Be Mine: Valentine Novellas to Warm The Heart

by Nicole Flockton

  “Everyone in this hotel is under my protection.” Valentine’s voice held no quarter. “Including you, General.”

  Even as she was reacting emotionally to those words, the arm around her waist slid down to rest over the scarlet silk that clung to her hips. Leila raised her gaze to find Valentine looking down at her, charcoal eyes inches from her own. Her breath caught in her chest. Her heart fluttered. Their eyes locked as slowly, slowly, Valentine lowered his head.

  There was all the time in the world to stop him.

  To push him away or to turn her face aside.

  Instead, she waited, as though she’d been waiting forever.

  Then . . . finally . . . his lips grazed hers.

  Softly.

  Searchingly.

  Leila’s eyes slid closed.

  She didn’t move as Valentine kissed her for long seconds.

  The sweetest kiss she’d ever known.

  The sweetest kiss in the history of the world.

  Too soon, he stopped.

  Leila’s lashes fluttered open. She couldn’t speak. Her heart was trembling and her lips felt . . . awoken.

  His face was so close. The expression in those dark eyes held her captive. No one had ever looked at her with such intensity, as if searching for something.

  “Leila.” The way his tongue twisted around the two syllables of her name . . . like it was the first time he’d ever spoken a sacred word. It coiled around something deep inside her.

  Sapphire darkened to cobalt.

  Then his head lowered. His lips met hers again.

  That was when Leila realized their first kiss had been a request. Valentine had been asking permission for this kiss.

  The most sinful kiss she’d ever known.

  He pressed her back against the elevator wall, his hand sliding up to cup her head, protecting her from the harsh metal.

  It started—again—with his lips searching hers, the seal of her own intact. Soft pressure, as his mouth worked hers tenderly, learning her shape.

  Until it wasn’t enough for Leila, and her lips parted, just a little, asking for more.

  Valentine’s kiss changed.

  It no longer asked for permission. No longer searched for a response.

  He had both.

  His mouth firmed, moving over hers.

  A soft plea issued from the back of Leila’s throat.

  Every part of Valentine reacted. His arms tightened. He pressed against her harder. His lips became more demanding.

  The kiss depended.

  Became wet.

  Leila’s lips parted wider, inviting him inside.

  Valentine didn’t hesitate.

  The hot, deep stoke of his tongue against her own would have sent Leila to her knees if she hadn’t already been cradled in his lap.

  Being kissed by Valentine Kincaid was like drowning in an ocean of desire.

  The kiss was long and slow and deep. As though they had all the time in the world, and they intended to spend all of it kissing. Their breaths became heavy as they sacrificed air in favor of each other. There was no thought of breaking away, of stopping. Of willingly ceding these intoxicating sensations.

  Leila’s bandaged hand crept up, and her fingers buried in his soft, dark hair, holding Valentine close. She flexed her fingers, gripping those long strands, needing an anchor to cling to him.

  Her lips were no longer her own.

  She felt everything. The way his hand pillowed her head each time she tilted to meet him as he changed the angle of the kiss. The luxurious weave of his tuxedo jacket against her skin. The way Valentine couldn’t stop running his hand over the red silk at her hip. The way he explored her mouth until she could hide nothing from him and her heart was vulnerable and exposed.

  But for whatever he took, Valentine gave back. He hid none of his feelings. Every touch, every sound, conveyed how intensely he wanted Leila. All of the emotions she could never read on his face or see in his eyes, he showed to her now. The powerful desire he kept contained, the hunger, the longing for her mouth, her taste, her body, her heart, it was all there in his kiss.

  Wanting more contact, Leila found the hand at her hip. He grasped it instantly, weaving their fingers together. Then he raised their joined hands until the back of hers met the cold metal wall beside her head. Valentine held her hand tightly, as though he’d never let go, and he kept kissing her . . . and kissing her . . . and kissing her.

  Long, drugging kisses.

