He stills at my gasp, his hand sliding down my side. “Ava?”
“Do that again,” I breathe, and hold on to him. I know I’m on top and I know I’m supposed to be in charge, but fuck it. “Pump into me again, Rafe. Now.”
He does, and all my nerve endings flare with excitement. I moan, and my legs clamp against his sides. “Oh fuck,” I breathe. “That’s amazing.”
“Yeah?” He sounds shocked.
“God, yeah. Do it again.”
He thrusts again, and my toes curl with delight. Oh wow. Wow. “Rafe,” I moan. “Oh Jesus, that feels so good—”
“Ava,” he groans, and there’s urgency in his tone. “I don’t know if I can last—”
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “Do what you need to.” I’ll just sit over here on your big cock and like, revel in how fucking glorious it is.
A feral sound rips from his throat, and two seconds later, we’re rolling and he flips me onto my back. His hands grip my shoulders and he presses a kiss to my mouth, then begins to thrust into me. Deep, hard, incredibly powerful thrusts that shake my entire body with the intensity of it. And oh, sweet Jesus, it’s amazing. It’s the deep dicking I’ve been craving, but times a hundred. “Rafe,” I moan, clinging to him. “Oh God, yes. Fuck me harder.”
“Ava,” he snarls. “Fuck!”
“Yes,” I shriek when he bucks into me again. “God, yes!”
But he groans and I feel the heat of him wash over my insides a moment later. His body shudders against mine. He’s come, and I’m . . . almost there.
“No,” he groans. “Ah, fuck. I’m so sorry—”
“Give me your hand,” I tell him, still wriggling under him. He adjusts, leaning heavily on one elbow, and I take his hand and put it on my clit. He’s still stuffed inside me, so deep I feel changed, and when his fingers start to play my clit, it takes me mere moments until I’m over the edge with him, my nails dragging up his back and his name shrieked at the top of my lungs.
As his fingers slide away from my clit, I give a soft sigh of contentment, wrapping my arms around his sweaty shoulders. There isn’t an inch of us that isn’t covered in either sweat or semen or my juices.
I’ve never felt better, either.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
RAFAEL
It takes more willpower than I expect to extricate myself from Ava’s warm embrace. She’s fallen asleep on top of me, and moving out from under her soft body isn’t high on my list, but a knock at the door tells me time is up.
I’ve made Garcia wait too long as it is. I swipe my pants off the floor and shrug into a cotton camp shirt. I stink of Ava and sweat, but Garcia will have to suck it up.
“You done?” he snaps with irritation when I step out into the small space outside the bedroom.
I’m too satisfied to be able to summon any irritation at his tone. “For now.” I pour myself a cup of water. The post-fucking glow is going to hang around for a while. By U.S. standards it’s primitive in Campoverde, but compared to the jungle, the dusty water tastes like sweet tea. “What have you got?”
While Ava was punching my V card, Garcia had been busy. There is a new pack in the corner, which suggests he’s loaded up on supplies. Outside the window, I see the VW Golf we bought, and on the table, he’s fieldstripped the handbag.
“I didn’t find anything else in the pockets or lining except for the GPS chip.” The leather shell is on a chair, and I run my fingers around the inside. It’s smooth except where glue adhered the felt.
“No memory card? Those fuckers are tiny these days.” I’m grasping at straws. If Garcia says that there’s nothing here, there’s nothing here.
He shakes his head. “All we have are the folders, which are just teasers for the buyers. Information that is harmless but intimate enough to lead the buyer to believe it’s genuine.”
“You think it’s a head fake? That Duval is selling false information?”
“No. That would be too dangerous. The North Korean crew would disembowel him and send pieces of his body to all his relatives. And the Libyan group would take his family and crucify them in front of him.”
Pulling a chair out, I flip open the folders. The first one contains email exchanges discussing gifts for a newlywed royal couple. One contains a bawdy, off-color joke that would create a seven-day news cycle of defensiveness followed by an apology that would be pushed aside for the next drama. It’s not worth enough to pay eight figures for and it’s not worth enough to kidnap a U.S. citizen and then threaten to kill him if the information isn’t intercepted. The next one is a transcribed phone call between another politician and his lover. That one is more damaging but nothing that would require this kind of payoff. There are sticky notes stuck to the papers, but they don’t seem to flag anything in particular.
Duval has more, but exactly what it is and where we can find it, we are still in the dark.