Primal: London Mob Book Two (11 page)

T
he sun was sinking
into the horizon by the time they arrived in Amsterdam. Farrell had tried to get Jenna to sleep on the plane, insisting she lay down in the sleeping cabin. But she’d been unable to let go of the image of Mrs. Hodges dead and alone in her flat.

Dead because of Jenna.

It was true, whatever Farrell said. Jenna had been naive to think she would be able to go on living as if nothing had happened when her father had been mixed up in something as dangerous as the research at the Stafford Institute. She should have taken Lily and run. Isolated them. Stayed far away from anyone who might be hurt.

She’d lain in the sleeping cabin, listening to the hum of the plane’s engine as it carried them above the clouds, away from their daughter in Italy and the horror of London. Toward something she couldn’t begin to imagine.

By the time they arrived in Amsterdam, she was back to being comfortably numb. She couldn't quite process that Mrs. Hodges — dear Mrs. Hodges who had been like a mother to her and Kate, who had cared for Lily with such joyful devotion — was really gone. It would hurt like hell when she finally allowed herself to feel it. She let it fall away instead, focusing on forward movement.

Unbuckle her seat belt and stand.

Put one foot in front of the other to exit the plane.

Descend the stairs to the tarmac.

As always, a car was waiting for them. Someday Jenna would have to ask Farrell about the mysterious workings of his life. The properties seamlessly run all over the world. The perfectly maintained cars that appeared whenever and wherever he needed them. All the little details such a life required. It was like a kind of alchemy, and she settled into the passenger seat of the car, letting the magic of it sweep away her remaining horror.

They headed away from the airport and toward the center of the city, criss-crossing the bridges that spanned the city’s many canals and waterways. It was quaint and beautiful, with cobblestone streets and brightly colored row houses that stood shoulder to shoulder, the setting sun lighting them up like so many rainbows. There were almost as many bicycles as there were cars, and Jenna craned her neck as their riders expertly navigated around cars and over the bridges.

Finally they pulled up outside a beautiful old building that straddled a corner between two waterways. It was modest in size, but Jenna knew as soon as the valet opened her door, holding out a hand to help her from the car, that its size was no indication of its luxury. She should have known. Farrell did nothing by half measures.

They entered a small but beautiful lobby with marble floors and dark wood. The furniture was old but simple, art plentiful on the walls. Jenna wasn’t surprised when Farrell skipped the front desk, heading straight for the elevators. She didn’t know how he’d gotten a key to their room, but the rules never seemed to apply to him.

They took the elevator to the sixth floor and emerged into a quiet central lobby. Farrell led the way to a door at the end of the hall and removed a key card from his pocket. He slipped it into the slot and the light on the knob turned from red to green. He opened the door and stood back, gesturing for her to enter ahead of him.

She stepped into the room, surprised to find herself in a kind of circular sitting room. Four doors opened from the room, and from where she stood she could make out a bed in two of them. It was small, intimate, but understated luxury seeped from every corner. The furniture was simple: a diminutive sofa with clean lines and midnight blue upholstery, two chairs, a rectangular coffee table and end tables that looked like they might have been constructed in the 50s. It was so different from the elaborate furnishings in their hotel in Madrid, and yet she knew instinctively that it was every bit as expensive.

She turned to find Farrell leaning against the wall, studying her with hooded eyes. Even now, after all that happened, his animal grace took her breath away. He seemed simultaneously at ease and ready to pounce, a world of detail hidden in his impassive expression.

“There are two bedrooms,” she said, wanting to fill the silence.

“Yes.”

“Does this mean we won’t be sleeping together?” she asked.

“The choice is always yours, Jenna," he said. “But if I had my way you’d never spend another night in any bed but mine.”

There was a promise in his words, and she had a flash of them later, tangled in the sheets, their bodies entwined. Her cheeks felt hot.

“What now?”

“Now you take a bath while I attend to some business. Come.”

He crossed the room, entering one of the doors. She followed him into a bathroom outfitted with more white marble, watched as he bent to the faucet, turned on the water, checked to make sure the temperature was right before straightening and crossing the room to stand in front of her. He brushed a piece of hair back from her cheek and tucked it behind her ear.

