by Angel Payne
Another rickety chuckle. “I should hit you again for that.”
“You sure should.” He enforces the point by using his knees to spread mine. “Because then I’d have to hit back.”
It’s innuendo, raw and rough—and my libido responds in urgent need. A moan escapes me as I spread for him, giving him space to slam his crotch against mine. At once, my sex is a pool of lava. My thighs are achy and shivery. My limbs are ropes of stimulation, wrapping around him beyond my control or care. I just need him closer, tighter. Around me. Inside me.
I…need.
“Oh, God!” I wonder why my shriek seems a visible burst on the air, until realizing it is. The energy of it, riding the static-charged air, has collided with the electricity flowing off Reece and transformed into a miniature firework between us. I’d actually be enchanted with the sight if my roaring blood isn’t commanding my attention directly toward the pulsing, pounding center of my body.
“Fuck.” Another brilliant spark as Reece growls it out.
“Do it.” Another couple of fireworks, whisked off into the night, and I don’t care. I widen my legs. My dress is already hiked around my waist from the friction of our desperate dry humps. My clit is engorged. My sensitive channel is flooded. I can’t take the waiting any longer. I’m a lighted fuse. A charged ion. A star needing its supernova. A girl needing her superhero. “Do it, Reece. Please!”
He raises up, parking his ass on his haunches. With grunting fever, he unfastens his pants. With a darker snarl, he shoves them down his hips. I watch, licking my lips, as his swollen penis fills his hand. Holy shit, he’s so beautiful. Everything between his balls and tip is already aglow, his cobalt veins beating hard against his strained flesh.
As he strokes himself, my pussy clutches at the air. As he leans forward, notching his hard mushroom to my entrance, I shudder. As he feeds the first inch into me, I scream and clutch at his shoulders.
“Tell me.” He punctuates it with a hiss when I dig my fingers in, marking his shoulders with deep grooves. After retaliating by biting hard into my bottom lip, he dictates in a hoarse snarl, “Tell me exactly what you want, beauty.”
Right now I’ll recite the damn Gettysburg Address if that’s what he wants. But thank God he’s not after that. The throb of his cock and the voltage in his eyes supply it to me with heart-halting clarity.
“Hit me back.” My supplication is thick and guttural with lust. “Damn it, Reece. Please. Now!”
He angles tighter over me, snaps up his hands, and grabs me by my wrists. He pins me against the pillows using the same hold, his fingers sliding against the bottom bones of mine—
As he rams his body into mine.
“Oh!”
Hitting me back.
“Shit!”
Pounding me deep.
“Yes!”
Possessing me completely.
His cock is hotter, fuller, bigger than I remember—and damn, does he know how to use it. Like a vigilante possessed, he drives into me with strokes that make our colliding flesh sound more like pops of gunfire. As if the night notices—perhaps it does—the wind borrows our carnality for its fury, the city rushes and honks and screeches around us, sirens careening on the buildings and airplanes scraping the sky, their frenzy climbing as ours does. The tumult growing as he does. The violence throbbing as I do.
The life overflowing…as his does.
“God. Damn.” Reece’s words are more claws in his throat than sounds on his lips, rushing against my neck as he rams deep and then stills inside me. I gasp and writhe as every drop of his essence pours in, drenching my womb in electric heat—
And knowing very well what that means for me.
Within seconds, I’m coming apart from the inside out, an orgasm drenching me in ecstasy and light and fire and forever—but at the same time, engulfing me in frustration. “Let me up,” I croak, fighting the shackles of his grip. “I need to hold you.”
He only snarls with more primitive fury, filling my ear with his heavy breaths. “No. You need to take me.”
“Damn it, Reece!”
“Take it, Emmalina.” He rolls his hips, working his cock deeper inside, sliding his pelvis along more of my pouting clit. “Take. It. All.”
And unbelievably, he’s groaning again.
Giving me all of himself again.
Filling me with his come again.
Turning me inside out again.
