No Limits: A Dark Romance

by Lauren Landish

  “I know you didn't. But that word carries deep meaning for a lot of people. You should be careful just slinging it around until someone's proven himself worthy of it. A lot of people who demand it aren't deserving of being called sir by someone as capable as you.”

  I blush. I can feel it creeping up my neck, and I nod again. “Okay. I'll keep that in mind. So what can you tell me?”

  “You heard of the CyberFighter?” Rafe asks, and my eyes widen. Anyone who's really interested in aircraft has heard of the CyberFighter, the first in what some are calling the next generation of fighter aircraft for the military. Next-next-next generation capabilities, so stealthy that nothing in the world can pick it up in time. “I take it from your expression that you have.”

  “I . . . yeah, I have,” I say, trying to keep myself under control. “But everything that I've read says that it's supposedly just in the planning stages, computer modeling and running . . .”

  Rafe glances at his desktop, then back at me as my voice trails off. “No, I don't do that on this thing. There's no way in hell the Pentagon would let me do that. Like I said, it’s a lot of secure lab time. They want the data locked up tight. Most of the basic modeling is done anyway, and the Pentagon wants to take things to the next level.”

  “The next level as in . . .?” I ask, and Rafe smiles. A warm shiver runs down my spine, and I have to admit that not all of it is because of the sexy man that I have sitting on the other side of the office from me. My inner geek is doing backflips too.

  “I've been told to put together a team for the first small-scale concept test. This is a proof of concept. You've shown a lot of promise, Shawnie.”

  “I don't even have my Master's yet,” I point out. “Are you looking for another intern or an actual team member?”

  “Actual team member,” Rafe says, smirking. “I don’t need degrees. I need minds, and you’ve got a good one. But make no mistake, it’s not going to be fun. There’s going to be a lot of hard work. And it won't be a democracy, but a dictatorship.”

  I nod, thinking that’s exactly how I like it. “That's a lot to take in. And if I say no?”

  “Then you stay on as my TA. You're doing fine, but like I said, this is bullshit. You're better than running to get me coffee twice a day, teaching undergrad courses, and grading papers. You could be so much more.”

  “And if I take the position?”

  Rafe chuckles and leans back. “Then you join a very long and not-so-distinguished group of assistants I've had who've been fired before the end of a term. But you'll be the first who was fired due to promotion rather than being a fuckup.”

  An opportunity. It's one that rarely comes along. But can I handle it? Inside me, the demon whispers, saying that I'm just as worthless here in the academic world as I am in The Club and that I can't hang unless I get dirty. But I've never backed down before, and I don't know what to do. “Rafe . . .”

  “Wait,” he says, holding up a hand. “I know what you're going to say. I can see it in your eyes. Don't give me your answer now. I'm breaking quite a few rules even saying this, but . . . have dinner with me.”

  What? Did Mr. Perfect just ask me on a date? Did I just hear correctly? Did I just hit my head or fall through the looking glass or something? “You can't be serious.”

  “I'm dead serious,” Rafe says, sitting forward. “Shawnie, this team, it's beyond the scope of Stanford. Sure, we'll be using university property, but we'll also be going places, some places that you may never get an invitation to again. So before you give me an answer, let's have dinner.”

  Dinner? Does it have to be just dinner? “Okay. Dinner. What time and where?”

  “I'll pick you up here at seven. It's early for me, but the place I'm thinking of is a little bit of a drive. In the meantime, I want you to do two things.”

  “What?” I ask, and Rafe leans back.

  “First, after your next class, go for a swim, a bike ride, anything. You're spending far too much time cooped up behind that desk, and there’s a lot more to learning than what’s in a book or behind a computer monitor. And then, after you go shower and change, wear something casual and short sleeved for dinner. Think of it as . . . a show of confidence.”

  I swallow, rolling my shoulder, but I nod. “Okay. I'll meet you here at seven.”

  I thought when Rafe told me he'd pick me up from the engineering building that he'd be wearing the same jeans and collared shirt he wore in the office. Instead, I'm surprised when someone taps my shoulder and I turn around to see him wearing the same jeans, but he's changed into a t-shirt and sports coat, with aviator sunglasses covering his eyes. “Hey, you changed.”