“It’s been a long day. Take a bath. Try to relax. Then I’ll help you forget.”

She swallowed, knowing what it meant when Farrell wanted her to forget.

Knowing how far he would go.

“What about Erik Karlsen’s daughter?” She didn’t know if she was ready to fall fully back into Farrell’s storm. One night in Tuscany was one thing. This felt like the opening of another door entirely. An acknowledgement that whatever happened, they would always find themselves back together.

That she could run from him but never, ever hide.

“It’s getting dark, and needless to say, I haven’t made an appointment,” he said. “I think we’ll have better odds of getting her to talk in the morning.”

It was futile to try and put distance between them. The universe seemed to have other ideas, and her body and soul seemed to share them.

She nodded, and he bent his head, touched his lips to hers, and left the room.

T
hey ate fried herring
sandwiches slathered with mayonnaise on thick, crusty bread at a stand next to the IJ waterway. She’d overdressed in a simple black wrap dress, anticipating a five-star restaurant like the one in Madrid. But Farrell had done the same, appearing in the sitting room of the suite in a gray suit that hinted all too well at the muscle underneath, and somehow she didn’t feel at all strange balancing on a tall stool in her little black dress and highest heels, taking huge bites out of the sandwich. They shared a basket of crispy fries, dipping them in three different sauces and discussing the merits of each like they were any other couple out for the evening — like they weren’t trying to find out who was behind the development of a bioweapon that could level cities like this one.

Like Mrs. Hodges wasn’t this minute laying cold in the morgue in London.

A screaming threatened to build inside her at the thought, a keening that she feared would never stop if she let it loose. She pushed it away, focusing on the sights and sounds of the city instead.

Amsterdam was alive all around them: couples holding hands, laughing and kissing along the water, groups of young men and women traveling in packs, anticipating a night out with friends, even a few bedraggled backpackers intent on sampling Amsterdam’s street food. She and Farrell sat at the outdoor table, taking long swigs of pale, flavorful beer between bites of their sandwiches. She was reminded of their first meeting in the pub back home. This was the Farrell she’d fallen in love with, the one without money, without power. And yet she had to admit he wore it all well — the bespoke suits and luxury hotels, the villa in Tuscany, the relaxed atmosphere of a populated street at night. He was a man at home in any environment, in any situation. He sported his confidence like a crown, the weapon strapped to his side like the sword of a modern day gladiator. He made it clear he could handle himself in any situation.

And he could handle her, too. In bed and out of it.

The thought of it caused heat to rush to her center, and she suddenly wished the dress had allowed for underclothes. She was already wet for him.

When they were done eating, Farrell threw away the remains of their food and took her hand. They walked along the water in silence for a time, and Jenna felt herself relaxing further into the haze that always seemed to drop over her mind when she was with Farrell. With him she wasn’t on guard. She didn’t have to be hyper vigilant, contemplating every possibility, every potential problem. Farrell was doing it for her somewhere underneath his calm exterior. Calculating danger, anticipating her needs. She felt weak and foolish for letting it overtake her, but she didn’t have the energy to fight it. It simply felt too good to let someone else be in charge for a change, although it would have been difficult to admit out loud.

She didn’t know where they were going and she didn’t ask. She was past the point of needing the illusion of control. Past the point of wanting it. She let go, breathing in the moldy smell of the canals, the faint scent of marijuana and hashish drifting from the doors of coffee shops and bars, the underlying aroma of yeast as they passed by a bakery preparing dough for the morning. She hardly noticed when they angled away from the water, heading farther into the city’s center. It wasn’t until they turned onto a quaint cobblestone street lit red that she realized they’d come to the infamous Red Light District.

It was a lovely part of town, not at all seedy as she might have expected. The streets were narrow, dissected by inky canals lit pink and red from the lights seeping from the shop windows that lined the street. The buildings were clearly old, although all in good repair, painted with the bright colors she was swiftly beginning to associate with the city. They were crammed close together, some of them leaning to and fro in a way that made them seem slightly eccentric.

The sidewalk was cluttered with people of all sorts, including clusters of police standing casually nearby, a show of authority that seemed more to deter drunkards than as a nod to any serious crime. Music drifted from the shops, and Farrell’s hand was big and sure over her own as she looked into the windows, curious to get a glimpse of this famous part of the city.

