by Julie Kenner
She was mortal—and he could not make it otherwise. Because the phoenix fire could only bring immortality to a true mate, a timeless passion. Anything less, and the fire would do what fire does best—it would burn, but not restore.
Dante knew of only eight women who braved the phoenix fire over the millennia. Each had professed a heart overflowing with love and passion. With a pure, timeless longing.
Seven had been reduced to dust, their deaths breaking the hearts of the brothers who had loved them dearly.
Only one woman had stepped from the flame unscathed, a fresh tattoo of a phoenix marking her shoulder as a sign of both immortality and the challenge that she had faced and won.
Once, Dante had believed that Brenna could survive the flame, though he was never certain if he could actually ask her to risk it. Because if he was wrong, he did not think he could stand the horror of knowing the woman he loved had burned because of him.
But after he saw her in the arms of another man, that hesitation became moot. She was not his mate, and he would not stay.
Now, seeing her again, it had brought back both the passion and the pain.
He wanted her in his arms again. Wanted to taste her. Wanted to bend her to his will and make her groan. He wanted to take her to the heights of passion—to punish her with pleasure. To let her know just how much she had given up by not loving him the way he loved her.
Was he really that much of an asshole?
Yeah, he thought. He was.
Frustrated, he ran his fingers through his hair. He should never have taunted her. He should have simply said no. That he’d write her a check, but he wouldn’t trade sex for commerce.
What would be even smarter would be to walk away from her permanently and get the brooch some other way. But he’d texted Liam and Mal after leaving the Algonquin last night, and Mal had one of the brothers in the Parisian office contact Folsom directly and offer to buy the brooch.
Folsom had turned him down flat, despite a truly obscene offer. “I have more money than I know what to do with,” Folsom had said. “Now I indulge my passions.”
A little more digging had turned up the unsurprising fact that Brenna was one of his passions. He’d taken her to dinner twice over the last month, and according to his personal assistant—who needed extra cash to help out her drug-addicted sister—he had made a number of calls to her on the pretense of discussing the acquisition, but which had really seemed designed for no purpose other than to hear her voice.
Dante could hardly fault the man for that.
Dante also knew that Brenna had turned down Folsom’s efforts to get her into his bed, presumably because that would strain their professional relationship. What he didn’t know was if she would slide between the sheets now that their business arrangement had come to a close.
The thought roiled in his stomach, and the taste of jealousy sat bitter on his tongue.
He was about to rethink his decision not to have a shot of scotch this early when his door chimed.
For a moment, he just stood there. Then he shook himself, feeling like an ass. No, more like a thirteen-year-old boy. Not that he had ever actually been a thirteen-year-old boy...
Frustrated with himself, he went to the door and pulled it open. She stood there, her loose hair framing her lovely face, and all he wanted to do was take her into his arms and hold her.
Get a fucking grip.
He ordered himself to step back, to hold the door open for her. Each step thought out and executed, just as if she was a mission.
Because he damn sure couldn’t treat her like most of the women who crossed his threshold.
Women he took. Women he claimed.
Women who melted with pleasure at his touch, and then went on their way when the next day’s sun rose in the east.
He might want her in his arms, but hadn’t he already lectured himself that it would be a bad idea? Because if he had her again, he knew damn well that he wouldn’t want her to leave in the morning.
Cash. She needed to choose cash. It was the best way to keep her from getting hurt again.
As for him?
Nothing was going to heal his hurt. Nothing but time. And god knew he had an eternity of that.
He realized she was still standing in the doorway, eyeing him with curiosity. “You can come on in,” he said, gesturing to the living area that opened off the foyer.
She shoved her hands into the pockets of her sundress. The action tugged the material down, making it pull taut against her breasts. He could see the outline of her nipples, and he felt his cock twitch.
Christ, he was a mess. He’d spent three millennia walking this earth. He’d fought in wars. He’d dined with kings. He’d hobnobbed with men and women whose names now filled history books.
How was it that this one woman shattered his senses?
Since he needed to move, he turned away from her as if to lead the way, but the brush of her fingers on his sleeve had him turning back. Had him swallowing a groan simply from the reaction that innocent touch had elicited.
“Wait.” Her voice was soft, and he saw that she was biting her lower lip. “I—I should apologize for yesterday. My—ah, the price I quoted was unprofessional. I was a little drunk and a lot pissed. Or maybe vice-versa. At any rate, I was being foolish.” She drew in a breath, then managed a smile. “I’ll take the job. I’ll take it for cash.”
He told himself it was relief that had him reeling. Too bad he knew that was a lie.
She dragged her fingers through her hair, mussing it and making him remember how she looked in bed after a long night of making love.
He forced himself to look down.
“You messed me up a long time ago, Dante.” Her voice was soft but firm. “But I’m a grown woman now, and although I am quite certain that having you back in my bed would be exciting and wonderful, it was stupid of me to suggest it. Stupid and vindictive and—” She halted, and something about the way her breath hitched had him looking up. “—and dangerous,” she finished.
“Dangerous?”
She shrugged, her eyes aimed somewhere over his left shoulder.
“Look at me.” He kept his voice low. Commanding.