  I look down, trying to cover my forearms with my hands, nodding nervously. I can see the white lines that slash down my forearms from my elbows, and I hate them. They're the marks of the bastard who made me the way I am. “Yeah . . . I guess.”

  I expect Rafe to say something, something supportive like he's done before, but instead, he just puts his hand on my shoulder and I look up into his sunglasses, repulsed by the reflection I see. “Come on, Shawnie. Let's go have some fun. I have reservations for us in an hour, and it'll take us nearly that long to get there.”

  “Where are we going?” I ask, and Rafe gives me a dazzling smile, looking for all the world like a television star ready for a trip to the French Riviera or something.

  “You'll see. Come on.”

  We walk over to the parking lot, where I'm surprised again. I guess I shouldn't be. I mean, I've never seen Rafe driving, but I assumed he has a license. But the silver classic Jaguar that gleams mellowly in the late afternoon light is amazing.

  “You wanna drive?” Rafe asks, and I look inside only to realize that the Jag is an authentic British model, with the steering wheel on the right side. I blush, embarrassed, and go around to the other side, getting in when he leans over and unlocks the door. “Sorry, older model—doesn't have automatic door locks.”

  “Getting insurance for it has to be a bitch too,” I note, my body relishing the feel of the rich authentic leather seats. “This thing is cherry.”

  “You have no idea,” Rafe says, running a hand over the dash. “It took me years to find exactly the model I wanted. Anyway, I booked us a reservation at a restaurant in Half Moon Bay. Have you been there?”

  I shake my head as the engine rumbles to life. Give it to the Brits, they know how to make an engine that purrs. We pull out of the parking lot and head toward the Interstate which cuts across toward Half Moon Bay. At the first red light, Rafe points to the glove box. “Take a look at the tablet in there. The Pentagon would shit themselves if they knew about this, but I trust you. We can talk as I drive.”

  I turn on the tablet, amazed at the innovative, unique design. Not two, but four wings are arranged in a diamond pattern, and I don't see anything that would lead me to know where . . . “Wait, where the hell is the cockpit?”

  “There is none,” Rafe says, getting onto the Interstate. “The Cyber in CyberFighter isn't just a buzzword to make us sound cool like some idiot at the Pentagon thinks.”

  “So it's a drone?” I ask, raising my eyebrow. “You're designing a fighting drone?”

  “Yep. It’ll be cheaper to build—no need in building the cockpit, and no need in all the rigorous physical training for the pilots. With the upgrades in technology, it’s getting too hard to find and replace pilots. The human body can’t keep up with the airframes any longer.”

  “So you're going to turn front-line fighter aircraft duties to what, geeks on their Xbox One?” I ask, incredulous. “The Air Force isn't going to like that.”

  Rafe shrugs. “They might not, but they’ll have to get with the times. There were pilots who hated when we transitioned from pistons to jets. Besides, it’s safer. They’ll come around.”

  We get off the Interstate and he maneuvers us toward Half Moon Bay, the sunset reflecting in the Pacific in the distance. It's beautiful, and it's a part of California that I've never s
een before. “This is amazing.”

  I notice that Rafe's looking at me intently, and he gives me a smile. “It is. Come on, let's have dinner.”

  The restaurant is small, no more than ten tables, and when we get there, the waiter escorts us to a private patio in the back of the building which looks like it may have been a house at one point, or maybe a bed and breakfast.

  “This is . . . a lot more romantic than I thought you'd ask me out for,” I note as Rafe holds my chair for me, pushing it in for me. “You sure the University isn't going to be pissed off?”

  “Sometimes, you need to strike out on your own in order to find your true potential,” Rafe replies, giving me another one of his heart-stopping smiles. There's intent, and the warmth that I've been feeling in my belly moves between my legs. It feels strange though. It's not the dirty heat that I feel when the demon's in control, and it's not the nasty, filthy heat that I feel at The Club. This is purer, and I'm not ashamed of it as I settle in, even if I am a bit embarrassed. I just have to make sure that it stays this way, and I’m the one who stays in control. “So what wine would you like? I'm not drinking. I'll make sure that you get home safe tonight.”