Many of the windows held live people, women mostly, prancing and posing in skimpy lingerie as others looked on. A beautiful brunette bent over in one as a huddle of American military looked on, debating the merit of purchasing time with the woman. Jenna wasn't at all shocked. She knew prostitution was legal in Amsterdam, and she’d read an article about window prostitution. It seemed a civilized way to handle such a basic human desire, one that didn’t hurt anyone, least of all the women who willingly participated and even had healthcare and paid taxes.

They continued past condom shops advertising every imaginable kind of prophylactic, even some that were hand painted and for decoration only. Neon signs advertised live sex shows and peep shows with all sorts of variables.

It was a fascinating distraction, one in which she was happy to lose herself. They’d been walking for nearly a half hour when Farrell pulled her into a narrow doorway.

They emerged in a small room lit soft pink. It was spare, with only a counter manned by a young woman. Condoms and bottles of lubricant, along with an assortment of other sex related products, lined the shelves behind her and were the only decoration in the room.

Farrell approached the woman and slid some bills across the counter. She nodded, took the money without speaking. Farrell took Jenna’s hand, leading her behind a curtain that hid a dark, narrow hall lined with doors.

She swallowed as he walked purposefully to the end of the hall. She didn’t know what to expect. That was part of the fun for Farrell.

And for her, if she was being honest with herself.

He opened the final door and pulled her into a small room, about the size of a closet, dark except for a sconce spilling red light. A window cut the room in half, and a chair sat on the other side of it in darkness.

They’d only been in the room a moment before a dim light illuminated the chair. Farrell positioned himself behind her as a man and woman walked naked into the other side of their room, behind the glass.

Jenna drew in a breath, not bothering to rebel. Whatever this was, she would like it.

She always did.

Music started somewhere behind the walls, emanating into the room through small speakers mounted near the ceiling as the man sat down in the chair.

He was tall and lean, with defined, wiry muscle and short dark hair. Jenna was hyper aware of Farrell’s body as she looked at the other man, following his pecs to his ribs, the line of hair running from his naval to his pelvis and an already erect cock. She noted his attributes dispassionately.

There was never anyone for her but Farrell.

The woman began to sway in front of the man’s chair. She was lovely — small and blonde with full hips and thighs and small, pert breasts. She moved like the music was familiar to her — anticipatory — like she knew exactly when the beat would change.

After a couple of minutes, she moved toward the man on the chair, straddling him, holding her body a few inches above him so Jenna could see his cock straining to reach her shaved mound.

Behind her, Farrell’s hands came up to Jenna’s shoulders, ran the length of her arms as the woman ran her hands over the man’s chest on the other side of the glass, then reached down, taking the man’s erection in her hand.

Farrell’s hands traveled under her dress, up her bare thighs, toward her center. She tipped her head back against his chest as a deeply embedded throbbing started in her sex. He cupped her bare mound, the heat of his hand igniting the fire already smoldering in her belly. She was already aching for him to spread her with his fingers, plunge them inside her.

He moved upwards instead. Up her belly to her breasts, squeezing, then pinching her nipples until she moaned.

“Watch,” he murmured in her ear.

She let her eyelids flutter open, watched as the woman knelt between the man’s legs, licked her lips. His cock pulsed, and she wrapped her hand around the base of it, stroking.

Farrell took hold of Jenna’s shoulders, spinning her around until his back was against the wall next to the window. She was facing him now, the other couple in her peripheral vision, and he took her face in his hands, his eyes full of something too complicated for words. Then his mouth was on hers as he captured her lips and swept her mouth with his tongue. The kiss was deep and urgent, and she molded her body to his, relishing the hard length of his cock against her belly as his tongue devoured her mouth.

He pulled away a moment later, then reached for the buckle of his belt, his eyes as dark as ink. “Watch.”

She turned her head, observed as the woman on the other side of the glass bent her head to the man’s cock. It was strangely erotic, and she watched as the woman’s tongue flicked out, licking the tip of the man’s erection.

Farrell unzipped his pants. “What do you want, Jenna?”

The eternal question. The one she would live and die by. The question that had only one answer.

