by Naima Simone
Their harsh breaths filled the room. This close, she couldn’t hide behind her aloof facade. Couldn’t conceal the desire darkening her eyes. Couldn’t mask the flush across her patrician cheekbones. A low groan rumbled in his throat as he lowered his head…
“Is this your way of shutting me up, then?”
The cold, out-of-left-field accusation froze him faster than a January Chicago wind.
“What are you talking about?” he demanded, dropping his hand from her face as if burned.
Though the heat of arousal still stained her golden complexion, a distinct chill invaded her voice, as cutting as her words. “If I speak out of turn,” she mocked, her lips twisted into a bitter caricature of a smile, “will you put me in my place with humiliating, vulgar talk? Shame me into being quiet?”
“First,” he said, lowering his voice and allowing the throb of need in his cock to vibrate in his voice, “you can lie to yourself if it makes you feel better, but your body betrays you every time. You like my vulgar talk, sweetheart. Probably too much, which is why you’re trying to verbally castrate me now. Understand one thing, though.” He lowered his head until their noses bumped, and the soft, quick pants escaping her lips bathed his. The rigid length of his cock nudged her stomach, but he didn’t retreat, didn’t pretend like she didn’t harden his body until he resembled a fucking statue. And she didn’t back away, either. Her strength and stubbornness only stoked the flame inside him higher. “Yes, I can be ruthless, unforgiving, and a manipulative bastard. But I don’t play games with sex.”
It was one of the two areas in his life where he didn’t lie—business being the other. He’d witnessed his mother exploiting her sexuality to control his father and other men too many times to ever use sex as a weapon or tool. There was no way she could comprehend how deeply that particular accusation cut.
“If I say I want you, then I want you. No lies, no ulterior motives. And, sweetheart…” He shifted back, dragged his gaze down the wet dream of her body deceptively clothed in a simple V-neck sweater and jeans. Shaking his head, he returned his eyes to hers. “I want to fuck you until neither one of us can move.”
Chapter Nine
I want to fuck you until neither one of us can move.
The words spooled through Sydney’s head like a never-ending reel. Or maybe her mind kept hitting repeat to hear the raw, erotic statement on a permanent loop in her head. Probably the former. She shifted on the black leather seat of the limo as a shiver coursed through her even nearly forty-five minutes after leaving the community center. Because in his blunt, I-don’t-give-a-damn manner, Lucas had nailed the effect he had on her. The brutally honest admission of his lust and how he imagined them together—How would they look stretching for me, taking me? How much could you take?—had shaken her to the core. Literally. Her sex had fluttered, contracted, swelled as if preparing itself for what her brain stubbornly resisted. Even now, sitting in the limousine across from his large frame, inhaling his fresh scent with every breath, she ached with a nagging emptiness between her thighs.
Damn him.
Panic hurtled through her like a flash flood. Since acquiescing to his blackmail, she’d been so certain she’d walk away from this arrangement unscathed. That she could portray the pleasant, content public face she’d learned to maintain from the cradle. And in private, she could skate through the year by continuing the two-ships-passing-in-a-brownstone coexistence of the past week. She’d convinced herself the kiss in his office had been an aberration, and that sex with him would be the same as it’d been for her in the past. Nice, but not that greedy, insane lust that had gripped her whenever he was near her.
Bullshit.
Lucas hadn’t even kissed her. Just touched her and whispered in unadorned, explicit detail what he wanted. Her. Under him. Over him. Shattered by his special brand of pleasure.
And if she allowed herself to become lost to his brand of consuming lust—let herself forget the cost—in a year’s time, that’s exactly what she would be. Well and truly shattered.
Free of guilt. School. Autonomy. Freedom.
These were the things awaiting her once her year of indentured service was up. As long as she kept them in mind, she wouldn’t waver. Wouldn’t start to fall for the smoke and mirrors called passion or love.
“I have something for you.”