  “I left my Miata at school, so I should stick to non-alcoholic drinks as well,” I answer, looking for a menu. I don't see one, and I'm confused. “Uh, how do we place an order?”

  “We did as soon as we walked in the door,” Rafe says, sitting back and sipping his water. “This place is run by a former Michelin-starred chef. He does things his way, and the few times I've been here, I've never been disappointed. Basically, he goes to the farmer's markets around the Bay during the day and picks out whatever catches his eye. He then brings it back and cooks whatever he wants. You eat it or you don't. He doesn't really give a damn. A unique but always delicious experience.”

  “I see. So I have to put all my trust in someone else's hands,” I reply, smirking. “I'm not so sure if I like that.”

  “That's not what I've seen,” Rafe says simply, setting his glass of water down. “I’ve been watching you all semester, and I have to say, you're a very intriguing woman, Shawnie.”

  My heart flutters at the look Rafe is giving me, and I quickly take a gulp of water, sputtering when some of it goes down the wrong pipe, coughing until I'm sure my face is burning so much it's red. “Sorry. You caught me off guard.”

  “Don’t worry about any of that Professor-TA stuff. I have a feeling you’re not going to be my TA much longer.”

  I nod, calming myself. “You’re right. I’ll take your offer. On one condition.”

  “What's that?” Rafe asks, and I take a deep breath.

  “You explain to me why you're called Suicide,” I say, leaning forward. “That's not exactly the sort of nickname that you pick up for no reason at all.”

  Rafe hums and crosses his legs, smirking. “You think you're ready for that much information? Well, I'll give you part of the answer for now. You can earn the rest later. I've worked with the Pentagon before, and one of the things that I did when I was twenty was go through six months of pilot training. I already had my civilian pilot's license, so I was able to progress pretty quickly.”

  “Really?” I ask, hardly shocked but still pleasantly surprised. Is there anything Rafe can't do? “So it's a call sign?”

  “Assigned by the guys of my training wing,” he says. “It’s sort of a graduation gift that they give everyone.”

  I shake my head in amazement. “Next thing you're going to tell me is that you also spend your nights running around San Francisco in a bat costume fighting crime.”

  “Only on Saturday nights. Traffic’s a bitch the rest of the time,” Rafe jokes, and I can't help it, I laugh. “So are you in or out?”

  “I'm in,” I agree just as the waiter brings us our first of four courses. I don't know what exactly it is that the chef serves. I mean I can identify that the first course is a salad and the next course is some sort of seafood appetizer, but there are tastes and flavors I've never experienced before. It's amazing, and by the time I wipe my mouth to clean my lips of the last traces of the cherry tart-like dessert that wasn't quite a cheesecake but not quite a pie either, I know it's the best meal I've ever had.

  “So, what do you think?” Rafe asks after the last plate is cleared away. “I’d say it was more than worth the drive.”

  “I’ll say,” I reply. “So what else do you have in mind for me?”

  I don’t know where that comment came from, then it hits me. Inside, I can hear it chuckle, and I realize that despite my best intentions, it’s starting to work its way free. No, not tonight. Not with this man. Rafe smiles though, his eyes gleaming in the candle light.

  Rafe knows exactly what I’m asking. “Shawnie, you're not ready for that yet,” he says with a mysterious hint to his voice. “But I had a nice dinner. Let's get you home.”

  The whole drive back to Stanford is torture as I fight the demon inside me. I don’t want to wreck things. The heat inside me feels too good and pure. But it’s not letting me go. It’s too strong.

  Rafe, for his part, is quiet as we get back to campus, parking his Jag next to my car and turning to face me. “Shawnie, I know that you—”

  I cut him off by reaching across the small divide between us and grabbing his cock, both sides of me shocked by what we find. Mr. Perfect is perfectly hung. “I know that I want to suck your cock and have you come all over my face,” I growl, leaning over and kissing the bulge in his jeans. Rafe’s a man, and no man can resist that, but suddenly, I feel fingers in my hair, pulling painfully. “Ooh yeah, make it hurt, baby!”