But this time, I don’t entertain a single thought of resisting his hold. What the hell is thought? I’m only light and noise and sensation—and a hot, relentless wind brought by the devils but turned into heaven by this incredible bolt of a man. In seconds, I’m incited to fresh tears and then whispered words that even the gusts can’t rip from us now.
“I love you, Reece Richards.”
“Not as much as I love you, Emmalina Crist.”
It feels so easy to contemplate bantering back. Not just easy. Natural. It’s what we always do after making love. Yeah, even the monkeys-in-the-wild stuff we just blew each other’s toes off with now. Hell, especially in these cases. Sarcasm, just like normal couples, brings the illusion that we’re a normal couple too. That for a few minutes at least, we can face life’s shit and conquer it with all the stuff everyone else does.
But we’re not everyone else.
A recognition that hasn’t relented its hold on my psyche—or my heart—even now.
That I might have been able to forget for a few minutes, to the point I seriously wonder if my toes have fallen off. No woman should be allowed to experience such mind-bending sex. From tonight on, even my two-hundred-dollar vibrator will be demanding therapy for its inferiority complex.
But it’s not the answer.
It can’t be turned into our answer.
The resolutions must take a one-two punch on my composure if Reece’s sudden tension is any indicator. “Hey,” he prods softly. “What is it, Bunny?”
With as much tact as I can muster with my dress still around my waist, I push up onto my elbows. “I think…we really do need to talk.”
“All right.”
He splits my heart open with his tenderness as he pulls out and then gives me room to right myself. At the same time, he tucks his own shit back in, wincing a little as he zips back up. When we’re both reasonably decent, he remains facing me on the chaise, holding both my hands in his—with a massive case of trying-not-to-freak-the-fuck-out stamped across his features.
“I all but issued you an ultimatum about this,” he mutters. “So I guess I deserve what’s coming, right?”
“Wrong. Reece—” I tighten my fingers against his, compelling him to keep looking at me. “Oh, hell. You couldn’t be more wrong. Why should you have to slam me with an ultimatum to get me to open up to you? And why should I have a hundred walls up about that—other than the fact that I had to sneak around to find you here consorting with Angelique?”
“Damn it.” He stabs his free hand through his hair. “We weren’t consorting, okay?”
“I know.” I yank that hand back over, pressing my cheek to his palm. “I know. But I can say that with my lips and even believe it in my heart…but right now, I can’t trust it with my soul.”
He jerks his hand away. Dips into a stillness so surreal, he begins to scare me. In a rasp as barren as the wind, he charges, “You don’t trust me?”
Now I’m the frozen one—dunked in so much terrified ice, it hurts. The only relief, if I can call it that, is the hot sting behind my eyes. This is, without a doubt, one of the shittiest ordeals of my life. Knowing I’m the one making him so stiff and quiet, stabbing him with icicle after icicle of heartache…
Heartache.
Not heartbreak.
The perception couldn’t hit with better timing. It lends the strength to assert, “I trust you, Reece. About so damn much. More than anyone I’ve ever met or anyone I’ve ever known.”
A stiff inhalation flares his nostrils. His lips twist as if he’s eaten som
ething nasty. “‘About so much,’” he spits back. “But not about everything.”
“You don’t trust me about everything, either.” The chill isn’t going anywhere now, claiming me with ruthless spikes as I watch the truth also take over his face—and am mesmerized by the sight. Damn it. Like frost across a mountain landscape, only anger brings out some of the most beautiful parts of his features. “And how can you, when I refuse to open up to you?”
I reach for the fingers now glowing with the steel blue of his rage instead of his aroused aqua. “We need to work on things, Reece—but at the same time, I know we really can. I also know that I love you enough to try.” I press a soft kiss to his knuckles. “We both have to do some digging. We have to push past our fears enough to be safe with each other beyond just diving into the sheets together.” A new kiss, this time lifted and bestowed on his dour lips. “I love you, Mr. Richards. You’re my superhero because you’re an incredible man and an astounding human being, not just a hunk who turns my pussy to magma and then knows exactly what to do about it.”
