by Cindy Gerard
She was tired, was all. They’d been on a whirlwind ride for the past few days. She was strung tight with tension and needed an outlet for all the pressure. Enter the hot Latin lover, ready, willing, and able to take the edge off. How… generous of him.
Bastard.
Or not, she admitted, touching her fingertips to her lips and feeling them warm and swollen from his kisses.
He’d walked away, hadn’t he? He’d left her before things had gotten totally out of hand. A bastard didn’t do that.
Why in the hell had he gone all sensitive? Because there was much more to Raphael Mendoza than met the eye, she admitted on a deep breath. Much, much more. And therein lay the crux of her problem. He moved her. Emotionally. Physically.
So what now? She was strung as tight as a piano wire. She couldn’t go on this way. They had to perform for the Munozes, for God knew how many others before this was over. The way she was now, she’d jump like she was shot if he so much as touched her again.
Because she wanted him to touch her. Silence rang in the wake of that unvarnished truth.
Her heart was beating like crazy as she stepped back inside the bedroom. She heard the shower running in the bathroom.
And relief was ten steps away.
Before she could think about it, before she could analyze and argue and talk herself out of it, she reached behind her back and tugged down the zipper on her strapless dress. She stopped long enough to let the dress fall to the floor and shimmy out of her thong.
And then she stopped for nothing.
Rafe couldn’t shake the image of B.J. backed up against the wall where he’d left her, her eyes cloudy with desire, her lips swollen from his kisses, her breasts rising and falling above the fabric of her sarong dress.
The shower sure as hell wasn’t helping. He suspected that nothing short of having her was going to help. And that wasn’t going to happen. At least not yet.
But then he heard the bathroom door open and close. And he knew it could only mean one thing.
He whipped his head around and there, standing naked and proud in the vortex of steam swirling through the room, stood B. J. Chase.
Madre de Dios.
She was exquisite. Slim, toned legs; softly flaring hips; small, trim waist; and breasts so beautiful he could weep. Tightly peaked berry brown nipples jutted from delicate aureoles. Lower, where she’d been wet when he’d touched her, where he ached to touch her still, soft gold curls guarded her most feminine place.
Physically, yes, she was exquisite, but it was the look in her eyes that held him in thrall.
This was a woman on a mission.
This was a woman who knew what she’d come for and had no reservations about taking it.
Gone was the vulnerability. Gone was the denial and the pretense and the façade she hid behind so well.
This was B. J. Chase in the raw. Raw emotions. Raw desire. Raw and real.
He could have played this a dozen different ways. Only one held any appeal.
He held out his hand.
Without hesitation she stepped into the shower and took it.
“Why?” He had to know.
“Because I want you,” she admitted on a ragged whisper. “Because I need you.”
It was all over for him then. Any valiant notion he might have harbored that he could still find the strength and the will to turn her away vanished like the space between them.
He dragged her hard against him, buried his hands in that wild tangle of hair, and lowered his mouth to hers in a kiss that told her everything she needed to know about how badly he wanted her, right here, right now. She stood flush against him, with the water raining down and her wet hair cascading over his hands and his thigh pressed between hers.
He backed her up against the shower wall, skimmed his hands down her sides, spanned her waist—because he could, because he needed to, because he had to touch her everyplace, everywhere, and because she let him. She encouraged him with her throaty groans, her open-mouth kisses, and her possessive hands as they skated over his shoulders, down his back, then lower to his hips, where she squeezed and urged him with the rock of her hips and a whispered plea: “Please, please, come inside me.”
And he wanted to. More than breathing, he wanted to enter that tight sweet heat with nothing coming between them. He came within an insane moment of doing just that when clarity staged a comeback.
“What, wait, what are you doing?” She moaned when he pushed away from her.
“Taking care of business,” he said on a growl as he took her hand, grabbed a towel on the way out the door, and dragged her with him to the bedroom.
He drew her against him again, kissed her deep before letting her go. He tossed the towel on the bed. “Lie down,” he ordered.
And it was an order.
Fire flared in her eyes and he could see she was considering defying him. He wasn’t having any of it. He reached out, clutched a handful of wet hair, and drew her toward him again. “Lie down,” he whispered against her mouth.
Her breath fluttered against his lips, erratic and sweet as he cupped her breast in his palm, then tweaked her nipple. She shivered, swayed … then lay down on her back on the bed at his urging.
Submission. It was a hard pill for her to swallow.
He’d never been into dominance. But he needed submission from this woman. Total surrender. Absolute acquiescence. Nothing less would do. Because resistance would mean she didn’t trust him, and he needed her trust in this. He needed it because he knew that without trust, he would lose her to inhibition, resistance, and shame.
