by Julie Kenner
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.
And the tenderness at the core of him.
I fell in love with him once—and I’m honestly not sure that I ever fell out of love.
But I do know one thing for sure—Dante Storm is dangerous to my heart. And whatever we started just now is something that we can’t finish.
I meet his eyes and am about to say just that when he shakes his head. “No. Don’t say it. You don’t need to say it.”
“What?”
“That we can’t do it again.”
“We can’t.”
“I know.”
I stand in silence. I know why I can’t; it’s because he will break my heart.
But I don’t know why he doesn’t want me. I only know that he doesn’t. I only know that he walked away once, and that he has already told me he will walk away again.
That should be enough, but then I have to go and open my mouth. I have to ask— “Why? Why did you leave?”
For a minute, I don’t think that he’s going to answer. But he surprises me by saying, “Because I was looking at forever.”
“And you don’t think I was, too?” I’m baffled. With Dante, forever was my mantra.
He looks at me, his eyes so sad I want to cry. “No,” he says, “I know you weren’t.”
I start to protest, but he just shakes his head, like a dog shaking off water. “Let’s go transfer your money.”
“No,” I say, standing firm.
He cocks his head, then winces. “We shouldn’t have done this. It won’t happen again. But please don’t back out. I really need your help. I can’t tell you how urgent this is.”
“I’ll help,” I say. “But I don’t want your money. And I don’t want sex.” That’s not entirely true. I want it; I don’t think I can handle it.
“Then why?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe because I loved you once upon a time.”
Maybe because I still do.
* * * *
Dante leads me through the first floor of his brownstone to a sunroom that opens up onto a courtyard. That courtyard connects to another brownstone, and it is into that building that we enter. “The front is a private club—scotch and cigars, jazz and conversation,” he says. “Dark Pleasures.”
“I’ve heard of it,” I admit. “It has a reputation for being both excellent and exclusive. You’re a member?”
“One of the owners,” he says. He looks at me. “I have been for a very long time.”
“Even when you lived in London?”
“Even then.”
I nod, taking in the simple fact that I don’t know this man as well as I had thought. I think that is what he is trying to show me in his not so subtle way. But it doesn’t matter. I know the core of him. I’ve known that since the first moment I looked into his eyes when he brought me a glass of wine and told me I looked like sunshine. I’ve known it since our first meal when he brushed a dab of ketchup from the corner of my mouth and I shivered all the way down to my toes. I think I’ve known it since our first touch, our first kiss.
I exhale, forcing myself to shake off my melancholy as I follow him to an old-fashioned elevator with a cage-style door. We step in, then rise to the third floor, the gears creaking as we move. “The club takes up the first and second floors,” he says. But the third is office space, for both the club and Phoenix Security.”
I nod. That job I remember. “You’re still with the company?”
His grin is almost a smirk. “I think it’s fair to say that I’m a lifer.”
I cock my head. “You own that company as well?”
“A piece of it, anyway.”
He points to the floors above us as the elevator slows to a stop. “Four is reserved for guests. Five is my friend Raine’s private apartment. Odds are good he’ll be at the meeting.”
I nod, trying to remember it all. I’m not sure why it matters, though. He’s sharing life trivia when he has already made it clear he has no interest in sharing a life.
I follow him down a balcony-style hallway that overlooks what obviously used to be the grand ballroom in this converted brownstone. The last door is polished oak, and it has a brass placard identifying it as the office of Phoenix S
ecurity.
We enter and step into a classy, polished reception area. A dark-haired man with a lean, bad-boy appearance, who looks like he could be Hollywood’s new hot thing, steps in from a door on the far side. He’s wearing jeans and a black T-shirt with a white phoenix embroidered on the breast pocket. “You must be Brenna. I’m Malcolm Greer.” He steps forward and I shake his hand. “Glad you’re helping us out.”
“Happy to,” I say, glancing sideways at Dante.
“Mal is one of the company presidents,” Dante says. “With Liam,” he adds, pointing to a linebacker-sized man with a wide smile and serious eyes. “And Raine’s just along for the ride.” The third man has close-cropped hair and sleeves of tats that disappear under a T-shirt similar to the black one worn by his friends.