He grunts softly. “Well, gee. Now that you put it that way…”
“Right now, there’s no putting it any way.” I keep his hand nestled in both of mine, using the leverage of his arm to scoot closer to him. “I just think we need some time.”
“Time.” His chest rises and falls with the force of his inhalation. “You mean…apart, don’t you?”
“I mean in places where we can’t easily think about getting naked, horizontal, and primeval with each other, yes.”
“And you’ve already formulated a plan for that.”
It’s my turn for the long breath in. “Sort of. I guess.” Shit. All the words, until now, have sounded okay in my head—but now, actually talking about acting on those lofty promises…stepping away from the precious cocoon of us… Well, now I know what scary really is. “Thanks to your influence, your dad has approached RRO about throwing a small but chichi fundraiser dinner next week in Manhattan.”
More of the eerie silence from Reece—joined by a tension that makes me wonder if honesty has really been the best call in this instance. “Well, no shit,” he finally says, a small grin twitching his lips.
“Yeah.” I issue it with conviction, quirking a smile of my own. “He’s proud as hell of you because of the foundation, Reece. I know he really wants to help in any way he can.”
He snorts softly. “Well, he’s sure as hell figured out that the quickest way to my soft side is through you.”
“And maybe his soft side is you.” When he gives no discernible reaction to that, I forge ahead. “Anyhow, there’s a lot to prepare for with this thing, on top of all the student applications we’re going through, as well as ramping up marketing and getting the New York office organized.” I press my hand over his heart and give him the steady certainty of my stare. “They really could use my help.”
“Okay,” he says slowly. “When?” The tightness in his own gaze vanishes in the wake of his fresh gape. “Now? You want to go now? For a week?”
I firm my chin. “I’m not deploying to the Middle East. We can FaceTime every day. As a matter of fact, we’ll need to. We can—”
I stop short as he pushes away. After rolling to his feet, he finally snaps, “We can what? Pretend you haven’t put an entire fucking country between us in the name of emotional intimacy?”
For a few seconds, I don’t move. When shock finally releases me from its chokehold, I blurt, “Again, I’m not proposing a sabbatical in Antarctica. I’ll only be in New York, doing valuable work that you’ve made possible…”
“Which you just returned from doing for five damn days barely that many hours ago!”
I return his glowing glare with a jerk to my own feet. “Time you had no trouble filling with ‘Sally’ and Angelique!”
“Christ.” He wheels away, dragging both hands through his hair. “Are we back there again?”
An extra-strong gust rips across the rooftop, scooping up the abandoned chaise between us and tipping it over. The pillows that were just our launch pads to sexual heaven now cartwheel across the patio. A couple of them end up in the fountain with their cousins, rapidly taking on water and turning into directionless blobs.
I hate how much I commiserate with them.
Even worse, I hate the soft croak of my voice, as I gaze once more to the man on the opposite side of the upturned couch.
The other side of a valley that’s suddenly too damn wide and too disgustingly dark.
“I have no idea where we are, baby.”
But I know I refuse to be too scared to find out.
Chapter Five
Reece
“Mr. Richards?”
I jerk my head up, breaking out of the stupor in which Emma plays a starring role. Since it’s nearly lunchtime in Manhattan, I try to imagine what she’s doing—not that the online gossip sites won’t provide me with that answer within a few hours, as they faithfully have for the last week, along with the typical speculations about why Emma Crist has been seen out and about in one of the world’s best cities for young, hot bachelors.
Bachelors who don’t bring baggage like radioactive come and global savior issues.
Guys able to return her texts with more than one-word answers.
Men capable of giving her a normal life. Movie dates. Lazy Sundays. Board game nights. Kids. Stability.
But she never wanted that. She wants you, asshole. And now she’s taking the steps to strengthen things with you.
But did she really have to do it from three thousand miles away?
“Mr. Richards?”
