Make Me, Take Me

by Amanda Usen

  When he stroked her clit with a feather-light touch, her eyes drifted shut. Tighter, hotter, wetter. She strained toward his magical hands. Control slipped away from her, and her eyes shot open. He was watching her, a faint smile on his lips, looking completely in command.

  I give up. She didn’t say it; she didn’t have to.

  He stroked her folds. They tingled in a way she’d never felt, as if by stimulating certain nerve-endings, he’d caused others to fire new sensations though her body. She hummed her pleasure, letting go. His hands slipped away from her as he reached for a condom, rolling it over his cock. Her knees fell to the sides as she watched. Then he caught them, pressing her feet to his chest. She barely flinched as he spread more cool lube on her ass.

  She shifted impatiently, bracing her knees with her hands, eager for what was coming next. He pulled her tighter, moving her into position with her legs bent between them. “Not from behind?” Her voice sounded far away.

  “I want to watch your face. You’re beautiful when you come.”

  Her breath got caught in her lungs. “Make me. Please make me.” It was so easy to say those words to him now.

  He nodded. “Tell me if anything hurts. Otherwise I’m not going to stop until you don’t know where you end and I begin. Until you don’t ever want to stop.”

  The light in his eyes made her clench and throb. “Almost there already.”

  He leaned forward, setting the head of his cock against her ass, a faint smile on his lips. “Almost only counts with horseshoes and hand grenades. You’ll understand in a minute. Or ten. Or twenty, depending. I’m going to make you lose your mind.”

  She already had, she realized as he pressed forward. Letting this man get so deep she wanted him deeper. “Oh my fucking God.” It burned, but his fingers rubbed her clit as he sank into her ass, tricking her body into processing the pain as pleasure. Pressure made her want to scream. Urgency sharpened every nerve. She felt a pop and knew the head of him was fully inside her. He kept sinking. Wetness ran down the crack of her ass. She was soaked everywhere. How much lube had he used? “Gonna ruin this pillow.”

  “Is it a favorite?” He stopped moving.

  “No.”

  He started again. “I’ll buy you more.”

  More nerves awakened and began to sizzle as he reached bottom. Her head thrashed back and forth. She was so full she was afraid to bring air into her body, yet she wanted more. He was right. Almost wasn’t enough. Nothing was. She couldn’t imagine what it was going to take to satisfy the growing hunger inside her.

  Then he began to move.

  Fire licked at her clit as his fingers plucked her. He pulled back and sank again, a relentless invasion that made everything tight. She growled, wanting more.

  “Hang on.”

  The cool slide of more lube was unbearably arousing, and she wriggled against his hands and cock.

  “Jesus Christ. You’re killing me,” he said.

  She bared her teeth. “Don’t you dare stop.”

  …

  He had no intention of stopping. But he also wasn’t going to hurt her, and he was fast approaching his point of no return. The need to come was getting more imperative by the second. Decreasing the friction would buy him some time and give her some comfort. He stared at his cock, buried deep in her ass, and groaned. “Not stopping. Not ever fucking stopping.”

  Not gonna last much longer either, regardless of the half-tube of lube he’d just dumped between them when she tightened around him and he lost control of his hands. How many times could he make her come before he lost it?

  Her clit was a tight little ball under his fingers. He kept his hips still and flipped it back and forth, watching her body gather beneath him. When her climax hit, her empty pussy spasmed, and he silently recited this morning’s stock quotes to keep from coming. Her eyelids fluttered, and she gazed at him, looking confused. He bounced against her.

  “A warm up,” he ground out.

  Her eyes widened as he caressed her pussy lips and slowly slid the entire length of his cock in and out of her ass. She was so tight and hot, his thought compressed to instinct. Take her, make her mine.

  He pulled out and he could think again, just barely. Do it again. It went like that for a dozen strokes before she began to whimper and shake. He picked up the pace, enough to make her come while just barely retaining control. Her orgasm was harder this time, rippling through her ass, and making his eyes cross. That’s it. I’m done.

  He sucked air until his vision cleared, and he saw tears streaming down her face. “You okay?” he asked.

