13. Magic

Magic

Saxon

I t's like watching a magician perform a trick. You know it's a trick, but you're still amazed. She takes my measurements four or five times—the length of my arms from fingertips to armpit, around my chest, my waist, my hips, my inseam. Jots notes down. Rummages through rolls of fabric until she finds what she's looking for.

Then it's a flurry of things I don't understand. Tracing cutting, measuring. I'd expected to be bored, but watching her work is anything but boring. She seems to mostly tune me out as she works—she yells for Alexa to play music and the device blasts blues. Stevie Ray Vaughn, Albert King, BB King. Not what I'd have expected from her, but then, nothing about Terra Connelly is predictable.

I've lost track of time. The sewing machine hums and hums and hums, and she hums along to the music, pins wedged in her lips.

"Right, here we go. Try these on." She gets up from the sewing machine with a pair of slacks and a jacket.

I shuck my pants and take the new pair from her, step into them. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but they fit…well, like they were custom-made for me. Which, seeing as my parents were filthy fucking rich, my suits have always been bespoke.

But this…

This is on another level. The material she used is serious money. Light, breathable, with a little flex. She paces around me with a critical eye to the fit.

"Almost." She tucks a fold near my butt. "Gotta show off them cannonballs you're packing." I feel her pin the fabric in place. She fusses with the hems at my ankles, muttering to herself. "Now the jacket."

She helps me into it, and repeats the process, identifying where to adjust it so it tapers at my waist just so. The fold of the lapels. "A few adjustments, and then the shirt, tie, and pocket square."

A few adjustments to her, apparently, means at least an hour of flipping the garments inside out and doing…things. More sewing— hummm hummm hummm, pause, mutter, foot pedal squeaking, hummm hummm hummm .

And then the shirt. More measurements. More cutting and tracing and pinning. Glancing at me, not seeing me but the shape of my body, presumably.

Without daylight to track or clocks to look at, I have no idea how long she works, but it feels like a few more hours.

Finally, she stands up. "Done. Try on the whole tux."

I can feel the quality as I dress—this is world-class. I should know—I've had suits made by the best suit makers in London, Hong Kong, and Paris. The Cabal expects you to represent them, you see. Look good. Be professional.

It fits me like a second skin—clinging where it's supposed to cling, draping where it's supposed to drape. The 3-pane mirror shows me that it looks every bit as good as it feels.

"Terra…holy shit." I twist, button the jacket, and unbutton it. "I mean, I…"

"Seeing is believing." She looks tired but proud. "You look hot."

"You saw the house I grew up in," I tell her. "I grew up watching my dad's tailor work. He'd come to the house and take measurements. Come back two weeks later with some shit held together with pins. More measurements. It took months for my dad to get the finished suit."

She rolls her eyes. "That's just laziness. They charge up the ass, take an eternity, and call it 'luxury'." A shrug. "That's what sets me apart—I work fast. I can have a custom gown done in a week because I don't fuck around. When you don't eat if you don't get paid, it behooves you to get the work done fast."

"I've always had custom suits, honey. Growing up, and then working for the Cabal. This is, by far, the best tux I've ever worn."

The pride and heat in her eyes melt something inside me. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Cabot."

"I'm not flattering you, I'm telling you the goddamn truth. This material is fuckin' expensive, honey. You are seriously, seriously talented."

She swallows hard. "Thanks, Saxon. Coming from you, that means more than I can say. Now take it off and go get us food. I need to eat and sleep so I can make mine."

"Your wish is my command."

My Range Rover is still there, so I toss my watchdogs a hundred each, and I bring them back food, as well. There's not much around, so my only real option is fast food—I bring back a sack of cheeseburgers and fries and some Diet Cokes.

We make quick work of the food, and then Terra leads me to her room and peels out of her clothing until she's in nothing but the red thong.

I strip down to my underwear and climb in beside her—she has a full bed, so it's a tight fit.

She immediately puts her cheek on my chest, hand on my stomach, thigh over mine. "I still want you, but I'm sleepy."

I chuckle. "I think I can hold off my baser instincts for a while."

Truth be told, having her in my arms like this is…it engenders feelings so potent I have to work through them and figure them out.

Comfort.

Safety.

A warmth in my soul—happiness? Contentment? Unfamiliar things.

"I feel you thinking," she mumbles.

"I…" I turn my face to sniff her hair, graze my hand over the sinuous curve of her back. "Holding you like this is…"

I feel her listening. Waiting.

