The Temptation of Four

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The Temptation of Four Page 7

by Eva Chase


  “Your fingers,” I said raggedly. “Inside me.”

  Sherlock obliged in an instant. He traced two fingers down over my slit, drenched with my arousal, and eased them inside. Just a few inches of that pressure inside was all I needed to tip me over the edge with the next flick of his tongue.

  I arched up with a gasp and a shiver of bliss that wracked my whole body. Sherlock’s breath caught audibly. He kissed me again, covering my entire core with his mouth as I rode out the wave. I cried out at the fresh burst of pleasure.

  I sagged back into the covers with a near-delirious grin. Sherlock looked at me, his mouth deliciously flushed and his expression tight with desire. His erection strained against his slacks. He hesitated for a second with that rare uncertainty that somehow turned me on twice as much as before.

  “Can you—can that happen for you again?” he ventured. “Right away?”

  I laughed and shoved myself upright to pull him into a kiss. “Fuck, yes.”

  My tart flavor mixed with the smokiness that had laced Sherlock’s mouth. Between the two of us, we peeled his pants and boxers off in about five seconds flat. I grasped his cock, reveling in the smooth solid length of it, and his mouth crashed into mine again.

  I ached to have him in me, now. “Purse,” I mumbled in an instant between kisses, groping across the bed. He caught the clutch and passed it to me, and I dug out the condom I always kept in the inner pocket, just in case. I certainly hadn’t expected I’d be needing it tonight.

  “Right,” Sherlock said, taking it from me. “Naturally.”

  I touched his jaw as he ripped it open, seeking out his gaze. “I normally do,” I said. In that moment, it seemed important that he understand this one fact. We might be enemies in essence, but I wouldn’t have wanted to strike out at him that way, a careless passing on of some venereal disease. That wasn’t how I worked. “Last time—last time was the only time I haven’t. Special circumstances.”

  Some unfamiliar emotion flickered across his face and was gone. He opened his mouth, but words didn’t come. Instead he kissed me again. As his mouth melded with mine, he lowered his body to mine. I opened my thighs to welcome him. He thrust into me, finally blissfully pressing his cock into me to the brim.

  I was so primed he could have fucked me just about any which way and I’d have come again. But Sherlock was committed to his experiment to the end. As he plunged in and out of me, his hand slid over my ass. He lifted me, fitting me against him until he found the angle that made me not just gasp but sob with the shock of pleasure that hit me.

  When I clutched his shoulders and bit his lip, he groaned into my mouth. He drove into me again and again with sharply powerful strokes. The force of his cock sent my head spinning with bliss.

  I scraped my fingernails over his back, he tweaked my nipple tightly, and ecstasy flooded me. We toppled together over the edge in a surge of shudders, sweat-slick skin, and broken breath.

  After a minute, Sherlock withdrew and eased down onto his side next to me. I glanced over at him, my limbs boneless with release, not possessing the will to send him off quite yet. I really ought to give him a chance to make his informative inquiries, after all. There wasn’t anything wrong with basking in the heat of his body in the meantime.

  He grazed a fingertip over my ribs just below by breasts where a faint scar marked my skin. “This was a knife,” he said. “A few years ago? It looks as though it should fade away completely before much longer.”

  The thin pale nick was the only remnant of the second to last man I’d killed with my bare hands, four and a half years ago to be exact. The last person other than Bash I’d ever had business dealings with directly, face-to-face. The head of a criminal syndicate had paid him off to take me down. He hadn’t stood a chance.

  “You’ve probably faced off against more knives than I have,” I said blandly.

  Sherlock’s hand traveled from my side to my arm between us. His thumb swept over the point of my elbow. “A childhood scrape, deep. You grew up somewhere with a lot of rocky terrain?”

  That observation sent a quiver that was uneasy rather than pleasurable through my nerves. “It wasn’t a place with no rocks. I’m sure that narrows it down ever so much.”