  She nodded, gazing up at him. The trust in her eyes wrecked him. He slid two fingers into her pussy, palm up, and trapped her clit with his thumb. He pumped his hips in short, hard thrusts. Her every exhale was a tight, breathless scream as his hand and hips worked in tandem, sometimes filling her at the same time, sometimes alternating. She grew tighter and tighter until her ass became a vise around his cock, and then her orgasm exploded in ripples that threw him over the edge with her, drowning him. Her legs slipped to the sides, and he fell, catching himself with one hand, kissing her since he couldn’t breathe anyway, pouring himself into her.

  Her mouth opened, taking him in, and her tongue welcomed him with strokes that moved with the flood inside him. He moved his other hand up so he could settle comfortably on top of her. They drifted together, lips and tongues caressing. Peace blanketed him, and he would have stayed like that forever, but they’d probably wake up stuck together. With a sigh, he slipped out of her.

  Immediately, he wanted inside again. It’s never going to be enough.

  She raised a hand to his face. “What’s the matter?”

  He kissed her palm. “Nothing.”

  He eased to his feet and padded to the bathroom to deal with the condom and start a bath. When he returned to the bedroom, she’d tossed the pillow to the floor but otherwise hadn’t moved. He chuckled, and she opened one eye and then closed it. It was satisfying to know she was as destroyed as he.

  He swept her into his arms and carried her into the bathroom. “Ready for round two?”

  She groaned.

  “Just kidding.” He set her on her feet. “We’ll sleep better if we get cleaned up.”

  Something flickered in her eyes.

  “What?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Give me a second, okay?”

  He nodded and stepped outside the bathroom to wait.

  A few minutes later, she called his name. He entered the bathroom and saw she’d added bubbles to the bath. The scent of flowers filled the air. He climbed into the tub behind her. He was going to smell like a girl, but he didn’t care. “Thank you,” he whispered into her hair. “That was incredible.”

  Her chuckle dipped into a sigh. “I guess you’d know.”

  He leaned forward to look into her eyes, but she turned her head away. He grasped her hair in his fist so she couldn’t avoid his gaze. Her expression was guarded, trust gone, and fear sliced through him. She closed her eyes, and instinct brought his lips against hers, hard. His other hand claimed her, sliding inside, like it was his right.

  She stiffened, but she didn’t fight him. “More than another week of this might kill me. Good thing you’re leaving.” She looked right into his eyes as she said it.

  The water around him turned to ice.

  “Yeah, good thing,” he echoed, meaning no such thing. It would be so much easier if he could walk away. But even as the thought crossed his mind, he rejected it. Betsy’s wet blue-black hair draped over his chest, holding him in place as securely as ropes. Her coal-gray gaze set him on fire, and he burned, gladly. No matter what they did together, he wanted more.

  He’d never once considered a future with a woman, but he was considering it now, with her scent all over him, her taste in his mouth, and his fingers inside her. This was not temporary. He wasn’t giving it up, and neither was she.

  “I’m not that guy anymore, not with you.
” As soon as he said it, he knew it was true. Was that why he’d paid off the mortgage for Last Call? Because he wanted to have more with her? His heart stopped and then picked up beating twice as fast. “Do you believe me?”

  “No.”

  The word had its usual effect on him, but he didn’t give in to the urge to stroke between her legs, grip her hair more firmly in his fist, and force her surrender. Instead, he let her go and reached for the soap. “Why not?”

  He pulled her against his chest as he slicked soap over her arms and shoulders. The only sound was the water lapping against the side of the tub as he reached for more of her. He didn’t think she was going to answer, but then she sighed. “Because I don’t want to believe you. I need you to be that guy.” Her voice was soft and drowsy and when she tilted her head back, he watched her eyes flutter and then close. “It’s the only way I can do this.”

  “Why?” he asked again, the question barely more than a breath as a tight band of fear constricted his lungs. He only had one more week to convince her.

  “You know why.”

  Gently, he rinsed the soap from her soft skin. “Because of what happened to your mother? With your father—and Kate’s father? Or did someone break your heart, too?”

  Her eyes opened, clear and cool. “I don’t let anyone get close enough to break my heart.”