"I feel content. Or happy. I dunno. But it's good. As good as sex, almost."

Her lips press a kiss to my chest. "I know," she whispers. "Me too."

Sleep takes me—not deeply because I have an ear out for danger. Eventually, I go all the way under, and dream of Terra.

It's a hot dream.

We're in bed, her in my arms. It's early morning. She wakes up, smiles at me, and wriggles under the covers. I'm already naked because we'd fucked the night before—I know it the way you know things in dreams—and she takes me in her mouth.

Slowly, reality distorts. The dream twists. Sleep fades. I open my eyes, and I'm in her room—the ceiling is an old low popcorn ceiling, faded and dirty.

Heat—wetness and warmth wrapped around my cock, sliding, moving. I groan, gasp. Lift the flat sheet that's covering me…

I'm greeted by the sight of Terra, eyes bright and smiling up at me, lips stretched around me. She glides her palms up my thighs, eyes on me, and goes down, down.

"Fuck, honey. Jesus."

She takes her time, and I watch every moment. Never take my eyes off of her, and her eyes remain on mine. Smiling. Eager. Happy.

I barely have time to gasp a warning when the edge hits me, and then I'm spinning, lost in a wild wonder, spine arched and spasming as she sucks through the climax and keeps going until I have no breath and still…she milks it until there's nothing left until I'm a melted, helpless puddle on the bed.

Only then does she emerge from under the sheet, eyes glittering, lips wet—she wipes them with her thumb and then pops her thumb in her mouth.

Straddles me, naked. "Hi there." All I can do is stare. "Wow."

She giggles—which does unspeakably delightful things to her tits. "Good morning."

"Wow."

"Coffee first, huh?"

"What…" I clear my throat, attempt to find words. "Why?"

She shrugs. "I woke up happier than I've ever been. Sleeping in your arms makes me feel like I've never really gotten a good night's rest before, and now suddenly I'm, like, fully alive." She leans over me, the silky weight of her breasts resting on my chest, and kisses me. "I woke up with your morning wood halfway up my ass, and I was feeling happy, and when I'm happy, I'm horny. And voila, you get a lil' bit of the ol' sucky-sucky for an alarm clock."

"Goddamn, woman. What a way to start the day."

She giggles again. "You get so stupid after I blow you. It's adorable. Might be my new addiction." Another giggle. "Get it? My new…a- DICK -shun."

I groan. "Dear lord. I'm still too stupid for puns."

"You want coffee? I put the pot on before I got back in bed with you."

"I once shot someone for talking to me before I got coffee," I say. "Never been much of a morning person."

She snickers. "Anyone else, I'd laugh, hahaha, so funny. You…I doubt you're kidding."

"I'm not. I was stuck in a hideout house with these guys. We were watching a rival crew in preparation for a hit. This guy, he was fucking… chipper . Woke me up like, ‘Hi guys, time to work, let's go let's go, wakey-wakey eggs and bakey,'" I adopt a nerd voice for the impression. "So I shot his fuckin' jaw off."

She giggles again. "Well don't shoot my jaw off. I need it to suck your cock." She rolls off me and to her feet. "I'll get you coffee. You try to get your brain in gear."

I surge forward and off the bed, snag her around the middle, and toss her to the bed, all in one quick movement.

She squeals in laughter. "I thought you needed coffee or you'd shoot someone."

"I do. But I need something else, more."

"What's that?" She breathes.

"Pussy." I rip her thong apart and toss the pieces aside. "I need to make you scream."

"Oh…." she whispers, gasping as I lick up her seam. "I see. Well, you won't hear any arguments from me."

She's a hair trigger, with me at least. I have her at the edge in seconds, but this time, I take my time. I keep her at the edge, and then right before she comes, I change it up and pull her back. Just my tongue, at first. Get her wild and frustrated, ready to murder me if I don't let her come.

And then I add a finger. Pinch her nipples.

Still, I don't let her come.

She's writhing and thrashing and cursing me, begging for it.

Which is when I decide to see if I can make her come solely through nipple play.

I lick, twist, flick, bite, nibble, and suck her nipples until she's arched off the bed, whimpering, writhing.

I feel the edge, and I pinch each nipple hard , hold it, and she stops breathing, unable to even scream—I let go and softly suck one, and…

She comes. Spasms, jerking in half, knees pressed together and feet digging at the bed. I pry her thighs open and renew my oral assault on her pussy, adding a finger, and then two to her clamping, spasming sex.