He wanted none of that from her. None of that for her. And he would not let her go there. Not with him. With him, it was all about pleasure.
“I want to do things to you, cara. Many, many things,” he murmured, kneeling over her on the bed and lowering his mouth to her breast. “I want to lick you. And suck you. Here,” he whispered, laving his tongue over her tight nipple, then sucking her into his mouth.
“Tell me it’s good,” he demanded, moving to her other breast and indulging himself in her silken skin and responsive body.
“Tell me,” he urged again as he slid lower and swirled his tongue around her navel, nipping lightly, leaving a trail of moisture as he moved lower still.
“It’s … it’s good …,” she managed with a gasp, and arched her hips toward his mouth, begging for more, inviting him to take her.
“Very, very good,” he agreed, moving between her legs and finally capturing that part of her he’d fantasized about since he’d held her at gunpoint three months ago in a dark alley on a hot Caracas night.
He kissed her hungrily, clutched her hips in his hands, and held her against his mouth, nuzzling between velvet folds.
She tensed and gave a low groan when he licked her there, then flicked the tip of his tongue over the swollen bud of her sex and savored the intoxicating taste of her, the lush heat and shuddering sighs. It was like igniting a wildfire. Flash, crackle, and burn. He could feel her climax rising through her body, urged her on with a total and thorough dominance that had her gripping the bedspread with clawing fists, then rising up on her elbows, her head thrown back as she reached for him, strived with him, then flew for him as he took her over that sharp, taut edge of pleasure.
He held her while she fell apart, gently nuzzling, leisurely indulging in the scent of woman and sex and sweet, sweet surrender. After one last kiss, one last taste, he rose above her. Her eyes were closed, her arms flung wide, as he reached across her body to the nightstand and his shaving kit. He pulled out a condom, pressed it into her lax fingers.
She slowly opened her eyes.
He smiled down at her. “Put it on.”
Her fingers trembled as she opened the packet and, with a renewed urgency, sheathed him. Every muscle in his body clenched as her small fingers caressed him, measured him, then guided him home.
Nothing felt as good as this. No woman felt as good as her. And as he eased in and o
ut of her, he couldn’t imagine anything ever feeling as good again. She was as tight as a fist. As sleek and wet as rainwater. And at the moment, she was his.
Surrender.
She gave it again as she lifted to him, matched his rhythm, and took him deep inside.
“Come for me,” she demanded, digging her fingers into his buttocks and asking for more. Asking for harder. Asking for everything he wanted to give, and taking without reservation.
“Come for me,” she demanded again, the cords in her neck extended as she wrapped her legs around his waist and increased the speed of her matching thrusts.
A wildcat, he thought as his climax boiled up inside, then shot through him like an electrical current. Powerful, hot, primal.
He collapsed on top of her, burrowed his hands under her hips, and ground his pelvis into hers, wringing out every ounce of pleasure, prolonging the rush that he wanted to go on and on and on.
“Cielo dulce,” he murmured against her throat and kissed her there.
“Sweet heaven,” she agreed after a deep, contented sigh.
Surrender, he thought again—only this time he wondered who had truly surrendered to whom.
21
B.J. was vaguely aware of a shrill ringing sound.
Flat on her stomach, she opened one eye, squinted to her right, and stared at the bare muscular back of Raphael Mendoza as he lifted up on an elbow and twisted toward the nightstand to answer the phone.
“Hola,” he answered quietly after snagging the headset off the receiver. “Sí. Sí. Gracias.”
He hung up and lay back, looked her way. When he saw she was awake, he smiled. “Sorry. I tried to catch it before it woke you.”
“It’s okay,” she said, and fought a “What have I done?” moment as she looked into those beautiful dark eyes and at his kiss-swollen lips and thought about all the places that mouth had explored on her body.
While embarrassment probably should have been the appropriate response, a wild rush of arousal shot through her body at the memory of all that had happened in this bed.
He turned on his side, facing her. Caressed the small of her back, drawing lazy circles with the tip of his fingers.
“You okay, cara?” he asked gently.
She turned her face into the pillow, groped for the sheet, and pulled it up over her head. “Never better.”
He laughed and that skillful and clever hand skimmed up her back, then slowly down again. “Yeah, I can see that. Is that why you’re hiding from me, mi amor?”
Mi amor. My love. Okay. This got straightened out right now.
She scooted to the far side of the bed, jerked the sheet with her, then wrapped it around her as she struggled to stand. “In the first place—”
He cut her off with a finger to his lips, warning her to keep her voice low in the event the room was bugged.
She shuffled quickly to the CD player, turned it on loud, knowing it would garble any conversation if they were being listened to.
