Battle Royal

by Lucy Parker

  His heart was thumping under her hand as they moved together. Sylvie traced a light pattern over his shirt with her fingertips. Breathing deeply, she whispered, “You don’t taste the way you smell.”

  Dominic shifted, his own fingers trailing down her neck, skimming a tantalizing path over her breast that made her legs shake. “I’m not sure how to respond to that.” His voice was deep. Husky.

  “The sugar scents cling to your hair and the fibers of your clothes.” She moved her head, gently nuzzling into the silvering hair at his temple. “I thought you might taste like cake twenty-four seven.”

  Less husky. “I do brush my teeth.”

  “I know. Minty fresh. Delicious,” she assured him. “I’m just saying, I like cake. It would have been nice.”

  He shook his head.

  She kissed the satiny skin under his ear, and with a sudden movement, he lifted her onto the edge of the counter, parting her legs with his knee. His big hand gripped her hip, pulling her into him. She kissed him, or he kissed her; it was urgent, heated, all shivery sensation, and she didn’t realize she’d hit the point of literally ripping his clothes off until her fingertips were startled by sudden contact with an unfamiliar nipple.

  She froze with her hand trapped under the remaining buttons of his shirt. The taut skin over his shoulder joint was hot and smooth; his chest was roughened with hair. It rose and fell quickly beneath her touch. His teeth lightly scraped her neck as his fingers went to her own buttons. “Wait.”

  Dominic’s whole body stilled. When he lifted his head, his face was dark and taut with desire—but concern was edging in.

  She wrapped her fingers around his forearms, holding him. “We can’t.”

  His eyes closed for a second. He breathed in deeply. Twice. “Okay.”

  He was still touching her, but she could feel him retreating.

  “I’m sorry, but . . .” She bit her lip, and his expression changed. One brow started to lift. Her sigh was an art form of resignation and regret. “No matter how stringent your cleaning regime, it would be very unhygienic.”

  She was up and off the counter in seconds, grabbing her purse and bolting for the back hallways. She made it to his office before he tackled her, catching her laughter in his mouth as they stumbled through the door.

  With his hand tangled in her hair, he kissed her hard as he kicked it closed behind him.

  “You’re a bloody menace,” he said against her lips.

  “You can’t say you weren’t adequately warned.”

  He groaned suddenly. “I don’t have any protection here.”

  She waved her purse before she threw it down to start unbuttoning her shirt. “I do.”

  She yanked open his belt, and they kept walking back until they collided with the couch.

  Outside of vampire novels, Sylvie had never understood the inclination to involve too many teeth in lovemaking, but the curve above Dominic’s collarbone was so inviting that she had the distinct urge to nibble.

  Or just curl up and hang off him like a bat.

  As he unclipped the front clasp of her bra and pressed a kiss to the damp skin between her breasts, she asked, “Are we going slightly down or all the way down?”

  He stopped kissing. Raised his head. “The latter was the plan,” he said drily. “But I’m happy to take direction if you have preferences otherwise.”

  She was standing in Dominic De Vere’s office with her boobs out, he had just expressed an intention to put his mouth between her legs, and she was fully going to laugh out loud. “I meant, couch or floor?”

  His forehead dropped against her chest. “This is going well.”

  As she laid her hands on his silky hair, any inclination to giggle slipped away.

  There was a lovely fluffy white rug on the floor in front of the couch. Slowly, Sylvie lowered to kneel on the ground, tugging on his hands to pull him down with her. Their fingers twisted together. “It is,” she said softly. “Going well.”

  An emotion she couldn’t quite read flashed through Dominic’s eyes. And then they were kissing again, and he was pulling away her dangling shirt and bra, tossing them aside. They kicked away the rest of their clothes, and he stretched out at her side, looking at her. The dimly lit office was nicely warm, but Sylvie could feel goose bumps rising on her skin.

  She both really wanted to do this and had never felt more self-conscious in her life.

  When his fingertips brushed her temple, smoothing back a fallen strand of hair, her shiver was more violent than it should have been.