Now, she comes in earnest. Screams, thrashing, almost fighting me, out of control. Her thighs lock around my head, heels hooked, toes curled, and I take this as a sign to keep going.

Three fingers, tongue wild on her clit, I bring her over the edge again, and now her fingers knot in my hair and she grinds against my mouth and fingers, chanting my name.

"Saxon, fuck, fuck, fuck, Saxon, Saxon, Saxon, fuck, fuck, Saxon, Fuck, fuck!"

I'd have gone for a fourth, but she quite firmly, almost aggressively, pulls me up.

"No more. Oh good god, honey, no more." She cradles me to her breasts. "Jesus, the things you can do with that filthy mouth of yours should be illegal."

"You started it."

She laughs. "True. I did start it. And I have absolutely zero regrets. But now you have to get me coffee because my legs aren't gonna work for at least ten minutes."

I walk naked into the kitchen and pour us two cups of coffee—she had the mugs out, creamer poured in hers already.

When I return to the bedroom, she's sitting up, cross-legged, waiting. I sit beside her and we sip coffee in silence.

"Best morning of my life," I murmur, between sips.

"I have one rule—no making me happy-cry before breakfast."

"You had breakfast."

She splutters into her coffee. "I did, didn't I? Lots of protein."

I chuckle. "Is there? Protein, in cum, I mean."

"Yup. Em and I googled it once because a guy she was hooking up with kept claiming it did—and it does. The average ejaculation contains an average of two hundred and fifty milligrams of protein."

"Huh. That's news to me."

"Semen—part of this nutritious breakfast." She giggles, and sips. "I wouldn't mind getting my protein that way."

"I wouldn't mind giving it to you that way."

She shoots me a mischievous side-eye. "To be fair, you also had breakfast." She waits until I'm mid-sip to hit me with the punchline. "Mmmmm—fishy."

I splutter coffee all over myself. "You're demented."

"Pot, this is kettle, come in kettle, this is pot." She picks up the edge of her flat sheet and uses it to wipe the coffee off me.

I eye her while she does so. "Do you frequently use your bedsheets as napkins?"

She laughs. "God, no. But I'm moving in with you, and the only things I plan on bringing with me are my clothes and my sewing shit."

"You really want to live underground with a bunch of fucked up operators and their equally fucked up girlfriends?"

She shrugs. "Sure. But what's an operator?"

"Special forces operator. Rev and Chance were both Recons, Kane was a SEAL, and Lash was KSK. Sol was CIA. Si and I are the only ones not officially ex-military spec ops. The training we went through essentially equates to it, though, and I'd classify myself as the operational equal to any operator in the world. At my peak, at least. I'm a little rusty, these days."

She rolls her eyes at me. "Okay, mister 'I dropped four men with four shots in a single heartbeat, intentionally not killing them even though I could and should have.'"

"Any operator worth a shit can do the same."

"Exactly. and that's you 'rusty'." She slugs back the last of her coffee, snags mine from me, and saunters her sexy naked ass into the kitchen.

A few moments later, she peeks her head around the corner. "Coming?"

"Where?"

She steps out into full view, naked, curves beckoning, eyes seductive, holding two mugs of coffee. "Shower."

"With coffee?"

"Duh. You've never had shower coffee?"

"Nope."

"Well, you've been missing out, big time." She wiggles her eyebrows at me. "Also, shower sex. My shower is pretty small, but I think we can manage."

We manage quite well, thank you very much. She braces her hands on the wall and bends forward, presenting her big, beautiful ass for me.

Slippery, soapy, moaning my name…fuck, it literally doesn't get any better.

"Terra, honey," I say, after catching my breath, "I never thought I'd meet a woman who could make me wonder if my sex drive could keep up."

She angles herself under the spray, slathering bar soap on her hands, and then scrubbing her breasts with it. "Well, to be fair, you make me inconceivably, almost unbearably horny. She presses up against me, arms winding around my neck, claiming a kiss. "You make all my fantasies come true, Saxon. Every single one."

"What's your biggest unfulfilled fantasy?"

She twists off the water and I grab a towel, help her out of the tub and dry her off first, then myself, and then the floor.

She doesn't answer for a while. "It's stupid."

"If it's your fantasy, it's not stupid. I want to know, so I can make it come true, if possible."

"It's not very sexy."

"I'll be the judge of that."

She shakes her head. "No, really. My biggest unfulfilled fantasy is not sexual."

"I'm even more intrigued, in that case." I pull on my underwear, wishing I had clean ones.