  Until she felt lost to the whole world except Valentine Kincaid.

  Until, an eternity later, a tiny, overwhelmed whimper came from deep in Leila’s throat, and her hand fell from his hair.

  His mouth softened over hers, then he pulled back, staring down at her intently.

  Leila’s lashes fluttered up. Sapphire eyes, pupils huge, stared up at him, unfocused. Her hand in his clenched, using all her remaining energy, and she trusted him to know what to do.

  Valentine pulled Leila away from her wall, taking her with him as he leaned back against his wall. He kept her face buried in the curve of his neck as he held her close, never releasing their clasped hands. Her chest rose and fell against his as her ragged breathing slowly evened out.

  The adrenaline crash finally took its toll, leaving Leila helpless.

  But she didn’t care.

  Valentine’s hand stroked the length of her spine, soothing her.

  “Shh, General . . . You’re safe,” he promised. And she believed him.

  Then there was silence, save his soft whispers in her ear.

  An hour later, the main lights in the elevator flickered to life and it began to ascend. When it stopped, Valentine stood with Leila in his arms, his jacket still around her shoulders, long skirt falling to the floor in a scarlet waterfall. When the metal doors silently opened, he carried her out, along the long, empty corridor, sound asleep in his arms.

  13

  Leila wasn’t sure what woke her.

  Her lashes fluttered open to an unfamiliar room lit by golden lamplight. Gradually, a minimalist aluminum lamp came into focus, resting on a bedside table in front of her. The bed she lay in was soft and comfortable, but Leila felt tangled.

  She turned her head, seeking more information. Across the room, something caught her attention. A white dress shirt and black tuxedo jacket lay over the back of a leather armchair.

  Knowledge flooded her.

  Immediately, Leila looked over her shoulder, but the other side of the bed lay empty. The plush pillows were untouched.

  She was disappointed.

  Valentine may have put her in his bed, but he wasn’t in it with her.

  She turned back towards the wooden bedside and noticed something on its surface, lit by the lamp’s glow.

  A red rose. The one Valentine had worn.

  Leila reached out a hand, but it was too far away.

  As she tried to move closer, she discovered the tangled feeling was caused by her long skirt, wrapped around her legs. Her dress was also unzipped, she realized. Not all the way. To just below her ribcage, so she wasn’t constricted by the tight bodice while she slept.

  Leila threw back the luxurious white duvet, untangled her skirt and sat up.

  She reached for the rose. It was a little bruised, but still beautiful. She raised it to her nose and inhaled the scent. Faint, but still present.

  It made her want Valentine.

  She looked around the room for anything else it might reveal.

  The space was large, but not oversize. The Alaskan king bed fit comfortably. The only other furniture was a mahogany dresser on the opposite wall, beyond the foot of the bed. Against the far wall, a large window with heavy drapes blocked out the city lights.

  The room was spotless. The only other thing of note . . . her golden shoes, dropped onto the seat of the armchair.

  Leila put her feet on the ground, and her toes sank into dark grey carpet.

  She stood, testing her body. She smiled to find her strength had
returned. She felt herself again. Then she walked to the armchair and reached out a hand, running it down the soft fabric of Valentine’s white dress shirt.

  Leila’s hands went to the zip on her gown, and she pulled it down all the way. Then she slipped free of the bodice, shimmying the scarlet silk over her hips until it fell in a pool around her ankles.

  Wearing only flesh-colored panties, she picked up Valentine’s shirt and slipped it on, securing two of the studs. Then she turned towards the bedroom door, a hand going to her nape and pulling her long hair free of the shirt so it fell down her back.

  Valentine Kincaid had made all the moves so far.

  That was about to change.

  14

  The bedroom door was ajar, and it swung open silently.

  Leila looked out into the large living room of Valentine’s apartment. Like the bedroom, it was minimally furnished and lit only by lamplight.

