Read Manhattan Flame (A Bridge & Tunnel Romance Book 2) Online
Authors: Mira Gibson
Manhattan Flame (A Bridge & Tunnel Romance Book 2) (10 page)
Kevin glanced at the woman in his arms then met his father’s gaze. “She is, trust me.”
Sunlight streaming through the window gently woke Tasha from a long night’s rest. She inhaled deeply and nuzzled into Kevin’s arm, curling up beside him. She had come to crave his scent during their week together after he’d rescued her from Avandeyev’s warehouse. In moments like this when dreams clung and the brand new day hadn’t yet begun, she couldn’t get enough of him—the sight of his bedraggled hair, his face in profile, the rise and fall of his sculpted chest, the
feel
of him where her arm and leg draped over his body.
Kevin had fought for her. He could’ve died. But thank God they had both walked away from that terrifying night unscathed.
Though Sergeant Reilly had been shot twice—between his shoulder blades and lower back—he was alive and as far as the District Attorney had told her, he was still handcuffed to his hospital bed in the Intensive Care Unit at Beth Israel. It was only a matter of time before he would be incarcerated for conspiracy, corruption, and aiding and abetting murder, among other charges that Tasha didn’t trouble herself to remember. Avandeyev didn’t make it out of the warehouse that night and with his death, his entire crime organization would soon crumble, or so the D.A. had assured her. Tasha’s stalker, Alexi Vishnevsky would also do hard time and was currently being held in jail pending sentencing. And most importantly, the 26th Precinct in Harlem was now on track for complete redemption, Kevin having ferreted out all of the dirty cops with the help of Internal Affairs.
Kevin drew in a deep breath, waking up. His eyes drifted open and he rolled on his side, facing her.
“Hey,” she said softly, as he stroked her black curls, tucking a lock behind her ear.
“Are you excited?”
“It’s practically Christmas morning,” she said with a smile.
She had spent the week walking around several parks and taking photos. At times Kevin had joined her, but for the most part Tasha had been content to wander alone. And the images she had captured, the stories they told, were the best she’d ever produced.
She couldn’t wait to find out how the guests at Windsor Fine Art would react later today. She was practically buzzing with anticipation.
And Kevin could tell. He found her waist beneath the covers and shifted her on top of him, their nude bodies aligning, his warm skin and firm muscles arousing her.
The air conditioner they had bought whirred in the window. Though they both knew the danger they’d survived had long since passed, neither felt entirely comfortable with leaving the window open while they slept.
Straddling Kevin, she rocked her hips to turn him on and felt his erection grow where it lay between their stomachs.
Gently, he ran his fingers through her hair and pulled her in for a kiss.
When their lips met, Tasha breathed in the scent of him and grew wet, as she began stimulating herself along his shaft.
She planted her palms against the mattress, lifting up and angling his penis into her. The initial contact made her gasp and as he penetrated her, her skin flared hot in response.
Straightening her back and gazing down at him, she began riding him, the feel of his hard erection inside of her stirring up heat and friction in the sweetest way.
He held her hips and squeezed—one of his quirks. He liked to feel her flesh, the meat on her bones, whenever he could.
She quickened the pace and he groaned, finding her breasts, cupping their shape and feeling them jiggle with her every thrust.
He breathed, “How did I get so lucky?” as he watched her, feeling himself inside her, the slippery hot sheath of her body.
That was the irony and she had thought about it many times. She never would’ve met Kevin had the Russian crime organization not killed one of their own on the pier.
Destiny had a funny way of working itself out...
Hungry to be in control, Kevin grasped hold of her waist and effortlessly flipped her onto her back, and again pressed into her.
With strong, rhythmic thrusts he began working her towards climax—Tasha’s breath quickening, her mouth drawing open.
As if they shared a mind, she lifted her legs just as he hooked his arms under her knees, and she cried out in pleasure at the exquisite angle—their new favorite.
She liked watching him as he drank in the sight of her. She snuck a peek at his thick erection sliding in and out of her then rested her head back again and smiled.
“I can’t get enough of you,” he groaned.
“You’ll never have to,” she said softly. “I’m not going anywhere. You can have me as much as you want.”
He thrust into her, holding himself deep inside, and began grinding, hitting all of her most sensitive spots. A burst of pleasure coursed through her and she knew she was close.
She held onto his muscular biceps, as a swell of heat flared in her loins. Every thrust he delivered brought her a breath closer to the peak, every grind—those creamy seconds when he’d work her good and deep—caused her to surge higher and higher.
On a trembling exhale, she whispered, “I’m coming,” and he smiled as though making her climax gave him more satisfaction than actually ejaculating.
She loved that smile.
Reflexes taking hold, her head tipped back and a long moan escaped her, as wave upon wave began rolling, the tight sheath of her body clutching and clamping powerfully around his hard penis.
He felt it and stared at her with intrigue, as he quickened his pace, eager to come now that she was.
As the wash of heat in her loins subsided, she held his face. Kevin let out a deep groan, pumping harder and faster, her body beneath him—relaxed and bouncing in rhythm.
She always knew the moment he was finished and it made her smile.
He released her legs, lowering against her, and then rolled to his side. She followed suit so they could face one another. He caressed her arm, his fingers traveling its length and then grazing over her hip and thigh before changing direction.