I shake my head, focusing fully on Neeta—who’s clearly on the fifth or sixth take of the summons. “Yes. What?” I stand and move out from my desk, steeling myself against the sounds of kids’ laughter from the Brocade’s newly installed soft-materials playground.
She never said she wanted kids.
She only said she wanted more…
“I’m sorry,” I amend, plastering on a polite smile. “What did you need, Miss Jain?”
“Not me, sir.” She extends a file folder. “What you need, yes? The weeklies?”
“Ah. Of course.” I straighten my tie while taking a fast glance at the overall numbers. According to what I see, the Brocade has kicked ass and taken names in our comp set for the fourth straight week. Dad will be pleased, and I don’t fight the warmth in my chest at considering that.
Which leads, of course, to wondering if Dad has seen Emma at all in the last three days. According to the gossip gurus, she’s only lunched with coworkers and other nonprofit movers-and-shakers. Doesn’t mean he couldn’t have stopped off at the Richards Reaches Out offices to go over plans for the “intimate” dinner that’s now grown to over two hundred confirmed invitees…
“How are you getting settled in down here?”
Neeta’s formal but conversational tone brings welcome relief from my brain’s newest tangent. In the second I take to respond, one of the toddlers outside holds up a plastic superhero figure and shows it to his friend. The second kid reaches over and yanks the head off the toy. Both of them scream in unfiltered laughter.
“It’s been good to come out of the clouds,” I admit with a wry grin. “In more ways than one, obviously.”
Neeta, having succumbed to a chuckle at the boys’ antics, extends her laugh. “Well, Wade and Fershan couldn’t be more thrilled you’re walking among the mortals.”
“Even though I’ve retired from being immortal?”
“As far as they’re concerned?” She dips a serene nod, assuring me every secret to which she was exposed last week will stay at that status. “Yes.”
I copy the nod, tacking on a new smile—full of gratitude. “It’s good to have you around, Miss Jain.”
“So your girlfriend likes to tell me, Mr. Richards.”
Fate is on my side today. Another serendipitous segue, one I’m not going to waste. “How’s…she doing?” I grind both knuckles into the top
of my desk, failing miserably at the by-the-way-just-a-nonchalant-question thing. Because of that, I decide to go for the meat anyway. “I mean, how’s she really doing? Not the bullshit I can get from five minutes and fifteen Google hits.”
The woman nods once more, this time in deeper understanding. But just as she threads her fingers together, clearly stalling while composing a reply that won’t betray Emma, her whole face transforms. Her mouth pops into a perfect O—just before Sawyer Foley bursts into the room.
“Dude.” He heads straight toward me. Gobs of beach sand mark his wake, though he’s wearing khakis and a reasonably white Henley. He’s also run a comb through his hair, though it was probably just a sprint, which explains why the executive office day assistant rushes in right behind him, her face painted in anxiety.
“Oh, my God,” she exclaims. “Mr. Richards, I’m so sorry. I tried to stop him. He just ran in off the street. I thought the police were doing more about the crazies in this area. He says it’s life and death—”
“It is,” Sawyer growls.
“It’s all right, Joanne. Please put Mr. Richards on DND and shut the door on your way out.” Neeta forms the words my mind can’t process. Not since the words “life and death”—igniting every electrified cell in my body in sudden dread. My instincts are sound. No way would Foley come exploding in here like a half-crazed beach rat, looking as if he’s about to expose a hellmouth under the hotel, without serious justification.
The same conviction turns his gaze to amber neon as he stops directly in front of me. “This won’t wait for the bat signal, man.”
I dip a tense nod, letting it serve as my approval. “What do you have?”
For all the urgency of his entrance, he darts an uncertain glance at Neeta until his obvious recall of everything she already heard Friday night. “A new dispatch from Angelique. A fucking scary one.”
I fight off the sensation of every nerve ending getting stripped by dull blades, finally gritting, “She’s back in Spain already?”
He shakes his head. “She’d been assigned to stay here, in LA—until she received new orders this morning.”