She looked up at him. “You.”

“Then take me,” he said.

Her nerve endings were electric as she reached into his trousers, freed the massive cock, swollen and rock hard. She took it in her hand, her inner thighs wet with arousal as she began to stroke him. She was breathless, her body smoldering with the need to feel him inside her as he reached for the tie of her wrap dress, let it fall open to reveal her naked body.

She needed him inside her.

Inside her mouth. Her pussy. Her ass.

Everywhere. Always.

“On your knees,” he commanded, his voice gruff. “And keep watching.”

She obeyed, dropping to the floor, letting her gaze flicker to the couple on the other side of the glass, the man’s head tipped back as the woman took him in her mouth. It was strangely sensual, knowing they were engaged in something so personal nearby while Jenna and Farrell did the same.

She didn’t feel ashamed by her arousal. She’d long since given up trying to make rhyme or reason out of the things that turned her on. And it was pointless anyway. There was only one common denominator.

Him. Farrell.

He knew her. Knew her innermost desires. Knew them even before she did. He simply tapped into what was already there, lurking beneath her reasoned, practical surface.

She leaned in, sucking in a breath at the magnificence of his cock. She stroked him, and he got bigger and harder under her touch, something she would have thought impossible had she not witnessed it in the past.

This was her power over him. This and the love between them.

She tipped her head slightly, watched as the other woman sucked harder, moved faster, before turning her attention back to Farrell and wrapping her mouth around his cock. She savored the hiss of his breath as she lowered her mouth to him, taking him all the way to the back of her throat while she squeezed the base of his shaft. She pulled back slowly, moving bit by bit up his silken length, still stroking him with one hand. When she reached his thick head, she sucked at the tip, tasting the drops of pre-cum lingering there as her own lust pooled between her legs. She was slippery for him, could almost feel him sliding into her.

But not yet.

She moved her mouth along his length in a rhythm she knew in her bones, feeling him expand in her mouth, his need for her growing with every stroke of her mouth on his cock.

“Fuck, Jenna…” He fisted her hair in his hands, and the pleasure-pain of it sent a wave of lust through her so powerful that she moaned around his cock.

She looked up at him, leaning his head back against the wall, his eyes half open as he looked not at the woman going down on the man on the other side of the glass, but on Jenna going down on him.

The sight of his watching her only served to increase the electricity humming in her veins, and she moved faster, half wanting him to come in her mouth, half wanting him to fuck her. Wanting everything all at once. Wanting it all so badly she didn’t know what she wanted most.

The woman was standing over the man on the other side of the glass, positioning herself over his condom-wrapped cock. Jenna could make out the folds of the woman's sex in the moment before she lowered herself onto him in one motion. She felt it to her core, as if Farrell were impaling her at the same time. She moaned again, and this time Farrell growled, slid out of her mouth.

Then she was on her feet, pressed back against the wall as Farrell positioned himself between her thighs.

“Later I’m going to lick your pussy until you scream, Jenna, but right now I’ll die if I’m not inside of you.”

He lifted her off the floor, bracing her back against the wall. She wrapped her legs around his hips at the same moment he drove into her with a guttural groan, burying himself balls deep until she gasped with the shock of it.

Then he was moving inside her, alternating long, slow strokes with hard, punishing thrusts that felt too good to be anything but pleasurable. She leaned her head back against the wall, watched as the couple fucked on the other side of the glass, then turned her face back to Farrell as he occupied every inch of her.

It was titillating and erotic. The other couple fucking while Farrell fucked her. The sounds of the woman’s pleasure mingling with her own as Farrell thrust into her with abandon. She was lost, her senses on overload as the images flashed in her mind.

The woman arching her back over the man’s body as he lifted his hips to drive into her.

Farrell’s face, intent and focused as he grabbed her ass, spread her open, pushed into her again and again, his body creating a delicious kind of friction against her clit.

The man grabbing the woman’s buttocks, his face contorted with pleasure as he moved faster, seeking out his release.

Farrell’s body disappearing between her legs as he plunged into her, then emerging slick with her juices before he speared her again.

The woman on the other side of the glass dropping her head back, her nipples tightening as she gasped and screamed, coming as the man seemed to do the same.