She uses a second towel to squeeze-dry her hair and then flips forward, twists it, and flips upright, creating a turban. I've seen it on women in movies but never watched a woman do one in real life.

She still doesn't answer. "I want to wake up on a Saturday morning and have coffee in bed. I want to make Mickey Mouse pancakes and drench them in real butter and syrup and not think for even a second about how all the carbs and sugar are gonna go straight to my ass. I want to watch cartoons. I want to do all this wearing my hot-AF boyfriend's oversize white button-down shirt unbuttoned just enough to make my tits look hot."

"Only interjecting real quick to say that it is impossible according to all known laws of physics for your tits to not look hot."

She grins at me. "You're sweet." She slathers lotion on herself, starting at her face and switching lotions for her body. "That's my fantasy. It would be even better if I had friends or family around me for it."

My heart aches, my throat tightens. "Terra…"

"I was so lonely, growing up. Thank god for Em and Tom, and Yates, and even Kaleigh—they've kept me sane. But I still get lonely. Em moved in with Tom a long time ago, and I…" a shrug, as she rests a foot on the pedestal sink, carefully scraping a pink razor up her legs. "I just…I'm a social person. Being alone sucks, and I've just felt so alone for so long." She rinses the razor, slides her palm over her leg, touches up a spot she feels wasn't shaved well enough, and then starts the process over with her other leg, applying lotion or shaving cream or some combo of both and then carefully scraping it away. "I know it's lame. I know you'd probably expect my fantasy to be spit-roasted or something kinky, but it's not."

"Is that a fantasy of yours?"

She glances at me, rinsing and tapping her razor on the sink. "To be spit-roasted? Fuck no. I'm a one-man woman. Nothing about a threesome appeals to me, whether it's with two men or another woman. No thanks. You?"

I laugh. "God, no."

She grins at me. "You've tried it, haven't you?"

I grin back, sheepish. "Once. When I was working for the Cabal. It was nowhere near as fun as porn makes it seem. Just a lot of work, keeping both of them involved. And honestly, to do it with one of the women being someone I cared about? Someone I was with ? Can't imagine it. Not for me, thanks. And sharing a girl with another guy? Even more of a hard pass."

"Well thank god we agree on that." A glance at me. "So. That's my lame fantasy."

"It's not lame, Terra. Not at all. I think it's honestly kind of beautiful."

"You really think so?"

I cup her lovely face in my hands. "I'll never lie to you."

I consider promising to make that fantasy come true the first chance I get, but decide against it—it'll be more fun to surprise her with it.

She cups my crotch as she kisses me, more out of silly affection than any intent. "Go get food. If you stand around being sweet, I'm gonna have to fuck you again, and I have to get cracking on my dress."

"Hey now, don't threaten me with a good time."

She just laughs. "There's a hole-in-the-wall place a few blocks up and over that has amazing bagel breakfast sandwiches. And more coffee—that pot was the last of mine."

An hour later, we've eaten bagel-egg-and-sausage sandwiches, and they are indeed the best I've ever had. The place was more than a little sketchy looking, but I've learned over the years that when a food place is super sketchy looking, the food is either hazardous waste or the best you'll ever have—there is no in-between.

After that, I settle in to watch her work. She seems able to tune me out entirely, working for several hours without even looking at me. This time, she has Alexa play classical music.

The garment takes shape over the course of the day—I grow restless and take a few walks to stretch my legs, as much to make sure we're not being watched as anything.

On one such walk, my burner rings. I answer it.

"Yeah."

"Status update." It's Camilla.

"Working on it."

"My source says Jarrod has entered the base. I thought you said getting him out once he was in there would be impossible short of an all-out assault."

"It is. Which is why I've changed tactics."

"To what? What's the plan, now?"

I hesitate, wondering how much to tell her. "Camilla, do you trust me? Dumb question, maybe, I know."

"I suppose I trust you as much as I trust anyone. Perhaps a touch more. Why?"

"Because I have a plan. But it requires you to trust me. I'll call you late tonight or early tomorrow. When I call, you'll have to follow my lead and trust me. Blindly. No questions asked. If I can pull this off, you'll have Jarrod and a huge leg up over the Moreno cartel—shit, all the cartels. If I don't, well, I'll be dead and you'll be no worse off."

"Trust you blindly."

"Yes."

A long silence. "It's a big ask, Saxon."

"I know."

"I have just one condition. I get Jarrod Carmichael. Alive. And I get to do whatever the fuck I want to him. Preferably without risking open war with the Cabal."

