30DaystoSyn

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  She turned on the bed so she was facing him squarely. Her knees grazed his but he didn’t give an inch. He stood his ground before her with his hands on his hips. She glanced up at him to find him staring down at her with a noncommittal look on his handsome face. Once more that thick eyebrow shifted upward in challenge and she looked down again.

  A single drop of water was making its way down the hard plane of his side. She leaned forward and flicked it away with her tongue. His harsh, indrawn breath made her smile.

  “Be careful,” he warned. “Water may not be the only thing you find on your tongue if you keep that up.”

  She didn’t look up at him. Instead her attention had moved to his shaft. Once more it leapt and this time she realized it was thicker than it had been. He was becoming aroused.

  “Tell me what you would like to do with him,” she said without looking up.

  There was a slight intake of breath followed by a few seconds of silence.

  “Excuse me?” he asked and she thought his voice sounded a bit ragged.

  She raised her eyes to his once again then deliberately licked her lips. She was playing with fire and she knew she was but the woman in her was becoming emboldened by his nearness, the male beauty of him and the very impressive organ that moved yet again.

  “Tell me what you would like to do with him.”

  “I’d like to shove you down on that bed and ram him into you,” he said.

  “You can’t do that,” she told him.

  “No, but I didn’t say it would necessarily be your cunt I’d ram him into,” he said. He moved closer until she was leaning away from him, suddenly fearful of the lust she saw blazing in his blue eyes. He leaned closer still. “What if I flipped you over and shoved him up your—”

  “You wouldn’t do that,” she said.

  He narrowed his eyes. “I wouldn’t?” he growled.

  She shook her head. “No, Kiwi, you wouldn’t, but if it turns you on to threaten it, be my guest.”

  His smile made her stop breathing. It was dangerous and self-satisfied and downright evil. Before she knew what he was about, he reached down, drove his hands under her armpits and hefted her up to scoot her across the bed. His knee dipped the mattress and he had her over on her belly with his body covering hers before she could regain rational thought. She gasped for he was grinding his cock against her ass as his strong hands held her upper arms pinned to the bed by the wrists. The moment he lowered his head and his lips pressed to her ear, she felt a shiver of desire spread through her lower body.

  “Tell me what you would like me to do with him,” he whispered, swirling his tongue around the opening of her ear.

  “Kiwi, don’t!” she said, trying to squirm away from him but he was like a boulder resting on her back and ass.

  He drove his knee between her legs and thrust it tight to the vee of her thighs.

  “Tell me, Melina. What do you want me to do with him?”

  She wanted it inside her but she couldn’t—wouldn’t—admit that. She knew when he finally got around to taking her she would be so addicted to him, so needful of what he would give her that she would be completely lost to him. He would own her body and soul and she wasn’t sure she was ready for that.

  If she ever would be.

  She was almost afraid of the things he was making her feel. The things he was making her crave.

  “Tell me,” he whispered and pumped his groin against her repeatedly. He was hard as steel.

  “You may leave now,” she said and he went still.

  “Eh?” he questioned.

  “Don’t make me repeat it.”

  He stayed where he was for a second or two longer than rolled off her. He lay on his side facing her, staring into her eyes, searching her face.

  “You really want me to go?” he asked.

  “Stop talking,” she replied.

  His brows drew together—held—then slowly relaxed. The twin vertical ridges above his nose became more prominent for a moment and then he was smiling savagely at her. He grunted and pushed up from the mattress.

  She lay on her stomach with her cheek pressed to the coverlet and listened to him dressing. A part of her wanted to call him back but another wanted him to leave without another word.

  That wasn’t to be.

  When he was dressed, he came back to the bed, leaned over her with his hands to either side of her head. “I’ll remember this, wench, and you’ll pay for it,” he said and she was vividly reminded of her highwayman dreams.

  “Lock the door behind you,” she managed to say though her mouth was as dry as straw.

  He grunted again and the sound of his footsteps as he left her, the sound of the door closing behind him, the roar of his car engine as he backed out of the drive made her wonder if she had taken a terrible, terrible misstep with him.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Night Fourteen

  “Take off your blouse and your bra,” he ordered that next night. “Remove your skirt and sandals and come here.”

  He was sitting in the overstuffed chair—shirtless, barefoot and with his jeans unbuttoned at the waist. The lights were on over his chair and the straight-backed one.

  “Drape your clothes over the chair.”

  She could feel the blood racing through her, the pounding of her heart as she did as he told her. Although her cheeks were burning hot enough to singe her eyebrows, she walked bare-chested to his chair and stood before him without raising her arms to hide her breasts from his view.

  “You’re learning,” he said.

  He looked very self-possessed as he reclined in the big wingback—like a high priest waiting for his human sacrifice. His knees were spread wide and his fingers were curled over the end of the chair arms. Completely relaxed, breathing easily, his blue eyes intent on her. Those gorgeous eyes were the only thing moving and they were crawling over her slowly and deliberately lingering on her breasts before moving on again.