  Sherlock smiled faintly. His fingers skimmed up over my shoulder to my neck. He knit his brow. “Did you know you have an imprint just at the top of your spine here? It doesn’t have quite the qualities of a birthmark—somewhat closer to a tattoo, but—”

  My jaw clenched for a second before I caught my reaction. I’d expected him to be watching for clues, yes—but with the intent to figure out my current plans, not to dredge up my distant past. A sharper sense of nakedness prickled over my body.

  There wasn’t anything he could really learn from me without my consent. Not when he wouldn’t have believed in the things I’d grown up with, the things I’d made deals with and run from.

  I rolled onto my side to fully face him and grasped his wrist. As I pushed his hand away from me, I gave him a pointed look. “Was tonight just a means to an end, or did you actually enjoy it?”

  The corner of his mouth quirked up. “If it could be both for you, can’t it be both for me as well?”

  Somehow that response made me want to strangle him and also kiss him until he was hard enough to slide inside me again. Either would have shut him up.

  “Fine,” I said. “But then you’ve overstayed your welcome.”

  “And if I don’t happen to feel like leaving yet?”

  I let out a huff and sat up to shove him off the bed. Sherlock slipped out of my grasp and swung on top of me. Before he could get a good enough grip on my arms to pin me down, I gave him a light knee to the side that pushed him aside enough for me to scoot free. That worked for all of three seconds before he caught me around the waist. He rolled me over him and then rolled back on top of me.

  Sherlock grinned down at me, holding my hands above my head and locking my legs under his, clearly having an excellent time. Also clearly not expending that much energy. I had to extend a little respect to his physical prowess and to admit it had aroused me all over again, and both of those facts left me disgruntled.

  “I could get you off me,” I informed him. “I just don’t want to hurt you.”

  He cocked his head with apparently genuine curiosity. “Why not?”

  I grimaced at him. The answer that tripped off my tongue was maybe more genuine than I’d have given if he hadn’t appeared to truly want to understand. And if he hadn’t just given me the most satisfying sexual experience of my life so far.

  “Because in spite of you being a meddling, arrogant know-it-all, I like you.”

  Sherlock blinked at me. That comment was apparently enough to shut him up. My throat tightened. After a moment, I added dryly, “That would generally be your cue to tell me you like me too.”

  He chuckled, his grip loosening as he shifted his weight. “I’m not sure that ‘like’ is quite the word.”

  I’d thought we were bantering. I’d never had any intention of caring what this man or any other thought of me. All the same, the answer felt like a slap across the face.

  An uncomfortable sort of heat flashed through my chest. I squirmed out from under Sherlock and grabbed my blouse. “Go whenever you like, then.”

  I pulled the blouse over my head on my way to the bathroom, not entirely sure what I was going to do in there, but there were plenty of possibilities for occupying myself away from the jackass on the bed. Wash my face. Brush my hair. Run a bath and drown myself in it for my idiocy.

  The mattress squeaked as Sherlock righted himself. “Jemma,” he said. “Wait.”

  I stopped, crossed my arms, and turned partway back, looking at him sideways. “What do you want?”

  He sat in the middle of the bed without any self-consciousness about his nudity in his posture, though that earlier awkwardness had come back into his expression. His gaze stayed fixed on me, as intent as ever. I didn’t know what he was tryi
ng to read now.

  He inhaled slowly. “Saying that was difficult for you, wasn’t it? I didn’t realize. I’m sorry.”

  The great Sherlock Holmes was apologizing for hurting my feelings. Was that a win or a loss? I wasn’t totally sure. I didn’t answer, just watched him as he was watching me.

  His mouth twisted. He set his hand on the covers beside him. “Will you come back here?”

  “Why?” I asked.

  His lips parted, and he paused. Then he said, a little haltingly, “So I can tell you what I meant.”

  Well, God damn it, if Sherlock was going to admit he had feelings, I supposed I could acknowledge them. I allowed myself to return to the bed and sat on the corner. “Tell me, then.”