  “Get out!” Rafe yells, yanking my head up from his crotch and staring at me. Before I can say anything, he gets out, coming around and opening my door. I get out, but before I can touch him, he steps back, pointing to my car. “We’ll talk about this later.”

  I try to say something, but Rafe storms around his car and gets back in, pulling away while I’ve still got my body yearning and tears in my eyes.

  “Rafe . . . I’m sorry,” I whisper, watching his taillights disappear as he hangs a right out of the parking lot. “It wasn’t me . . .”

  But it was, and now . . . it needs to play.

  Chapter 7

  Rafe

  I'm shaking with desire and anger after I drop Shawnie off at the parking lot outside the engineering department back on campus, and I know that I need some relief. I'm not proud of what I'm about to do, but there isn't too much I can do about it.

  Does she know just how fucking sexy she was? Even the barely visible scars on her arms are sexy to me, making her look like a tigress.

  Dinner was foreplay in itself. Watching her wrap her lips around the panko crusted halibut with herbed butter was pure seduction, made even worse when the chef brought out the main dish, organic mutton chops raised right in Northern California. I don't think Shawnie's ever had mutton before, and the hungry, satisfied sounds she made as she chewed the rich meat sent tingles to my cock even before dessert.

  Then with one little question, a bit of flirtation, I watched as she changed. Gone was the sexy, seductive woman who’s shared an office with me for almost an entire semester, a woman who’s sexy specifically because she’s not trying, she just is. Instead, a different side of her came out, a side that most men would be all over, and even the animal side of me wants it. But that isn’t the Shawnie I want. I was hoping . . . I don’t really know what I was hoping for. I just know I need some sort of relief, and I know what I have to do.

  Instead of heading back to my apartment, I head back to the Interstate and drive quickly toward San Mateo. Club Paradise is not a place I go to often. I think I've been here four times in the past year, but it's close, and if I need, I can find just about anything I want under the sun. It's not quite as wild as The Armory or The Club down in San Francisco proper, but my tastes aren't quite as wild tonight.

  “Mr. Kent, nice to see you again,” the doorman greets me as I show him my membership card af
ter dropping my car off with the valet. Like most of the sex clubs in the area, you have an alias, and as a play on my background, I'm Clark Kent. Sure, it's a lame alias, but I don't really fucking care. It could be worse.

  I go inside, taking from the coat check room one of the few things I do insist on when inside Club Paradise, and that's a mask after I drop off my sport coat. The one I choose tonight is a shield shaped men's Venetian mask, full face. I'm not here to participate but just to relieve some tension before calling it a night.

  She was so close, and her body . . . I've never seen a body like it in my life. A body that couldn't be improved even if someone does finish research into gene therapy or . . . well, I don't want to think about that right now.

  But her beauty is also her danger. I have to maintain my control, and it's hard with Shawnie, especially after watching what happened to her at the end. The offer to join my team wasn't bullshit. If anything, it’s more important than ever. When she’s in the books, when she’s being an engineer, Shawnie can stand strong against whatever’s tearing her apart. But there’s the other side of her, the side I saw tonight. It could threaten the whole project. The Pentagon was serious about taking the next step. More importantly, it’s a threat to her. It could destroy her.

  She's not ready yet, and that’s a big problem. I can see it in her eyes, in the way she tried to cover her arms, the way she continues to roll her left shoulder like it still hurts. The pain is all in her head, stress and PTSD induced. And she’s in deeper trouble than I thought.

  The scariest part, I think as I settle in at one of the small booths in the elevated ring that surrounds the main floor of Club Paradise, is what it’s going to take. When I first developed my idea, I knew that a certain amount of intimacy would be needed. I knew I'd have to become fond of her and that when she was ready to move on, I'd feel a sense of loss. But I didn't anticipate liking her so much or that there's a part of me that wants her not just for helping her, but for my own desires and needs.