  “You were very naughty last night,” he said. “I usually punish naughty girls.” He moved his right hand and patted his thigh. “Come here.”

  She tensed. He wanted her to sit in his lap and she wanted to—oh how she wanted to—but there was something in the way he was looking at her that didn’t bode well for cuddling. She lifted her chin.

  “If you make me give that order again, I’ll pick you up and turn that shapely ass of yours over my knees. If I am forced to do that I promise you won’t like the heaviness of my hand,” he said gruffly. “I’ll make it sting like you wouldn’t believe.”

  She turned to sit sideways in his lap but he shook his head.

  “No,” he said and the right side of his mouth quirked upward. “Straddle me.”

  She looked down at his hips. The deep seat was wider than they were but the curved front of the arms would prevent her from doing as he asked. She crinkled her forehead, turned her head to one side to ask for clarification.

  “Climb atop me, put your knees to either side of my hips and then straddle my thighs,” he instructed.

  She put her right knee on the seat and he scooted forward so when she brought her other knee up and settled down him she was seated directly over his groin. His eyes held hers and she watched them darken.

  “Put your elbows on the back of the chair.”

  In doing that, she had to lean toward him until their noses were almost touching. She could feel the soft warmth of his breath against her lips.

  For the longest time he did nothing more than stare into her eyes. His hands were motionless on the arms of the chair, his head pressed back. Though he didn’t move she could feel the thickening between her legs.

  “Kiss me,” he whispered.

  She tilted her head and put her mouth to his. She plied his lips gently but that wasn’t what he wanted. He pulled away, shot her a look that singed.

  “Use your tongue, woman,” he said. “Rape my mouth with it.”

  A trickle of electricity speared through her lower body.
French kissing wasn’t something she was very good at but she slanted her mouth over his and thrust her tongue between his lips.

  He groaned and the heady power that filled her gave her confidence. She swept her tongue over his, flicked it to the sensitive corners of his mouth. She heard the chair arms squeak and knew his grip had tightened on them.

  She deepened the kiss.

  His breathing sped up. The thickening beneath her hardened.

  He pulled away again and this time when he spoke his voice was guttural with desire.

  “Rub your cunt against me.”

  She knew what it was he was directing her to do. She’d seen movies. She’d read books. He wanted a lap dance and though she’d never done anything even closely resembling that act, she ground herself on him.

  His growl sent a tingle through her. He was completely at her mercy, vulnerable, laying his passion bare for her to feel. Her attention riveted on his face, she began to rotate her hips, pressing down on him as the hardening became a taut ridge pressing against her.

  She was grinding on him, rocking her hips forward and back, swiveling her sweet little ass provocatively. He was pretty sure she hadn’t blinked since she began her slow, gyrating movements over him. He ached to slam his hands to her hips, shove her down as hard as he could until there was pain but he kept his hands on the chair arms. His fingernails were digging into the fabric. His bare heels were pushing into the carpet.

  That tight ass left his lap for a moment and he growled at her—almost hissed at her. She smiled and pressed her bare breasts to his chest, rubbing them against him in countermovement to the ass she returned to his groin.

  “Woman, you—” he began but she shushed him.

  Didn’t say a word. Didn’t blink. Just kept the slow, rhythmic undulation of her hips going on him.

  He was as hard as a rock and aching to be inside her. If he didn’t stop her soon, he’d do something he would regret.

  He put his hands on her hips to still her movements and said the hardest words he’s ever spoken.

  “You can go now,” he croaked.

  Instead of protesting, she pushed his arms away with her elbows and was out of his lap before he could take another breath.

  She left him sitting there with a raging hard-on, dumbfounded that he had sent her away.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Night Fifteen

  “No session tonight,” he told her as soon as she answered her phone. On the other end of the line there was silence then a soft click.

  She had dismissed him that easily last night, he thought and it rankled. It made him angry and it hurt him.

  He was tempted to call her back and tell her Jono would be picking her up but he wouldn’t.

  He couldn’t.

  Sighing, he looked at the dark screens across the room. He hadn’t wanted to torture himself with images of her when he couldn’t touch her. Instead he slouched on his sofa, fingers laced over his belly, his jean-clad knees raised and the soles of his bare feet curled over the edge of the coffee table.

  Something had come up—something over which he had absolutely no control—and he was not in a very good frame of mind. He knew if he went to the Room, he’d take his frustrations out on her and that was not what he wanted. Things between them were gelling and he wanted to keep it that way.

  He felt her presence in the room and tensed. Not bothering to look around, he sat where he was on the sofa, keeping his attention on the screens. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her go to the bar and reach for the bottle of absinthe that was her drug of choice. The green liquid she poured into a special reservoir glass wasn’t the legal variety of herbal liqueur to be found in American liquor stores. The kind she drank had been smuggled to the States from a small private distillery in New Zealand. It was one hundred and forty-eight proof with an alcohol content of eighty-nine point nine percent. It contained terpene thujone, which was distilled from the aromatic leaves and flowers of the absinthe wormwood plant.