Dante formally introduces me, we do the meet and greet thing, and I follow the men into a conference room. Honestly, it’s like being in a pressure cooker of hotness laced with a helping of testosterone.
“Dante explained what we need?” Mal asks.
“The brooch,” I say. “Though I have no idea why there’s so much urgency.”
“I’m afraid that’s harder to explain,” Liam says. “And you’ll forgive me if I don’t try. It’s not actually necessary for what we’re hiring you to do.”
I lean back in my chair, not bothering to correct him. I’m not really being hired. I was well-fucked, and this is now a freebie. Frankly, that’s not something I feel the need to share. “Why me? Why don’t one of you call him? Make him an offer he can’t refuse.”
“We tried that already, Ms. Hart,” Raine says. “Got shot down.”
“Really?” I frown. My experience with Michael is that he’s very interested in his bottom line. “Did he say why?”
“He said that he’s a collector of cursed artifacts,” Liam said, “and that this isn’t about the money.”
Beside me, Dante shifts. “When did he say that? The report I read simply indicated that he wasn’t interested in parting with the piece.”
“You read the e-mail report. The secure communication came about half an hour later. Cursed,” Liam repeats as if that word holds special import. And from the way Dante leans forward, his forehead creased into a frown, I guess that it does.
“I do a lot of research on every item I try to acquire,” I say. “I assure you, this one has no history of a curse.” I glance at each of them in turn. “So what is that code for?”
Mal glances at Dante and smiles. I have the oddest feeling that it’s a smile of approval.
“We need you to gain access to Mr. Folsom’s house. We need you to talk with him. We need you to learn the location of the brooch—presumably it’s in a safe, and presumably Folsom has several safes on site. And that, Ms. Hart, is all that we need. We’ll wire you so that we can see what you see. It will help us to map the location after the fact.”
I look at all of them in turn. “You’re going to steal it?”
“Yeah,” Dante says. “We’re going to steal it.”
“But—”
He closes his hand over mine, and when he looks in my eyes I feel that delicious little quiver. “Just temporarily. We’ll return it almost immediately. Intact.”
I lift a brow, but nothing I can think of to say seems quite sarcastic or cutting enough.
“Please, Brenna,” he says. “I need you to trust me.”
And—against all reason and better judgment—I do.
Chapter 6
I am thinking that perhaps I should have paid more attention to my reason and better judgment as I stride over the threshold and into Michael Folsom’s swank penthouse apartment. It takes up the top three stories of the Xavier Building, one of the city’s most sought after addresses on Fifth Avenue. Folsom no longer owns the building, but he used to. When he sold it, he retained ownership of the top three floors and had them converted into one residence.
Rumor has it that he spent more on the conversion and remodel than he received for the sale of the entire remaining building. Until now, I thought that was a ridiculous urban legend. But looking around at this incredible interior with its elegant finish, attention to detail, and high-quality furnishings, I think the story might actually be true.
“I’m so glad you called,” he says, taking my hand and pressing a gentlemanly kiss to my fingertips. “I was beginning to feel snubbed.”
I laugh lightly. “You’ve retained me enough times to know that I don’t mix business with pleasure.”
“You’re not currently working for me.” The heat in his voice is obvious. So is the invitation.
On any normal day, I would shut this down right now.
But this is not a normal day.
I lick my lips, conjure a smile, and wonder what Dante is thinking at this very moment. Because he is seeing and hearing everything.
And for some reason, that makes me want to kick the show up into high gear.
I take a single step toward Folsom. “No,” I say huskily. “I’m not.”
I see the reflection of my reply on his face immediately. A man who not only wants a woman, but expects to get her.
The truth is, under other circumstances I might actually be interested. Michael Folsom isn’t my type, but there’s no denying that he’s attractive. He has soft, almost boyish features. A sort of Leonardo DiCaprio vibe that doesn’t usually do it for me, but I’ve seen plenty of evidence of other women’s interest. And the fact is, just a man’s interest can be a turn-on, and Folsom has never made his a secret.