“In the first place,” she began again in a whisper as she moved back to the bed, “I’m not your love. That was chemistry, tension, adrenaline—whatever label you want to put on it. In the second place, it was unprofessional. And it’s not going to happen again.”
Okay, this might have been easier if she’d left the damn sheet and taken the blanket instead. While she’d wrapped the sheet around her like a dust cover, he was lying there on his side, his head propped on his hand, gloriously naked, outrageously male.
And he was smiling, the bastard. The gorgeous, sexy bastard.
God, he was beautiful. From the unusually crafted cross tattoo on his upper arm, to the gold crucifix dangling from his neck, to the caramel skin covering sinew and sleek muscle, to the steely heat of his penis that even now swelled with arousal, he was beautiful. There was no other word for it. Stunningly, excessively beautiful.
He patted the bed in invitation. “Why don’t you come back and we’ll talk about it,” he murmured, all soft and seductive and smug.
If by any chance there was a hidden camera in the room—and God, she tried not to think about that possibility after what had just happened—it would simply appear that they were having a lover’s quarrel.
She backed a step away, telling herself it was for his benefit, not hers. “What did I just say?”
“That something’s not going to happen again. I thought perhaps you meant you weren’t going to swaddle yourself like a mummy again.”
She wished he’d quit smiling. “Don’t be obtuse.”
“So, you’re saying you didn’t enjoy making love to me?”
“Look, it was exactly what it was. An outlet for nervous energy. Something had to happen or I was going to blow it. So I took one for the team, okay?” she said, knowing that even in whispered tones she sounded like a raving bitch.
Instead of getting all indignant, he laughed. “For the team, was it? I think, cara, that on this, you might be wrong. I was there, remember? I don’t recall any self-sacrificing moments.”
He was still smiling, damn him. He knew the effect he had on her and he made no effort to cover himself and help her out.
“But,” he continued, his dark gaze holding hers as his voice turned all smoky, “if it helps you to think otherwise, then by all means, knock yourself out. Only this is what I think. I think that I scare the hell out of you.
“No.” He lifted a hand, cutting her off before she could push out an incredulous “In your dreams.”
He pushed up on one arm, leaned toward her to make certain she could hear him. “I think that I make you feel things that frighten you. I think I make you want to take a chance. But you don’t do that, do you? You don’t take chances when it comes to protecting yourself from anyone who might expect something in return. Well, let me say this . And I want you to listen and believe. I’m not your enemy. Stephanie and Jenna, both of whom you would like to embrace as friends”— he lowered his voice even more—“they are not the enemy either, but still you hold them at arm’s length.”
“I know who the enemy is,” she whispered.
“Do you?”
Her eyes filled with tears. She didn’t know why. She … okay, damn it. She did know. He was right. She did hold herself apart from many people because yes, yes, the thought of opening herself up for rejection and loss scared her to death.
But sometimes, sometimes, the fight made her very, very tired.
“Do you?” he repeated gently. “Do you really know who the enemy is?”
“We are fighting the enemy,” she hissed. “That’s what I know. That’s why we’re here. That’s the only reason we’re here.”
He wasn’t smiling anymore. “Am I your enemy then?”
Yes, damn it. He was. He was an enemy to her sanity. He threatened every rule she’d ever imposed for her own self-preservation. He made her want things and question what she knew to be true.
God. She couldn’t think about this now.
“What you are is a complication I don’t need,” she whispered when what she wanted to do was yell. “And what we are—what we did—is just what I said it was. A necessary release. For the good of the operation.”
He watched her for a long time, then finally nodded. “All right, cara. I’ll respect your boundaries.”
She eyed him warily. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. But so you know, when we get out of this, if we get out of this, I’m going to blow so many holes in that wall you’ve built around your heart that you’ll have no choice but to let me in.”
She couldn’t think of anything to say to that. Couldn’t have spoken if she wanted to. The look in his eyes stunned her. He was serious. He meant what he said.
“Right now, I have to get dressed,” he said in a normal voice as he rolled to the other side of the bed and stood. “That was Cesar on the phone. He wants to meet with me before dinner. A little one-on-one conversation.”
The man had no shame. No inhibitions. He stood there in all his n
aked glory, still semi-erect and altogether magnificent.
“I suspect he wants to know my reason for showing up here after all these years. Guess it’s time I tell him. Oh, and Tía Aliria has invited you for cocktails and hors d’oeuvres poolside.”
“I … I, ah,” she stammered, wanting to look away but unable to, “will behave like a perfect fiancée.”
The look in his eyes as he watched her from the other side of the bed was almost her undoing. And when he walked around that bed and enfolded her in his arms, sheet and all, it was all she could do to keep from melting into him.