  He looked far more pleased that I’d come than he had any right to, and the look gave me far more pleasure than it had any right to. I clasped my hands in my lap.

  “I don’t think,” he said, “that anyone examining my thoughts and behavior since I met you would consider ‘liking’ a potent enough term to encapsulate those. If I’m being purely objective, I’d have to admit that something along the lines of ‘fascination’ or perhaps even ‘obsession’ would be more accurate.”

  The sharp edges that had risen up inside me softened with a flicker of surprise. “Oh,” was all I managed to say.

  He ran a hand through his now thoroughly mussed hair. “This isn’t my forte,” he said. “I can analyze people and their motives and all the rest, but when it comes to the interplay between myself and them, absorbing and responding—I’ve never really known what to do there. So I generally go forth with whatever I was going to do anyway and let whoever’s around me make of it what they will.”

  I shrugged. “Why shouldn’t you?”

  “Well, exactly. It’s served me perfectly well so far. I’ve accepted it as who I am.”

  Had it really served him well, though? For a second, looking at him, I imagined I could see through the man to the boy he must have once been—still an arrogant know-it-all, lurking on the fringes of the posh school his well-to-do parents had sent him off to, which I knew from seeing the records. Had he never felt the slightest pang of childhood loneliness?

  I had, and I’d grown up in a community where friendship was never more than a means to an end for anyone anyway. I’d had my sister.

  “Never underestimate people’s capacity to change,” I said with half a smile. “Although in my experience, they generally change for the worse. I’m not complaining about who you are.”

  “You’re not,” he agreed. He sighed and folded his hands over his raised knee. “I’ve never met anyone like you, Jemma. Anyone who reminds me so much… of me. I don’t know how you spend your time, why you dream up schemes to steal things like that.” He motioned to the cuff around my thigh. “But you’re clearly not a common criminal.”

  “You wouldn’t be here if you thought I was.”

  “No. But you are— We are at odds.” He met my eyes again. “Is there no middle ground where we could meet beyond this temporary truce? Do your goals have to clash with mine? Perhaps if we talked it through…”

  I shook my head. “Do your goals have to clash with mine?” I asked lightly. “Why not come all the way over to the dark side, Sherlock? You wouldn’t, would you, because of the principles that matter to you? I have guiding principles too.” Survival. Security. Vengeance. “I can’t throw mine away any more than you can yours.”

  “Then we’re at an impasse.”

  “And when the truce is over, may the best of us win.” A strange prickly affection stirred inside me, more thorns than blooming rose. I eased across the bed to join him. His gaze had become wary, but when I raised my hand to stroke my knuckles against the side of his neck, he leaned toward my touch. “Your consolation prize is getting to go up against a worthy opponent.”

  “There is that.” He took my hand in his. “How much longer is this truce designed to last?”

  I had to smile. “I’m sure we could stretch it out a little longer.” I rose up on my knees and kissed him, this man both fascinating and fascinated. Already he knew how to shift instinctively to align our mouths just a little more pleasurably.

  But there were other games we could play even while we were pretending to ignore them. I brushed my lips over his cheek and tipped my head toward his ear. “I’m sure you have many more questions clamoring for attention. Ask, and let’s see if there are any I’m willing to answer.”

  Chapter Nine

  Jemma

  On my third attempt at retrieving the book I needed from Novak, I finally made it all the way to his street in the falling dusk. And there was Garrett Lestrade, so hidden in the thick shadow of the wall around the house opposite that I only noticed him because I scanned the area with particular care. He stood watching the blocky modern mansion that belonged to my mark, notepad and pen in hand.

  I could say one thing in favor of the geometric monstrosities that Zagreb’s nouveau rich gravitated to: Their built-up front yards and parking pads offered plenty of shelter. I crept behind a concrete pillar and peered up the street toward the detective inspector.

  The streetlamps gave off only a thin glow against the deepening twilight, but there was no way I could walk up to the Novaks’ front door and spin out my planned story without Garrett spotting me. Only an occasional car had rumbled by as I’d walked the last couple blocks here. The warm breeze carried the scent of lilies from someone’s private garden. It was all very peaceful.

