not good for my ego.”
Mrs. Jones whispered, “Touch yourself.”
Enthralled, still wiggling her ass from side to side, Lola Mack looked at me and said, “I love it when you jack off and come.”
Mrs. Jones whispered, “Masturbate for us.”
“Yeah. Make yourself come.”
“Do like we used to do on Seven Mile Beach.”
I sat on the edge of the bed and the goddesses were on their knees, their hands on my thighs, watching me, giggling, waiting. They ran their hands over my skin and kissed my flesh.
“Slow it down.”
“Yeah, like that.”
I did what they asked.
Like a good whore.
Mrs. Jones whispered, “I love it when you stroke yourself.”
“The way it sounds.”
“This shit is so fuckin’ hot.”
“I’m calling dibs.”
“Oh, we’re about to fight.”
My orgasm made me moan in pain and pleasure. It didn’t want to end. They moved my hand away and took control, stroked me and imbibed until I was dry. While I lay on my back, panting, struggling to come down, they laughed and said I fed them well.
Finding Gideon will be available in digital and print on April 18. Digital copies start at $11.99, grab yours here: Amazon | BN | Google Play | iBooks | Kobo. And if more Hump Day excerpts is what you crave (who wouldn’t?), we’ve got you covered.
*This post contains affiliate links. If you click an affiliate link and purchase an item from the vendor, we receive a percentage of the profit (even if you don’t buy the item we’ve linked to). Thank you for supporting RT Book Reviews!