"I understand the condition. I'm not making any promises, because my plan is so batshit crazy it just might work. But it is batshit crazy. I'll serve Jarrod to you on a silver fuckin' platter. And then some."

"Then I will choose to trust you, Saxon. Do not let me down."

"Don't plan to." A pause. "How's Anthony?"

"Getting both knees reconstructed, thanks to you."

I let out a long sigh. "I let my temper get the best of me. Tell him I'm sorry."

"Saxon Cabot, the Bloody Viking, is apologizing?"

"I'm not that man anymore. So yeah, I am. I feel bad. Shouldn't have shot him."

"Once upon a time, I would have killed you for that. And your lovely girlfriend. But like you, I've changed."

"Once upon a time, I'd have put the bullet in his skull."

"Once upon a time, I'd have kidnapped Terra and cut her fingers off until you did what I wanted."

"I know. I gotta say I'm glad you didn't."

"She's good with her hands, is she?"

"She's good with everything." I hesitate. "She's just good , period."

Her silence is thick with tension. "The hug she gave me. I couldn't say so at the time, but…it meant more to me than I can say. I've never had a real girlfriend. If circumstance were different…"

"Cam, I think she'd be your friend even under the current circumstances."

"Perhaps if you succeed in your plan, we could arrange something." A pause. "Me and her. We don't need you."

I laugh. "I'll tell her you said that."

"I did something, by the way. I told you I was watching you. Well, I have some men keeping an eye on Terra's friends, Emily and Tom. Her tour guide's security is quite good, but an extra layer of protection seems prudent. So far, no sign of Cabal pursuit."

"Appreciate it."

"Just deliver Jarrod fucking Carmichael to me."

"I'll be in touch."

I let myself back into Terra's apartment, announcing myself before I have the door open all the way. "It's me."

"Wait!" She calls. "Just…just hold on."

"Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, I'm just putting the finishing touches on it. I want it to be a surprise."

"Well, Jean-Paul's place is in Darien, Connecticut, which is a good three hours from here, so we gotta get moving soon."

"I just need like twenty minutes."

"I'll be on the stoop, then."

Half an hour later, I heard her door crack open. "Come in and get changed."

I enter, and my new tux is hanging up. I dress quickly, wishing I had nicer shoes—these are decent as far as dress shoes go, and very comfortable, but they don't quite match the elevated fashion of the tux. Oh well.

I'm finishing the bowtie when I hear her bedroom door open.

"Okay, so…" her voice is nervous. "You said this is all about appearances. Making a splash. So, I…I went pretty bold. I hope you like it. Because there's no time for alterations, now."

I turn around.

All the blood drains out of my face, my hands, my brain…all of it heads south. My mouth goes dry.

"Jesus fuck, Terra."

"Is…is it okay? I know it's a little slutty, but you did say a lot of cleavage so—"

I cut her off with a kiss. "Stop talking."

"We have to go." She captures my hands. "We can't. It's held in place with tape, literally. So—so as much as I want to let you show me how hot you think it is, you're gonna have to wait."

"Fuck."

"Later, baby. I promise. Besides, I think we've had more sex in the last thirty-six or however many hours than I've had in the last four months combined."

I step back, speechless.

It's a dress worthy of the red carpet for the Academy Awards.

How do I describe it? Words fail.

The neckline? There isn't one. It plunges down to her navel in a narrowing V, with just enough material to cover roughly three-quarters of each breast, leaving the inner and outer curves bare. Now, I've obviously seen her breasts bare. They're gargantuan—I don't know sizes or any of that, and I care even less. I just know I need both hands to fully enclose one. Which means the sheer weight of them causes them to hang. Quite beautifully, in my opinion. Thus, bras. They hold them up. Separate them. Support them. I understand this. What I don't understand is how she's keeping her breasts supported underneath the three or four inches of fabric, when it's obvious she's not wearing a bra.

Some sort of tit witch magic, probably. I don't know. All I know is, it's an incredible effect. They sit high and proud, huge and round and gobsmackingly perfect.

The straps meet at her nape, leaving her back entirely bare down to the swell of her ass—she does a slow pirouette to show me—the V of the dress's back is a mirror of the front, tapering inward.

The skirt part is where it gets really daring—slits slice upward to her hipbones on each side, leaving a panel in front and back. The panels are just wide enough to not quite cover her ass, clinging to her hips in front and back so even when she spins, nothing private is revealed, except the generous bell of her hips and round swell of her ass.