She looked, and he saw a desire reflected back at him that equaled his own.
“Tell me what you mean.” He knew he should drop it. This is what he wanted—cold, hard cash, and nothing personal between them. Didn’t matter. He took a step toward her anyway, and as he did, the heat between them built. A heat sufficient to burn away all his good sense. “Tell me why it would be dangerous.”
“Don’t.” The word was strained. Full of a plea. Full of pain.
And he cursed himself silently for being an ass. For being confused. For wanting her. For knowing he couldn’t have her. And for letting his cock do the thinking instead of his head.
“Sorry. Right. Cash it is.” He took a step back in order to allow more oxygen to his brain. “My office is next door. Come on. We’ll go cut you a check.”
“I prefer a wire transfer,” she said, but she fell in step beside him. He was reaching for the doorknob when he realized that she’d stopped. He turned, then cringed when he saw her looking at the original Monet hanging by his front door.
“I acquired that painting. It was one of my first jobs when I went out on my own.”
He knew that, of course. Hadn’t he watched her career for five solid years? He’d probably still be watching it if Liam and Mal hadn’t convinced him that he was sinking into a dangerous quicksand, and just might be crossing the line into stalker-ville, too.
“I wanted the Monet,” he said, struggling to reveal nothing in his voice. The painting revealed enough. “You had the ability to acquire it.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that you’re PB Enterprises?”
Because PB Enterprises doesn’t exist. Because I only acquired the painting because we’d seen it together one afternoon at the British Museum. Because I felt like a fool wanting you so desperately and
knowing that you didn’t want me. Not fully. Not completely.
Not enough to last through eternity.
He said none of that. Instead, he said flatly, “It didn’t seem important.”
“Oh.” She swallowed. “No, why would it be?” The smile that touched her lips seemed fake. “We should probably get to your office.”
She started toward the door, and he knew that the moment she went through it, his opportunity would be lost. It would be a cash-only transaction. Hands off. Purely business.
Just as it should be.
Oh, fuck it.
He grabbed her, then pulled her toward him with such a wild, violent motion that she stumbled against him and had to cling to his shoulders to steady herself, breathing hard.
“Why?” he growled.
“Why what?”
“You don’t need the money. Why take cash? Why not take me?”
Her breath shuddered, and he caught the minty scent of toothpaste. He didn’t just want the scent—he wanted the taste.
“I told you. I was being stupid. Angry. Unprofessional.”
“That’s not it.”
She struggled in his arms; he tightened them.
“Dammit, Dante, let me go.”
“Tell me the truth.”
Her gray eyes flashed. “Maybe I just don’t want you.”
“The hell you don’t. You’re wet right now, and we both know it. You’re as wet as I am hard. And baby, I’m very, very hard.”
He could feel her pulse kick up. He saw her pupils dilate and her skin flush. Her lips parted.
Every inch of her body screamed the truth of his words. But with her mouth, she said only, “Bullshit.”
He stroked his hand slowly up her back as his other hand cupped her ass. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought she was biting the inside of her cheek. “Fair enough,” he said. “Maybe you’re just scared.”
“Very little scares me,” she retorted. “Least of all you.”
“Really? Well, that makes only one of us. Because baby, you scare me to death. One look and you can melt me. One kiss and you could destroy me.”
“Then why not just let me go?” She asked the question plaintively, but the breathiness of her voice told a different story. And so did her body. She’d moved closer. Just barely, but he could tell. Her chest was crushed against his, and he could feel her pebble-hard nipples brush against him.
“Just give me the money.” Now he heard the plea. “Walk away and be done with me just like you did before.”
“I should,” he admitted. His throat was raw. “I really should. But I’m just so goddamned hungry.”
Chapter Five
“Hungry?”
I ask the question as if I don’t understand what he means. But I do. Oh, dear god, I do. Being in his arms feels like coming home, and though I know that I am making a mistake, I cannot help myself. Hell, I don’t want to help myself.
I surrender to him.
But at the same time, I claim him, too. His mouth. His body. My fingers twine in his hair, remembering the sensual feel of those silky strands. My tongue wars with his, demanding and taking. And when he slides one hand up between our bodies to cup my breast, I moan against his mouth, then grind my pelvis against him.
“Harder,” I demand when he teases my nipple between his fingers.
He pulls back, his eyes searching mine.
“You know what I like,” I whisper. “I know you remember.”
“I remember everything about you,” he agrees. “The way you tremble when I stroke my tongue along the curve of your ear. The way your breath shudders when I kiss my way down your belly. The way you cry out when you come.” He nips my lower lip, making me squirm. “And I remember that you rarely asked for what you wanted.”
“I was young and naïve. I’m a woman now, Dante. A lot of things have changed.” I meet his eyes, and I know that mine must be a bit hesitant. Because there’s no denying that my body has changed. That when he peels off this dress he will not see the tight, taut body of a girl in her early twenties with a Pilates addiction. Instead, he’ll see the body of a thirty-six-year-old woman. Still in good shape, yes, thanks to those same Pilates and a personal trainer with a scary disposition. But nature is a bitch and you can only fight her so hard.