She jerked her attention from the window and the blur of traffic to the enigmatic, sensual, and dangerous man sharing her space. He’d lain aside the tablet he’d picked up as soon as they’d entered the luxury vehicle, granting her first easy breath since she’d glanced up to see him standing in the doorway of the center’s classroom. After years of being casually dismissed by her father in favor of business, she’d become accustomed to this kind of preoccupation. In a strange and admittedly dysfunctional way, the familiarity of his ignoring her had steadied her. But now that incisive turquoise gaze had refocused on her, the full impact of his personality and intensity behind it.
Hiking her composure before her like a shield, she arched an eyebrow in silent inquiry. His full lips tightened as if the gesture irritated him. Without releasing her from his scrutiny, he dipped his hand inside the interior pocket of his suit jacket. Seconds later, he extended his palm, and a small black box rested on the center.
Unable to control the fine tremble in her fingers, she plucked up the velvet case. An engagement ring. “Lucas, I—”
But a knot of emotion balled in her throat. She hadn’t expected a ring, even though she should’ve, considering they would be married. But to her, the piece of jewelry represented commitment, unity, and respect. She might not have loved Tyler, but they had shared those values. She and Lucas had a contract signed in blackmail and ink.
Yet…
Yet as he opened the box, grasped her hand in a surprisingly gentle hold, then slid the ring onto her finger…the moment stole her breath away.
A large canary-yellow diamond cut in the shape of a rosebud bloomed from a cluster of smaller white diamonds and gold. Unlike Tyler’s engagement ring—elegant, exquisite, and perfect for the socialite daughter of Jason Blake—this spoke of passion, life, of her. As if uppermost in his mind had been choosing a piece of jewelry she would love instead of selecting an ostentatious showpiece for the sake of oohs and ahs.
She blinked, stunned by the sudden sting of tears. Stop it. It’s silly to be moved by a ring when the engagement it represents is a farce. So true. Now if only her stomach would quit executing backflips as if she’d just received a letterman’s jacket from the high school football captain.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “It’s beautiful.” The most beautiful thing anyone’s ever given me. She curled her fingers as if trapping its heat…or preventing anyone from taking it from her.
“Yes, it is,” he said softly. But those startling eyes weren’t trained on the ring but her face. He lowered his head, freeing her from the brilliant captivity of his gaze. But when his lips opened over her hand, his tongue tracing the length of her ring finger, he tossed her into a new prison. One with bars of blazing need and a lock that could only be opened by the pleasure of his touch. She shivered, arousal winding through her veins like a slow-moving river on a hot summer day.
His dark, surprisingly soft hair fell on either side of his face, brushing her skin as he swirled his tongue around her fingertip, sucking lightly. Jesus. As if a thin wire connected her hand and her sex, each tug echoed between her legs, causing her flesh to swell, dampen. Deftly, he flipped her palm up and slowly placed an openmouthed kiss to the sensitive skin. She whimpered, squirming, trying to get away from the wicked caress…or get closer. His grip tightened, refusing to release her from the torture. The tip of his tongue traced invisible patterns, throwing kindling on the need burning in her stomach and lower. Good God. Who the hell would’ve known the tender skin between her fingers now receiving his attention were erogenous zones?
“It’s just you and me here,” she said, the words stumbling from between
her lips and emerging as a halting pant. “You might want to save this kind of show for the gala, when we have an audience.”
Lucas’s lashes lifted, and she almost groaned at the hunger stamping his hard features. The thick, dark fall of waves and curls framed the sharp angles and planes of his face, emphasizing the desire burning in the turquoise stare that seemed to slice through the bullshit of her comment. Curling her fingers into a fist, she drew her arm back and convinced herself the flutter in her belly was irritation, not feminine excitement over the knowledge that he’d allowed her to withdraw. They both understood if he’d wanted to continue touching her, he would still be discovering new hot spots on her hand, like an erotic Lewis and Clark expedition.