  “Sylvie.”

  She finally raised her gaze higher than the scattering of hair and freckles on his bare chest—and saw, in that cool, experienced, always imperturbable face, a reflection of everything she was struggling with.

  At sea with the intensity of feeling. The uncertainty of the new. The fear of not being enough.

  Her eyes closed when their faces touched. For a moment, they just breathed, Dominic’s fingertips tracing a small, soothing circle on Sylvie’s upper arm.

  When their lips met, it was so perfectly natural—and her heart started to beat harder. She stroked his chest and felt him shudder, made a small sound in her throat when he cupped her breast.

  His mouth closed over her nipple, and she drew in a sharp breath, arching a little as her fingers wove through his thick hair.

  His lips returned to hers, their breath mingling, tongues tangling as the intensity deepened. She was already wet by the time his hand slid up the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, stroked inside her.

  His groan shuddered from deep in his chest as she closed her fingers around his erection, teasing the length, flirting with the head, before she increased the pressure, gave him the friction he needed.

  For long minutes, his muscles were stretched taut, his fists closing, and his legs moving a little restlessly. Abruptly, he loosened her grip and kissed her fingers. It was her turn to tense up as his lips left a burning trail down her abdomen, nuzzling over the stretch marks on her hips, pausing to nip her belly button. His hair tickled her skin and Sylvie squirmed.

  She felt a renewed spike of self-consciousness when he parted her legs, but it disappeared into incredibly intense pleasure when his tongue fluttered around her clit. Her breath coming so quickly she was starting to feel light-headed, Sylvie dug her fingers into the rug at her sides, clutching fistfuls of softness when he started to suck.

  Two aspects of Dominic’s personality had always been very clear: determination and completionism.

  And holy shit, was she reaping the benefits.

  She was snapping back, just about bowing in half as she came for the second time, when he at last sat up, breathing hard.

  He crouched between her legs, the muscles bulging in his thighs, a thin film of sweat over his chest, as she stared, her arm draped bonelessly over her forehead.

  “Okay.” Her voice was a broken mess. “Just give me a second. The condoms are in the zipped pocket.”

  While he found one and suited up, she inhaled. Exhaled. Repeated, until her lungs no longer felt like collapsing bagpipes.

  “Right.” Swiftly, she sat up and went straight into his waiting arms, onto his lap. And onto his cock. She hadn’t actually intended that movement to be quite so fluid.

  They both grunted; there was no other word for it. Dominic swore under his breath, his hands tightening on her. Lengthwise, he was perfectly, beautifully average in size, but he was thick, hard and pulsing, and almost uncomfortably full inside her.

  “That was . . . impressive.” He sounded a little strangled.

  “That was the single most athletic achievement of my life.” Sylvie couldn’t help wriggling. At the slightest movement, her nerve endings exploded happily, and Dominic groaned again. “Four years on the school netball team and I never shot a single goal.”

  She gripped his shoulders as his hands went to her hips, pulling her into him as his hips gave an involuntary first thrust. “Score,” she murmured, shakily tea
sing against his lips, and his half laugh was cut off as the kiss immediately deepened.

  If her life and business depended on it, she couldn’t have said how much time passed as they moved together. His mouth was on her neck, his hands stroking up her waist, cupping her breasts as his thrusts grew harder, faster. She wrapped her arms around his head.

  When they stared into each other’s eyes, it was so intense, so intimate—too intimate. She had to look away, burying her head in his shoulder as he lifted her, lowering her to her back. His weight was heavy on her as he pulled one of her thighs around his hips, and she felt the beads of sweat rolling down the backs of her knees. She was caught between sensation and awareness and the sudden shockingness of clarity that this was Dominic moving inside her, bringing her more pleasure than she’d ever had—and that was a judgment formed with the authority of an entire catalogue of toys. It shook her enough that she tensed up at the end, and the building third orgasm slipped out of her grasp.

  When he came, his face against her neck, she cupped his head and breathed in the scent of his skin. She couldn’t stop shivering, and his arms tightened around her.