Then again, Dante seems to have figured out how to do that. My hands are all over him, and he is as tight and firm as I remember. There are no new lines on his face, no signs that life has treated him badly, or even that it has treated him at all. It is as if he is living on another plane, and those of us who are mere mortals are passing by beneath, moving down the conveyor of aging while he moves on the slower track ten stories above.
I won’t deny that the hard perfection of his body is a delicious turn-on, but at the same time it makes me even more self-conscious.
I realize that I have looked away, lost in my thoughts and maybe even lost in a bit of self-pity. I am still in his arms, but the wildness has faded. Instead, he is looking at me so tenderly it makes me want to cry.
“I never thought you could be more beautiful,” he says. “I was wrong. You’re exceptional, Brenna. Your confidence. Your poise. Your fire. It shines in you. You have a strength now that you didn’t have before, and baby, it’s sexy as hell.”
I manage a crooked smile. “You always did know how to say the right things.”
“I like that you know how to say what you want.”
“Do you?” I hear the challenge in his words.
“Tell me what you want, Brenna. Tell me every little thing.”
My breath is coming hard, my nipples so tight it is painful. This is not a game I usually play. It’s one thing to tell a man to touch you harder or faster. It’s another thing entirely to direct the action. Especially when all I want to do is submit.
“I want you to touch me, Dante.” I meet his eyes, my breath coming hard. “I want you to take me. Hard. Fast. I don’t want to think. I just want to feel.”
I watch the effect of my words play across his face. Confusion at first, and then a growing desire. And then—oh, god, and then—
He grabs my shoulders, then slams me back against the door. His mouth covers mine, hard and hot. Not a kiss so much as a sex, his tongue demanding entrance, warring with mine, taking and claiming and making me so goddamn wet that my panties are soaked and I can feel the slickness on my thighs.
I’m wearing a summer sundress, and as his tongue fucks my mouth, his hand fondles my breast, hard the way I like it, with his fingers teasing my nipple. I groan, then gasp when I realize that his other hand is sliding up my bare thigh to thrust inside my now soaked panties.
“Christ,” he says, as he thrusts his fingers inside me. “You’re so fucking wet.”
I cry out in pleasure at the invasion, but he swallows the sound then breaks the kiss, his eyes studying my face as he fingerfucks me hard against the door.
“Is this what you wanted?” he asks, his voice a low growl of pleasure and demand.
“Yes.” I can barely make the sound. I am too lost in pleasure. Too lost in the feel of him.
“No,” he says. “More.”
And before I can even process what he means, he has flipped me around so that I’m facing the wall, and he has thrust my dress up so that it’s bundled around my waist.
“I’m going to fuck you, baby. I don’t have a condom, but I’m clean. I have to have you—Christ, I think I’ll die if I don’t get inside you soon—but if you want me to stop, now’s the time.”
I say nothing. I just spread my legs and lean forward. I want this. Right now, I can think of nothing else I want more. Not even to breathe.
With one hand, he clutches my breast, holding me in place even as he ratchets up my arousal with the thumb that flicks roughly over my nipple. With his other, he yanks down my panties until they are stretched tight across my thighs, then even tighter when he orders me to spread my legs. I do, and his hand strokes me, his fingers teasing my core, thrusting inside
me, taking what he wants and making me tremble with longing in the process.
He makes a sound that is somewhere between a sigh and a groan, and then I hear the wonderful, delicious, dangerous sound of his zipper easing down. I feel the head of his cock against my ass, and then the hard press of it against my core. He starts slow, easing inside me, and it is as if he is deliberately teasing me. Because I want it hard. Dammit, I want to be fucked.
I realize that he wants me to say it. To demand it. And I want it bad enough that I am not going to be shy—not now. Not with him.
“Harder,” I beg. “Please, Dante, please, fuck me harder.”
“Baby—” The endearment is ripped from him, and he slams into me, his body thrusting against mine, skin on skin, slick and intimate and wonderful.
He takes his hand off my breast so that he can hold me steady around my waist. Then with his other hand he reaches around to stroke my clit until I am little more than a mass of pleasure, so sweet and intense and wild and wonderful that it’s a miracle I can even hold onto consciousness.
He bends forward, his body covering mine, his lips brushing the back of my neck, the curve of my ear, and that is when I lose it. Electric tremors shoot through me like lighting bolts converging at my cunt, and my muscles squeeze him, convulsions of pleasure that milk him until he cries out, the sound raw against my ear, and his arms tighten around me, pulling me close to him before we both sink to the ground.
“Holy crap,” I say. I’m curled against him, my back against his chest, my dress still bunched around my waist.
He brushes my shoulder with a kiss and holds me close for a few moments before getting up. “Stay,” he says softly, then returns a moment later with a warm, damp cloth.
He tugs my panties off, then gently cleans me. I meet his eyes, a little undone by the tenderness of this moment.
When he holds out a hand to help me up, I take it. “I need my panties,” I say, holding out my hand.
He shakes his head. “I don’t think so,” he says. He tucks them in his pocket. I smirk as I adjust my dress.
I look at him. Just look at him. At the warmth in his eyes. The lines of his face. The strength in his body.