  Too peaceful. I needed a distraction.

  If I’d managed to get here the first time I’d set out, I might have avoided this problem. The trio wouldn’t have connected the crime ring they’d taken down to Novak instantly. He kept himself detached enough from the thieving syndicate that the Londoners probably weren’t sure even now; they just wanted to take the lay of the land. I could head back to the hotel empty-handed again and give them a few days to give up on him…

  No. I was here now. The longer I waited, the more chance there was that Novak would stash some of his collection elsewhere. I’d play with the hand I’d been dealt.

  It’d have been easier if I’d had Bash to act as wingman, but he was staked out at the trio’s hotel keeping an eye on their comings and goings, ready to jump in if the right opportunity presented itself. I’d simply have to be careful.

  Leaning against the post, I took out one of my more disposable phones and tapped in a number I’d memorized weeks ago. Might as well see what kind of mood Garrett was in tonight.

  I was far enough away that I only heard the faintest quaver of Garrett’s ringtone. He took out his phone, frowned at the caller display that would have told him nothing, and rocked back on his feet as he answered. A stream of lamplight cut across his face, highlighting one eye, a cheek, the corner of his mouth.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Garrett. Is this a good time to talk?”

  He stiffened instantly at the sound of my voice. “Jemma. Why are you calling me?”

  I didn’t want him to think it had anything to do with his current assignment, but it shouldn’t be hard to imply that I was simply digging for general information about their investigations. I wet my lips as if I were a little uneasy. “I just wondered what you’re up to.”

  “Wonder away. That doesn’t mean I’m going to tell you anything. Fool me once and all that?”

  “I didn’t give you such a bad time in London, did I? Can’t we have a friendly chat for old time’s sake?”

  He let out a laugh, but he hesitated before he answered. When he spoke again, some of the tension had smoothed from his imposing voice. “All right. Chat away. What are you up to?”

  “I just got back from dinner,” I said. “I had a very good steak at the place next to Franjo’s. You should try it sometime. You seem like a steak man.”

  “Do I? Are you a steak woman?”

  “When I’m in the right mood. I wouldn’t mind some dessert though. I’m always a dessert woman. How’d you
like to join me—or are you too busy with whatever you’re doing that you don’t want to tell me about?”

  “Maybe I’ve just settled into my room and can’t be bothered to leave. You’ve got actual friends here you can call up to invite, don’t you?”

  He was doing an admirable job of keeping the tone light while insistently turning the conversation back to questioning me. No doubt he’d realized he should use this opportunity to dig for whatever dirt he could. If I hadn’t been able to see him, I might have thought he was cool as a cucumber. But right now the metal fixtures on his pen were flashing in and out of the streetlamp light as he spun it with agitated jerks of his fingers.

  Just talking to me was hard for him. Apparently my conversation with Sherlock last night had left prickly thorns of affection sprouting in all sorts of unexpected places, because a twinge of regret ran through my chest.

  I could have handled Garrett differently. I’d taken the strategy that was easiest for me without worrying about how it would affect him.

  And why should I have worried? I had monsters to vanquish and promises to keep, and all that required a whole lot of money and the right sort of connections. I did what I had to do.

  It was possible I could do a little more, though, without hindering my work—just for the sake of reducing the inspector detective’s vengeful urges. And making this offering might put him off-balance enough to help along the next part of my gambit.

  I drew back from the column and ducked down a side street to circle around behind the Novaks’ house. “Oh, I have plenty of friends,” I said. “But here you are in town, and I feel like we haven’t really talked.”

  “I’m still not sure what you think we’d talk about.”

  “Maybe what happened in London? I’m sure there are all sorts of things you’re dying to say about that. We should hash things out properly sometime, in person. You can tell me how horrible I am to my face in as many ways as you like, and we’ll have cleared the air.”

 

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