Wearing a small half smile, he leaned back against the seat. The tiny smirk did nothing to detract from the sensual fullness of his lips. It did nothing to smother the arousal still blazing inside her. Instead she wanted to vault across the space separating them, straddle his hard thighs, and take his mouth. Conquer it. Tame it.
It was that almost overwhelming need that kept her pinned to her seat, throwing out verbal—and desperate—haymakers.
“That’s the third time you’ve”—he paused—“put me in my place. News of your father’s embezzlement, a broken engagement, marriage to me—those you take in stride without losing that damn icy Blake composure. But any mention of sex, any touch that isn’t polite or nice ’n’ neat, and your tongue turns into a Ginsu knife. What are you afraid of, Sydney? Sex?”
Sex? No, sex didn’t terrify her. But what he made her feel—out of control, like a stranger in her own skin—that scared the hell out of her. What he would do to her body wouldn’t be just sex. It would be something so much more explosive, wild, and raw. And afterward, he would leave her like a shipwreck survivor clinging to jagged rocks. Exhausted. Devastated. Lost.
“Of course not,” she replied. “Did it ever occur to you that I don’t like to be talked to like one of the women you date and discard? I’m supposed to be your fiancée, soon to be wife, not the current flavor of the month whose name you won’t remember in the time it takes you to kick her out of the bed.”
An eyebrow arched high. “And how would you know who I—how’d you put it—date and discard?” He planted a forearm on his leg and leaned forward, his steady contemplation gleaming with a bit of humor and something far darker. Hungrier. “Have you been doing your due diligence, sweetheart? Because any questions you have about my sex life I’ll gladly answer.”
She snorted. The devil probably bartered for someone’s soul in that same alluring, seductive tone. “No, thanks. I believe I can live without those mental images.”
His low chuckle slid under her dress and over skin like a soft caress. “To answer your question, yes, I did consider whether I would offend you.” His gaze flicked down, skimming over the deep V-neck of the otherwise demure floor-length ruby-red gown. The intensity of his regard nearly singed her skin. And like a foolish moth to a deadly flame, she was drawn to that heat. “But then I noticed how your eyes soften, how your breath quickens, how your nipples harden. Aroused, sweetheart. That’s what you get. Hot. I’d bet money on wet. But offended? Not. Even. Close,” he growled. “And for the record, I don’t have any mental images of the women before you. Every single memory has been replaced by fantasies of you in my bed, all those gorgeous curves bared for me, for my hands and cock. Of you taking me so deep, I won’t want to find my way out of you.”
“Stop…” she rasped, her core swelling, clenching, protesting the emptiness she instinctively knew only he could fill, satiate.
“You don’t want my honesty. Something Tyler and the other men you’ve dated were too hypocritical, uptight, or scared to give you. They were thinking it, though, sweetheart. A man would have to be born without a dick to look at you and not want you.”
Humiliation, anger, and sadness converged on her, his words dousing her with a rigid blast of realism and extinguishing the web of desire he so effortlessly wove.
“You’re wrong,” she stated, hurt pulsing in her chest like a homing beacon. “You like to demand I not pretend. Okay, I won’t. So let’s not pretend you want me for something other than my”—her lips twisted into bitter smile—“body. Let’s not pretend I fit the mold of the women you’re attracted to. Let’s not pretend you’re not just like the other men, just with far less pretty words. They were after money or my father’s connections, and you’re after revenge. No difference. Still cold. Still business.”
Fury honed the angles of his face to sharply hewn stone, the scar bisecting his eyebrow a pale brand against taut skin. Before he could reply, the door to the limo opened, and the driver appeared. With a controlled grace that didn’t conceal his rage, Lucas exited the vehicle. In that moment, she hated herself for drinking in the powerful build of his shoulders or the flexing of muscle under the black material of his pants.
When he turned back and extended his hand, he wore a pleasant, reserved mask. No hint of the anger that had suffused his features moments earlier. Resting her palm over his, she allowed him to draw her from the relative safety of the limousine.