  The clink of a spoon to glass made him close his eyes and lay his head on the back of the sofa. Even peripherally he didn’t want to watch her perform the nasty little ritual. He had done it himself enough times. Another small sound told him she had placed a sugar cube atop the specially designed slotted absinthe spoon. Next she would dribble iced water over the cube to dilute the bitter, anise-flavored liqueur.

  “How have you been, Synjyn?” she asked as she came to sit opposite him.

  He didn’t open his eyes. “Do you care?”

  “You know I don’t but I am in your home. It is only polite I ask.” There was a pause and he knew she had taken a sip of the absinthe. “I hope my visit has ruined whatever evening you had planned.”

  “It did,” he admitted.

  “Good.”

  He heard the unmistakable sound of her settling comfortably in the chair, her high heels hitting the floor.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I heard of your troubles.”

  “And you came to gloat?”

  “To enjoy. Too bad you beat the charges.”

  He opened his eyes and lowered his head to look at her. He told people she was dead. A part of him wished she was. The sight of her never failed to surprise him.

  Or to make his soul ache.

  She was a beautiful, infinitely evil woman. At fifty-two there were precious few lines in her face despite the life she had led and the absinthe she consumed like water. In fact, her complexion was flawless, her very expensive makeup expertly applied to accentuate her large green eyes, her full lips and high cheekbones. There was no trace of gray in her sleek and dark brown glossy hair. The lush figure beneath the costly form-fitting black sheath would turn the head of any man.

  “I see you have a new toy in the driveway,” she said, taking another sip. Her long eyelashes slowly lowered almost seductively. “A Ducati?”

  “Icon Sheene,” he replied.

  “And how much did that little trinket cost you?”

  “Nearly two hundred thousand,” he said. “Does it matter?”

  “That you waste your father’s money on such silly, childish things?” she asked with a careless shrug of her slender shoulder. “What do you think?”

  “I think it’s none of your business what I do with my money,” he replied. “How long are you planning on staying this time?”

  “I haven’t decided,” she told him.

  The last time he’d seen her was nearly a month ago when her mother had died. He’d gone home to New Zealand to attend the funeral no one in her family had wanted him to grace with his presence. They had, however, allowed him to pay for it.

  And that, without a single thank-you from any of them.

  There had been far more mourners than he would have imagined. Her family had shunned him. At the gravesite, he had stood alone in the rain with no one speaking to him. Not that it mattered. He hadn’t gone there for them. He went to pay his respect to a woman he had never met, to a grandfather who loathed his very existence.

  Thankfully she had stayed away even though Cheri Hanere had been the only person in the world she had ever loved. Afterward, he had gone to the condo he had purchased for her but she refused to let him in. She had stood on the balcony staring down at him with the ever-present glass of absinthe in hand.

  “Do you need anything?” he’d asked her.

  She’d snorted, turned and went inside, closing the French doors behind her to shut him out.

  As she’d done all his life.

  He’d left on the corporate jet that same afternoon with a vow never to return.

  “Are you fucking anyone new?”

  The question, its bluntness and vulgarity made him wince. Such language came second nature to her.

  He drew in a long breath then exhaled slowly. “What it is you want, Olivia?” he asked. She’d never allowed him to call her Mother.

  She drained the glass then got up to pour another. “I want seven-hundred-and-fifty-thousand doll
ars.”

  Not I need or would you give me? Her demand might well be her life’s motto—I want.

  He intended to have it chiseled into her headstone.

  “For what?”

  “You should never have moved the corporate offices from Auckland to the States,” she said ignoring him. “It is a nuisance to come here to deal with you.”

  “Why do you need seven-hundred-and-fifty-thousand dollars?”

  She came back with the absinthe and sat down in a way so the hem of her very short dress revealed she wore no underwear.

  He looked away from that shocking sight.

  “You know I don’t like seeing you.”

  “Oh, I know that all too well, Olivia,” he snapped. “What do you need that kind of cash for?”

  “It is none of your—”

  “My money, my business,” he said. “You want it, I want to know why.”

  Her eyes flashed green fire and her full lips twisted to an ugly sneer. “If you must know I need my tits and arse lifted and the lips of my cunt tightened!”

  He closed his eyes slowly. The crudeness brought bile to his throat but he smiled, hanging his head to keep from feeling her glare scorching his face. There was nothing humorous in what she’d said. It disgusted him but it also gave him the courage to shake his head.

  “No,” he said to her for the first time in his life.

  There was a pause then her voice filled with venom.

  “What did you say?”

  He opened his eyes and leveled his gaze on her. “I said no. That’s way too much money for operations such as those and besides, I’m not going to pay for you to get shit like that done.”

  “You owe me!” she shouted.

  “Owe you for what?”

  “Your life!” she said with a hiss. “I could have aborted you but I didn’t!”

  “Well, I guess there are some lines you won’t cross,” he said. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not giving you money for either of those things. You want that shit done, find a john to pay for it.”