  His hand slipped down her belly when he regained his brain cells and motor skills, but she caught his fingers, gave them a little squeeze as she shook her head. “Too sensitive. And too exhausted.” She turned her head, smiling into his eyes. His irises were very, very dark. “And trust me, I did good.”

  His mouth tipped up. “I’ll say.”

  They were stroking each other’s skin, apparently mutually unable to stop. Dominic tugged her into his chest and they just lay there for some time, sprawled half-dead on the rug.

  But a growing, nagging feeling was becoming impossible to ignore. At last, she had to say it. “Dominic.”

  A slight rustle as his head turned on the rug. His fingers played with hers. “Hmm?”

  “I’m starving.”

  He pushed up on one elbow and looked down at her. That expression in his eyes was back, the one she couldn’t quite get a read on. She was distracted from her speculation, however, when he opened his mouth and uttered the sexiest words a man had ever spouted in the history of orgasms. “We have cheesecake in the fridge.”

  “I was already ranking you a solid nine and a half, De Vere, but that’s straight up to ten.”

  “It is Midnight Elixir cheesecake.”

  “And we’re back down to nine and a half.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Flat of Humphrey the Cat

  (Some big, grouchy dude also sleeps here. No idea who he is, but at least he knows how to work the can opener.)

  They took the cheesecake back to Dominic’s flat for what remained of the night. When he unlocked the door and held it open, Sylvie slipped past him with a small, very private smile. Her cheeks were flushed. He’d wondered if stiffness would creep back into his reactions, that instinctual need to withdraw and recalibrate.

  Yet his body and his mind were at ease. Relaxed.

  Cautiously, tentatively . . . happy.

  Endorphins played havoc on the brain, but that wasn’t why he was constantly drawn close, why he reached out and cupped her cheek, rubbing his thumb over the heated skin.

  And he didn’t think it was why her fingers closed over his wrist, holding him.

  “We had sex,” she said, that smile deepening in her eyes.

  “Yes, we did.”

  “We had sex.” Sylvie moved her head, the slight shake of a person adjusting to a game changer. “And it was really good.”

  His mouth curved. “Yes, it was.”

  She released his wrist to take a gentle hold of his shirt, pulling him toward her. When her soft lips brushed his, a renewed skittering of arousal clenched his abdomen.

  Sylvie’s hand brushed down his chest as she turned, looking around his lounge with avid interest. She had been making a quiet humming sound. It stopped. Her gaze moved over the exposed beams, the open fireplace, the built-in bookcases, the piano, brick walls and spiral staircase. Her fingers rose to cover her mouth. “Oh my God,” she said behind her hand.

  He put the boxes of cheesecake on the table and went to turn on the kettle. The kitchen was attached and open plan. The previous occupant of the flat had modernized it, but installed electrics that mimicked the appearance of antiques.

  He’d put in an offer on this place within an hour of the first viewing.

  “Weep.” Sylvie dropped her handbag on the couch. “I was feeling all smug because my bakery is so much cooler than yours, and then you pull out my dream house. I currently live in a concrete box with an authoritarian rental agreement, and you have a living room straight out of the posh, antique-y villages in Midsomer Murders.”

  “Hopefully with a lower body count.” Dominic heard a telltale thudding on the stairs. “Although at the first opportunity, Humphrey would like to begin that tally.”

  Sylvie swung around as the enormous cat thumped onto the last step. With an audible groan, Humphrey rolled sideways to the floor. As evidenced by the noise he made every time he went up and down the stairs, he had perfectly adequate paws, so why he couldn’t just walk down the remaining step instead of collapsing like a Victorian heroine on her fainting couch remained a mystery.

  “Oh.” Sylvie started forward with totally misplaced concern. “Dom, I think your cat’s sick.”

  That shortened version of his name slipped out again. Even as a kid, nobody had ever called him Dom. Evidently, his demeanor didn’t encourage a friendly nickname. Like more and more things right now, it was unique to Sylvie.

  He liked it.

  He took down two mugs. “Just give him a minute.”