Exhaling a deep, silent breath, she curved her lips into a perfect, gracious smile.
Let the charade begin.
…
The star and keynote speaker of the evening might have been a philanthropic New England Patriots football player, but the spotlight belonged to Lucas and Sydney. From the moment they entered the ballroom where the reception was held, the two of them had been the recipients of whispers, playful and sly innuendos, as well as covert and openly curious glances. Though she was no stranger to charity events and huge galas, being the center of such concentrated focus was alien to Sydney. Her father was the star of the Blake family, with her mother coming in second. She was the cog, the small piece that completed the wheel but that no one noticed. This…this constant speculation and attention crawled over her skin like an army of ants intent on lunch. And she was the main course.
“Stop fidgeting.”
At the last second, she prevented herself from scowling up at Lucas, recalling the avaricious attention fixed on them and recording every gesture, word, and look to gossip about later. “I don’t fidget.”
Playing the part of enamored fiancé to perfection, he lowered his head, pressing a kiss to the sleek hair she’d captured in a bun at the nape. The man deserved an Emmy for his performance in their little drama. “Yes, you are. You look beautiful and regal as always.” The compliment ended in a low snarl as his lips grazed the top of her ear, the caress and words conveying an unbidden chorus of shivers down her spine. “But I swear to God, if one more asshole drools over your chest, I’m going fucking Chernobyl.”
Startled, she glanced down at her dress. The deep V of the neckline revealed the inner curves of her breasts, but the high waist, three-quarter sleeves, and wide, flowing A-line skirt prevented the gown from edging into What Not to Wear territory. Lucas followed her gaze and his mouth tightened, his fingers flexing on her waist.
“While that might be fun to witness, I don’t think it will ingratiate you in certain social circles,” she said.
“You find my imminent explosion over some rude bastard funny?”
A corner of her mouth quirked. “A little.”
And more than a little flattering and pleasurable, even though her brain argued his display of possessiveness was a superb act for the benefit of the other partygoers. Yet the knowledge didn’t impede the somersaults in her stomach at each touch, each endearment, each brush of his mouth over her hair, forehead, or cheek. The heated looks and gestures might have been pretense on his part, but her reactions—the flocks of butterflies, the blushes, the delight—were all genuine. Her one saving grace was Lucas didn’t know she wasn’t as great an actor as he.
“Lucas.” A gorgeous brunette in a silver and black mermaid-style dress only the truly thin could pull off glided up to them. Her long-lashed blue eyes flickered over Sydney before quickly dis
missing her. Smiling up at Lucas, she settled a hand on his chest, her fingers stroking the lapel of his suit jacket. “I was hoping you would be here this evening.”
“Hello, Caroline.” He gently circled her wrist and lowered her arm. “Caroline, I’d like you to meet Sydney Blake, my fiancée. Sydney, this is Caroline Dresden. She owns several boutiques in Boston.”
The other woman loosed a low, sensual laugh. “You make us sound like business associates, Lucas, when we’re…friends.” Neither the strategic pause nor the implied intimacy of “friends” was lost on Sydney. Her chest tightened as nausea roiled in her belly. “When I arrived, I heard the rumor that you were engaged, but I refused to believe it. I have to confess, this is certainly a surprise.” Once more Caroline surveyed Sydney, cataloging every detail, and the slight smirk announced the woman found Sydney the surprise. “Sydney Blake,” she murmured, tapping a fingertip against her lush bottom lip. “Jason Blake’s daughter?”
“Yes.” Sydney braced herself.
“Ah.”
Translation: It all makes sense now. Anger and embarrassment wormed an insidious path through Sydney, burrowing in her heart. Of course this woman would believe who her father was could be the only reason a gorgeous, sensual man like Lucas would want Sydney. That the truth veered so close to her assumption tasted like ashes on Sydney’s tongue.
In a feat that would’ve made Hercules go sit in a corner and suck his thumb, she managed to maintain her composure—no matter that it was as worn and tattered as an old shawl.