Kevin had a way of soothing her. Now that she knew what love—real love—could be like, she never wanted to be without it.
It gave her pause.
Love?
Was she in love with him?
The answer came smooth and swift, but only in her mind—
Yes!
He stroked her cheek and said in a quiet voice, “There’s something I should tell you.”
Her heart skipped a beat. Good news was never prefaced like that.
“What?” she asked.
He leaned in, kissed her, and when he drew back, he said, “I love you.”
She melted. They looked at each other for a long moment and finally she said, “I love you, too.”
Tasha and Kevin spent the morning in bed, talking and caressing each other, making love and drinking coffee when the craving for either struck. They spent the afternoon in Central Park, kissing and taking in the scenery—cherry blossoms in bloom, tourists meandering at a snails pace, jugglers and mimes panhandling for change. As the sun set, they made love again in her apartment then got ready for her art exhibition. Tasha dressed in a slinky black dress with her signature wedge-heeled sneakers, and Kevin wore a dark suit, his gun hidden in an ankle holster under the pant-leg, not that he had any use for his weapon when he wasn't on the job.
They took a cab down to Chelsea and after it had pulled up to the curb in front of Windsor Fine Art, Tasha popped the rear door open, stepping onto the sidewalk.
As soon as Kevin had paid the fare and joined her, she said, “You’re finally going to meet my friends.”
“Can’t wait,” he said easily and they crossed the sidewalk and entered the brightly lit gallery.
Inside, a crowd of tailored-looking guests were milling about with wine in their hands, their eyes on the art.
Tasha was one of five local artists whose work was on display.
She suggested they grab a glass of wine and as soon as they did, the gallery curator, Abigail Sorenson rushed up, booming out a whirlwind greeting. “Tasha, everyone loves your photographs.”
Her eyes widened excitedly and when she glanced around the gallery she saw small red stickers on the price tags of several of her prints, indicating they had already been sold.
“I’ll let you get acclimated,” Abigail went on. “Then I have a number of people I’d like you to meet.”
The curator rushed off as quickly as she had come, greeting another artist who was now arriving.
“Star of the party,” Kevin commented teasingly then grew sincere as he said, “these really are incredible.”
They crossed through the crowd to one of her photos—a homeless man sleeping on a darkened street directly in front of the 5th Avenue bedroom display at West Elm. The richest of the rich brushing up against the poorest of the poor—that was Manhattan in a nutshell.
From across the crowd, Greer called out, “Congratulations,” throwing her arms open for Tasha as she worked her way over. Jennifer was in tow with Greer’s boyfriend, Hunter Black, who smiled proudly at his photographer friend. They took turns hugging Tasha and then formed a circle.
“This is Kevin Wright,” she told them, making introductions.
“The cop,” Jennifer supplied, being the first to shake his hand and give him the once over in a way that made Tasha blush with embarrassment.
Kevin was gracious about it and made small talk of praising Tasha’s accomplishment and marveling at the gallery.
Then Hans Janz's distinct voice cut through the air, as he complained, “Utter crap.”
Tasha turned to find her employer frowning at the photo she had taken of Catholic schoolgirls sitting on one of the large rocks in Central Park near an aged homeless woman who was scarfing down a sandwich.
She told Kevin and her friends, “Excuse me,” and worked her way through the crowd. Hans didn’t even acknowledge her presence when she reached him, but began a scathing critique of all the mistakes she had made in the darkroom.
Interrupting his crass tirade, she squared her shoulders at him and used a firm tone to assert, “My work is getting a positive response.”
As if he wasn’t convinced, he shot her a sideways glance and snorted.
Quickly, she scanned the room, counting all the red stickers next to her photos—enough to get by for three months, she calculated, assuming the gallery would pay promptly.
Regardless of whether it did or not, she’d had enough of Hans Janz, that was for damn sure.
“It was nice of you to come,” she said, “but...” She hesitated, mentally checking the gate—there would be no turning back. Good, she thought as she announced, “I quit.”
“You what?” he asked, astounded.
With a smile she said, “You heard me” and then quickly joined Kevin, who was standing in front of the one photograph she had included in the exhibit even though it didn’t match the others.
Blown-up to the dimensions of four-by-four feet, the photo was a selfie of Tasha and Kevin kissing in the park as cherry blossom petals fluttered all around them.
He turned, touching eyes with her, and an unspoken conversation ensued.
She knew exactly what he was thinking.
She laced her fingers with his and as they kissed, the guests began taking photos of them, flashes bursting and her friends awing from the wayside.
It didn’t get any better than this.
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Mira Gibson is a playwright, screenwriter, and novelist. After majoring in Playwriting at Bard College, Mira was accepted into Youngblood, the playwrights group at Ensemble Studio Theatre (NYC). There, Mira's plays received developmental readings and workshops. Most notably: Daddy Soda (2009), Old Flame (2012), and Diamond in the House of Thieves (2012). Her one-act play The Red White and Blue Process received a commission from The Sloan Foundation. And her one-act play Old Flame won the Samuel French Playwriting Competition and is available for licensing via Samuel French Play Publishers. In 2012 Mira's first screenplay, Warfield was produced by Summer Smoke Productions. It is available on Amazon Direct. She lives in Los Angeles, CA. Story is her life.
Published by: Mira Gibson
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