Valhalla Virus by Nick Harrow (best management books of all time TXT) 📕

of pleasure gushed through her. She buried her face in the side of his neck, sucking at his salty skin, murmuring encouragement as he thrust into her again and again. Her fingers tangled in his hair and clutched his shoulder as she cried out again, her muscles quivering.

Gunnar sat up, then stood, lifting Ray off the bed with him. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her body instinctively pulling him tighter, deeper into her, as he turned and laid her back against the rumpled sheets. His hands cupped her ass, lifting it up to meet his powerful thrusts. He held out, hovering at the edge of his control, unwilling to let the moment end. He wanted to stay with Ray forever, just the two of them chasing a spiral of pleasure that went higher and higher.

Her hands curled into the sheets, twisting them into wrinkled knots. She bit her lip, her eyes closed, moans escaping from her with every thrust. Beads of sweat trickled down the slopes of her breasts. Her pulse hammered in her throat, flushing her cheeks and chest a deep crimson.

Gunnar fell into her, his control evaporating when she clenched around him. He shuddered with every thrust, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he pumped into her. Gunnar held tight to her as the violent pleasure gave way to a sleepy afterglow that surrounded them both.

LATER, AFTER A LONG shower that led to more of a mess and another shower after that, they finally collapsed on the bed, their damp bodies sprawled out. The blackout curtains were open to let the city’s light paint dappled reflections from the Bellagio’s fountains on the ceiling. Gunnar watched the shifting sparkles of light, his mind drifting back to the big cargo ship, the muffled cries echoing inside a metal container. He’d been there on Cal Corso’s orders. All he had to do was keep an eye on the big ship until morning, when another security team would show up and the boat would head out for ports unknown. It was a simple job with a big payday.

But, as Gunnar’s father always said, Gunnar couldn’t stop himself from helping other people, even if it fucked him up.

The cries he’d heard had belonged to women.

No, that wasn’t right.

Girls.

Against his better judgment, Gunnar had wrenched the cargo container open and found a baker’s dozen of teenaged girls, skinny to the point of emaciation, their hair dyed a uniform platinum blond. They all wore long, stained T-shirts. Those girls had looked at Gunnar with the wide, helpless eyes of lambs on their way to the slaughter. One phone call had seen those girls headed for a shelter instead of a billionaire pedophiles private island.

That little screw-up had cost Cal Corso a few million dollars on the front end, and untold riches on the back end. The gang boss had spread the word far and wide. If Gunnar showed his face in Vegas again, there was a cool million for anyone who brought Cal his head. The bodyguard had kept the peace for months by staying well clear of the city. Until...

“You haven’t asked,” Ray whispered. Her head lay on his chest, black hair fanned out across the bed like a cast-off hood.

Gunnar ran his hand through her hair, letting the silky threads tumble between his fingers. “About?”

Ray traced circles on his thigh with the nail of her index finger. “Why I called you after all this time.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Gunnar said.

That was the truth. He’d never wanted to leave Ray, but life had thrown them a nasty curveball that forced his hand. Gunnar had vanished to save Ray, even though it had damn near killed him. There’d been a thousand times since when he’d dialed her number to explain, only to cancel the call. He’d been afraid she’d hated him. Worse, he believed he deserved all the anger she could pile on his head. It had been safer, easier, to just let her go.

But when she’d reached out to him, that changed everything. He would have crawled from LA to Vegas on a highway of broken glass and pissed-off rattlesnakes to help Ray if she asked.

“It does to me,” Ray whispered, her voice low and slightly hoarse. She kissed the arc of his ribs and rested her hand on his belly, fingers splayed around his navel. “Kyrolina got up to some bad shit after you left, babe. Viruses, genetic memories, some really, really bonkers stuff. I thought it was just...I don’t know. Like a crazy Elon Musk pipe dream. Shit billionaires dream up to save the world. Or ruin it.”

A chill crept into Gunnar’s blood. He’d heard whispers of some lab in the desert snatching homeless people off the street. But the same whispers had carried crazy stories about Area 51, lizard people running the government, and a particularly batshit theory that the Luxor was a powerful ritual site for some weirdo Viking blood cult. People who lived on the outer edges of society—criminals, the homeless, gamblers, and celebrities, to name a few—harbored some weird fucking ideas about how the world worked. He hadn’t believed any of it was true.

Hearing Ray confirm the tip of the iceberg had him holding his breath waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to tell somebody what Kyrolina had planned,” she went on. “I have a meeting on Monday with a guy from the Department of Homeland Security.”

Gunnar tensed at her words. He had no love for YmirRe, but he had even less for the government. He was one of the bad guys, at least according to the police, FBI, and everyone else tasked with upholding the law of the land. The idea of going to DHS filled him with a deep and abiding dread. “That’s why you wanted me here. To keep an eye on the meet. Make sure they don’t snatch you up in a white panel van and disappear your sweet ass.”

Ray propped herself up