  As she ignored him and went to crouch by Humphrey’s side, the tabby menace flipped over, with admittedly impressive agility for his age and stature, and stared beadily up at her.

  Dominic could already see she was about to repeat Pet’s error of judgment on meeting his cat. And as he hadn’t managed to intercept his sister’s urge to grab and cuddle, the scratch down her arm had been inflamed for a week.

  Pet had since nicknamed his pet Humphrey “Boggart.” In normal circumstances, he might protest at a member of his household being compared to a malevolent spirit. In this case, it was not only accurate but bordering on generous. Pet sarcastically inquired after Boggart’s welfare on a semiregular basis. Maimed anyone else lately?

  “Don’t pat him,” he warned sharply, moving quickly around the kitchen bench as Sylvie made an incomprehensible enamored sound and stretched out her hand. “He doesn’t like people and he scratches—”

  The moment Sylvie’s fingers touched his cranky, diminutive head, Humphrey hunched his body, drew himself up—and collapsed into a boneless puddle. He expanded across the rug like dough spilling out of a bowl. A noise like a rusty hacksaw undulated through the room.

  He was purring.

  The little shit hadn’t even purred for Sebastian.

  “Oh, you’re so sweet,” Sylvie said, getting right down on the floor to scritch under Humphrey’s chin. The cat batted against her hand. Affectionately. What—and Dominic could not overstate this—the fuck? She looked up. “This is your terrifying satanic cat?”

  Humphrey peered up from beneath her rubs and strokes. And smirked.

  “You are the feline Iago,” Dominic said flatly.

  “Don’t listen to him.” Sylvie pretended to cover the flicking ears. “You’re so handsome.”

  Rolling his eyes, he returned to the kitchen to pour the tea. Sylvie still had her heart set on cheesecake, but he couldn’t face anise-flavored cream cheese at two o’clock in the morning. Regardless of the time crunch to confirm the Midnight Elixir recipe, he stuck a piece of bread in the toaster.

  When he took a slice of cheesecake and a fork into the living room, she was curled up on the couch with Humphrey draped over her chest, his purrs rattling louder with every stroke down his back. “Food.” He passed her the plate and she took it with murmured thanks. “Feel free to have the ca
t, as well. Permanently.”

  “Dominic.” Sylvie cupped her hand around Humphrey’s neck. “Is that any way to talk about your son?”

  He supposed he should be honored that when he returned with the tea and his toast, she nudged the annoyed cat onto a cushion so she could curl up against him instead. She did so with apparently instinctual ease, resting her head on his shoulder, and he breathed in deeply as he slowly lifted his hand to sift his fingers through her hair.

  Her hairline was still a bit damp. He could smell the remnants of her perfume. Lightly, he ran his fingertips over her temple.

  In his peripheral vision, Humphrey’s paw stretched toward his plate. He wouldn’t eat the toast—although he’d lick the butter just to be a dick—but it was one of his favorite pastimes, knocking other people’s life sustenance to the floor.

  “Don’t even think about it.” Dominic moved the plate out of reach.

  The cat’s response was to turn around and stick his backside out.

  “With every passing day,” he mused, “I become more of a dog person.”

  “You’re too busy for a dog.” Sylvie forked a bit of cheesecake into her mouth. “A temperamental, pessimistic cat is your ideal pet. Don’t be so ungrateful. It sounds like your grandfather knew you to a tee.”

  With a faint huff of a laugh, he tilted his head tiredly back against the couch. Between an already long day, the unexpected order, and a fairly mind-shattering orgasm, he could easily drop off right here. “How’s the cheesecake?”

  “Gross.” Sylvie was clearly not devastated on Darren Clyde’s behalf. “There’s a horrible aftertaste that’s not present in the drink. But . . .” She put a bit more on the tip of her tongue, considering. She swallowed. Twisted in his arms to face him. “Pomegranate. The missing ingredient is pomegranate.”

  He tipped his head in acknowledgment, and she turned to burrow more comfortably, looking highly satisfied.

  The rain was hitting the windows and increasing drowsiness crept over them.