  On one side, there was a wall of windows. Sheer coverings were drawn, and the gossamer material glowed faintly from the city’s neon lights. Glass doors led to a balcony. An abstract light fixture was the focal point of the room, handing suspended from the tall ceiling. Across the way, she could see an open doorway that led to an office, with shelves full of books. The apartment was all spartan luxury. Most of the living area was taken up by sprawling sectionals and ottomans that took advantage of the view.

  Leila leaned against the doorframe and crossed her arms. The top of Valentine’s shirt was unfastened, leaving visible a hint of curves. Her long legs were bare. She tilted her head, resting it against the doorframe.

  Her focus was on the sectional opposite. Valentine lay facing her, wearing only grey sweatpants. His dark eyes were open.

  They had opened the moment she appeared in the bedroom doorway.

  “Status report?” Her voice was husky. There was nothing she could do about it.

  He didn’t move, but his voice carried to her softly. “Systems are back to normal. The hotel is secure.”

  Leila nodded. She should probably check with Ops herself, but she wasn’t going to.

  Unbidden, he continued. “The systems were down when I brought you here. The lock to your room wasn’t—”

  “I didn’t ask,” Leila cut him off, softly.

  Valentine said nothing more.

  She ran her eyes over him.

  He lay on his side, one arm tucked under a throw pillow where his head rested. The grey sweatpants hung low on his hips. His long, lean torso was showcased like a reclining Adonis. Narrow hips and waist, broad shoulders, olive skin. He was tall and strong and temptation incarnate.

  Leila pushed off the doorframe and prowled towards him.

  Valentine watched her approach. His eyes were dark pools, and Leila couldn’t read them in the dim light. Not that she had much success reading them even in the full light of the desert sun.

  She didn’t stop until her shins met the soft fabric of the sectional.

  He studied her, staring at her tousled hair before moving on to her sleepy blue eyes, then down her exposed throat to the shadowy valley framed by the edges of his shirt, and finally her long, bare legs. His eyes stopped there, as though he was the one being tempted.

  Slowly, he raised his hand, reaching towards Leila until he palmed her outer thigh, just below the hem of his shirt. Her skin felt alive at the contact, and she infused steel into her spine to hide the tremble that wanted to shudder through her body.

  Valentine didn’t move his hand. He simply waited for permission to go further—as if she hadn’t already given it to him.

  “I have a question.” She tilted her head, hair falling to the side.

  His eyes flicked up to hers.

  Leila’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Will you . . . be . . . my Valentine?”

  The hand against her thigh tightened, and Leila’s breath caught.

  “How do you feel?” There was tension in his voice.

  It wasn’t the response Leila was expecting. “Why?” she asked, forgetting she’d almost passed out when he’d kissed her what could only be a few hours ago.

  “How do you feel?” he repeated.

  “Why?” She wanted an answer to her question. To both of them.

  “I’m . . .” he spoke in a dark voice she’d never heard before, “. . . reaching breaking point.”

  Leila dropped to her knees. Partly to be closer to him, partly because they could no longer support her.

  “Go ahead and break,” she murmured, leaning towards him. “I want you to.”

  Valentine moved like quicksilver.

  One moment, he was reclined and Leila was kneeling on the floor. The next, she was once more in his lap.

  But this time . . . she was straddling him.

  Her hands clutched his shoulders and her knees dug into the sofa cushions. His arms wrapped around her hips, pulling her close so that his hardness was tight against her core.

  Leila’s heartbeat went hummingbird and her breathing became shallow.

  His hand slid up her spine and speared her tousled hair. He pulled her face towards his, and then it was the elevator all over again. Valentine’s mouth learned hers as if he wasn’t already intimately familiar with it, until her lips throbbed with pleasure.

  Then the tempo changed.

  He kissed her deeply.

  Demandingly.

  Like her mouth was heaven and he was a sinner.

  A whimper escaped Leila, and she slid her hands from his shoulders to wrap around his head, holding him close, pressing her sensitive breasts against his chest. Her nipples rubbed against the white shirt. Need flooded Leila, and she nipped Valentine’s lower lip.