If he weren’t my client and if I weren’t with Dante...well, he might be the perfect companion for blowing off a little steam.
But he is my client and while I can’t say that I’m with Dante, I can say that I want to be.
Me, the woman who avoids relationships.
But that’s not entirely true, either. I don’t really avoid relationships. I’ve just spent over a decade avoiding them with men other than Dante.
“Brenna?”
Michael is looking at me, his arm outstretched to lead me further into his home.
“Sorry. Long, weird day. My mind was wandering.”
“Let me take you to dinner. A drink. A bite. Enchanting conversation.”
I conjure a provocative smile. “I’d like that. But I think I’d prefer to stay in. Maybe we could just settle for the drink and the conversation. And who knows what else?”
I watch him swallow, and my confidence ratchets up. “Yes,” he says. “I think that sounds just fine.”
He leads me into a well-lit room that opens onto a terrace. The door is open, letting in a summer breeze. I take a seat on the couch, then put my purse on the coffee table, trying to position it so that the fisheye lens that is camouflaged by the clasp can get the widest view. The purse is only a camera. The audio is coming through the diamond-studded watch that I am wearing today. And there is another camera hidden in the cameo necklace that hangs around my neck.
Michael has gone to the bar and is opening a bottle of wine. “You like Cabernet, I recall?”
“Very much.”
I take the glass he offers me, then slip off my shoe and tuck one leg under me so that I am seated almost sideways on the couch. I smile at him as if this is the perfect position, though I know that he would prefer to scoot closer so that his leg could brush my thigh or his arm could go around my shoulder.
“We so rarely get a chance to talk.”
“What would you like to talk about?”
“You, of course,” I say, but I punctuate the words with a laugh. “Seriously, I’ve gotten so many pieces for you over the years. Six, isn’t it?” I glance around the room. “And I know you’re not monogamous.” I pause so he can chuckle at the manner in which I’ve referred to the other people like me he has hired to find various pieces. “I was expecting to walk into a house that felt like a museum. But you have nothing out. Where is it all?”
He grins, just like a little boy. “Would you really like to see?”
“
Of course.”
He reaches for a television remote on the table, only it turns out not to be for the television. Instead, the push of a button closes the patio doors, then closes the blinds, dropping the room into darkness.
“Michael?”
“Hold on.”
A moment later, hidden panels in the wall begin to open to reveal backlit glass cases. I gasp, genuinely surprised, and stand up. “This is incredible,” I say as I walk to one of the walls of cases. So many artifacts are hidden within. From ancient coins to statues to jewelry. Some items appear medieval and look as though they were put to good use during the Inquisition. Others appear innocent, but the neatly printed cards beside them have clues as to their nature—poison, revenge, deceit.
I glance up at Michael. “There’s a theme, isn’t there?” I remember what Dante and his partners had said about cursed artifacts.
“I have a passion for acquiring articles with a story. With a curse.”
I laugh. “Do you believe in that?”
“Good god, no. But it makes for a fabulous conversation starter.”
At that, my laugh is real.
“All right,” I say. “Show me the brooch. What’s its horrible backstory?”
He leads me to the opposite wall, and there is the brooch, still in the Lucite box that I had put it in for safe travel. I fiddle with my necklace, trying to ensure that the men back on East 63rd Street have a clear view.
“Why is it still packaged?” I ask.
“I’m selling it,” he says.
I turn to him with a frown. “You are?” Had the men from Phoenix made another offer? Hadn’t he just turned them down cold?
“The buyer’s representative is arriving in three days to acquire the piece,” he says, confusing me even more.
“Who’s the buyer?”
“A group. Also collectors.”
I shake my head with a teasing smile, hoping he can’t spot my confusion. “Well, I’m surprised you want to part with it. It’s so unusual, and you were so dead set on acquiring it.” I actually pull off a small pout. “Should my feelings be hurt?”
He steps closer, moving into my personal space. I force myself not to back up.