It's revealing, daring, and bold. It would be fantasy-inducing on any other woman. Her, with her figure? I'll see her in this dress every time I sleep, I'll dream of it awake and asleep.

She's wearing strappy black heels with red soles and tall spikes, giving her several extra inches of height, and performing some sort of additional witchcraft to her already heart-stopping ass and thighs.

Her crimson hair is loose around her shoulders, brushed to a glossy sheen, hanging in waves and loose spirals. Bold makeup, dark eyes—a smokey eye, I think I've heard it said. Lips as red as her hair, as red as the soles of her shoes.

Her tattoos are on full display, and I admit I've been too distracted by her attitude and her body to pay much attention to them except as a natural part of her beauty, but I do so now, examing them in closer detail.

"Have I ever mentioned how fucking sexy your tats are?" I say.

She grins. "Thanks. I designed the dress to show them off. Other than Dad's medical stuff and the shit I need for my business, they're the only thing I've ever spent money on. They're all done by a guy who grew up in the same neighborhood as me." She points at a particular bird on her left wrist. "This was the first one he did. I wanted to cover the scars from cutting, at first. He convinced me to spiral them up into the design that you see now, instead of just hiding my scars. Now, I'm sort of proud of the scars. Not because I gave them to myself obviously, but because I beat the addiction to cutting."

"Terra, I could not be prouder to simply know you, as a human. You amaze me. You stun me. I don't think it's possible to overstate how insanely attracted I am to you, physically, but it's who you are as a person that I…"

I trail off, remember her demand.

"Don't you fucking dare ," she whispers, tilting her head back, waving her hands at her face. "My makeup is on fuckin' point, and you will not ruin it by making me cry, goddammit. Just tell me my tits are hot and let's fuckin' go."

"Your tits are perfect . Your ass is exquisite. The dress is gonna stop the whole fuckin' party. I just have one question."

"I told you. Tape."

"How did you…"

She laughs. "I can see the question in your eyes as you stare at my giant tits like the lecherous horndog you are. How are they staying up? Tape. Lots and lots of tape."

"Tape? Like…Scotch tape?"

She cackles. "Scotch tape? Have you seen these puppies? I couldn't keep them up like this with a whole fucking roll. No, it's called boob tape. It's made specifically for this application, and I used every last inch of it I had to keep these babies in place."

"Well, whatever you say. I'm gonna go with titty witch magic."

Her burst of laughter is contagious. "Titty witch magic. God, when did you get funny?"

"I think seeing you in that dress short-circuited my brain."

"All the blood is in your dick, huh?"

"Absolutely."

Her gaze goes to my crotch, and her eyes widen. "Wow. You're not kidding." She makes an apologetic face. "Again, I'd normally help you out, but it took me forty-five minutes to get my lips right, so you're gonna have to suffer. Sorry, babe."

I adjust myself, more for comedic effect than anything. "I'll live. Probably. I'll just have one hell of a case of blue balls."

She cackles. "Blue balls? You've busted, what? Six nuts in the last twenty-four hours? How do you have any cum left?"

"Hell if I know. It's you. You do something to me—I keep telling you this." I step into her, wrap a hand around her waist, cup her ass. "Now, we need to go before I lose what's left of my self-control and bend you over that table."

She swats my hand away and shoves me to the door. "Go, go, go. Out the door. now."

"What's the rush?" I say, laughing.

"I'm approximately six seconds from bending over that table—dress, tape, makeup, and Cabal be damned. Just promise you'll bend me over that table the first chance we get, yeah?"

"Promise." I circle the Range Rover, leading her by the hand, opening the door, and helping her in, buckling her.

My watchdogs are on the stoop, and my car is in one piece. I jog back to the steps where I left my bag of goodies, grab it, toss it in the back seat, and find what I'm looking for—a roll of cash.

I toss it to them, and the nearest kid catches it, strips off the rubber band, and flips through it, counting it…he stops halfway through, staring at me.

"Five grand," I say. Dig another roll out of the bag and toss it to the other kid. "Same for you."

They just stare.

"You look like James Bond," the nearest kid says. "Only American."

I grin. "Well, wish me luck, because I'm about to go pull off some real James Bond shit. Keep an eye on my lady's spot, yeah? We'll be back for her shit, at some point."

"Good luck, dawg."

"For real for real. Good luck, man. Thanks."

I give them a two-finger salute and climb behind the wheel.

Look at Terra. "Ready to go, hot stuff?"

She grins at me. "Let's go do some James Bond shit."