  Valentine responded by tugging on her hair, exposing her throat. His mouth dropped to the skin there, leaving his own trail of nips, just hard enough to sting.

  Then he closed his mouth over her pulse point, working the soft skin, sucking in a way she knew would leave a mark. Leila squirmed, and her core rubbed against him. She buried her fingers in his hair, in wordless encouragement. The way he was making her feel, not just her body, but her heart . . . she wanted it to never stop.

  Valentine tugged down the shirt, baring Leila’s shoulder. His lips trailed hotly along the curve, then reversed direction, tracing her clavicle. His hand dropped, and Leila felt him working the studs between them, one-handed. She leaned back, giving him room.

  One stud.

  Two studs.

  Then the shirt was open.

  Valentine pushed it off Leila’s shoulders, but she refused to release him and it caught at her elbows. But that was enough; he made a rough sound that stilled Leila. She looked at his face. His attention was on her exposed breasts, pink nipples framed by white fabric.

  “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

  Leila started. She’d never heard him curse. A thrill of dark excitement coiled down her spine. Valentine was all about self-control, and there was every indication that he was losing it.

  Because of her.

  “When you walked into my office tonight, I wanted to shut the door and keep you there.” He leaned forward and whispered kisses down her sternum, destination clear. She trembled at the soft caress of his lips, the sensations that left her helpless.

  “I’ve been stopping myself from doing this all night.”

  He nuzzled the inner curve her breast, exploring her with his strong nose, soft lips. “Leila…” he whispered against her skin.

  “What?” She could barely manage the word, but she desperately wanted to hear what he had to say.

  “I don’t want to pretend anymore.”

  “Pretend?” Her voice broke.

  “That you don’t mean everything,” he said reverently.

  Leila’s eyes darkened to cobalt.

  Valentine turned his head, and his lips surrounded her nipple.

  A broken cry escaped Leila at his first hot, demanding suck.

  He responded by gathering her close, holding her as though he’d never let her go,
while he drew on the tight peak, sucking and licking until she was clutching at his hair, begging for more. He did this for long minutes, working Leila to a fever pitch.

  Then he switched to her neglected breast.

  Leila’s arms cradled Valentine’s head. She surrounded him—her too-long white sleeves brushed his cheeks and her golden hair formed an intimate curtain as she stared down at his face, all dark intensity—as he kissed and sucked and sinned on her body.

  Leila was like a doll, pliant and unresisting, wanting everything. She was aware of her bare thighs, separated from his skin by a thin layer of fleece. The hard length of his erection, insistent against her. Her own wet heat.

  Need coiled low in her belly, wreaking havoc on her ability to think of anything other than Valentine and the way he worshipped her.

  “Please,” she begged on a whisper.

  In response, Valentine’s mouth left her breast. Her whimper at the loss was smothered as his mouth returned to hers.

  They kissed deeply, exquisitely—as though they were in love—as Valentine stood with Leila in his arms. Her legs wrapped around his waist as he carried her, their lips never parting as they crossed the threshold into his bedroom.

  15

  Valentine gently deposited Leila at the foot of the bed, finally breaking their kiss. He knelt on the ground between her thighs. Her sensitive knees brushed against his rib cage. She slipped her arms free of the white shirt and it fell in a rumpled heap around her hips, leaving her naked except for her mesh panties.

  She felt breathless with anticipation. Her lashes swept down, and then up, as she made a decision. Valentine had clearly told her how he felt. She wanted to do the same.

  “You weren’t the only one,” she said.

  His eyes flicked up to hers, but he didn’t speak.

  “Pretending,” she clarified.

  She swallowed, then whispered, “At first, I thought it was just attraction.” Her blue eyes caressed the masculine perfection in front of her. “Then respect.” She raised her gaze to meet the dark pools staring at her so intently. “Then loyalty.” Her hand tucked her hair behind her ear, shyly.