  “Neither do I.” He knew all about engaging in short-term relationships so he didn’t get attached. People always left him, so he didn’t give them the chance to stay. It had made perfect sense to him for years, but when Betsy made the same claim it sounded like bullshit. “What if we’re wrong about happy-for-now? What if it’s worth the risk?”

  “You don’t believe that any more than I do.” She splashed water over the edge of the tub as she scooted away from him and stood, reaching for a towel.

  He stood, too, accepting the towel she thrust at him and wrapping it around his waist. He stepped behind her and put his hands on her shoulders, meeting her gaze in the mirror over the sink. “What if I’m beginning to change my mind?”

  Her head jerked back and forth, a wordless denial. She turned and pressed her mouth urgently to his. Her towel slipped, putting them skin to skin, warming all the cold, dark corners inside him. “Just sex, Quin. That’s all there is between us,” she whispered, but she was wrong.

  He needed her to understand this wasn’t just sex for him, that he’d never spent the night before, never told anyone about his mother or sister, never mentioned his missing memories, and never, ever wanted to talk about how his parents’ death had wrecked him, too. But she didn’t want to hear the words. And he could tell by the hot, bright denial reflected in her gaze that she was nowhere near ready to share her sorrows with him—or her joys—or any of the things that had shaped her into the incredible woman standing in front of him. He couldn’t tell her how he felt—not yet. She didn’t want to hear it. But maybe he didn’t need words.

  “Get dressed,” he said.

  “What?” She blinked. “I thought we were going to bed.”

  “I’m too wired to sleep. I never go to bed this early.” He tugged her out of the bathroom and down the hall. “Let’s grab a drink and listen to some music at my favorite bar.”

  “You have a favorite bar?”

  “What do you think I do when you leave me in bed every night?”

  “I assumed you slept.”

  “Not without having nightmares.” It felt good to tell her about that, too.

  If he was lucky, the guy with the eyebrow ring would be playing tonight. Maybe he’d let Quin borrow his guitar again. What kind of music would pour out of him in front of Betsy? Would it be the soundtrack to his nightmares or something else? His urge to share his history with her no longer felt like a play for sympathy. He wanted her to understand him, and he wanted to understand her.

  They were so good together; he didn’t want this to end. But first he had to convince her to let him into her world, her real world, not just a two-week fantasy. Judging from what she’d told him about how she’d grown up with so many responsibilities, he had his work cut out for him. She didn’t want a partner; she relied on herself. A thought hit him like an ice ball in the chest, and his heart sank. She’d be furious if he told her about the mortgage right now. But he still had a chance, a week to convince her they could have the fairy tale together—without the ending at the stroke of midnight thing.

  An idea surfaced as he pulled on his clothes. It was over the top, but fitting. He wasn’t going to hold anything back. “Ready?” he asked, watching her slide into sandals.

  “Not quite. I need to do something with my hair.”

  Which gave him another idea. And another. Until he knew exactly how he was going to tell her about the mortgage. When the clock struck twelve, he’d give her his kingdom, or rather, hers. He just had to work enough magic between now and then to make her believe.

  Chapter Twelve

  Betsy blinked the sleep from her eyes and peered through the peephole. A liveried footman was standing in the hall. Wrong apartment for sure. She opened the door, and he bowed deeply, sweeping his arm in a complicated and courtly gesture.

  She spoke to the back of his head. “You can save the theatrics. I’m pretty sure you knocked on the wrong door.” She admired his grace—and his quads of steel lovingly delineated by his tights—as he rose to his feet and consulted the large envelope resting on the satin pillow balanced on his palm.

  “Elizabeth Contessa Mouton?”

  She nodded warily.

  “The honor of your presence is requested at the grand opening of the Keystone New Orleans.” He lowered himself onto one knee and raised the pillow toward her with both hands, presenting the invitation. He wobbled a bit when she didn’t accept it. “Oh, for God’s sake.” She snatched it off the pillow. “Is this some kind of a joke?”

  He beamed up at her. “Your carriage will arrive at eight o’clock.”

  She glowered. “What about my fairy freaking godmother? Got one of those for me?” She gestured at her cut-off jeans and ratty tank top.

  His eyes widened.

  “Sorry.” She relented, trying to smile. He probably wasn’t used to sour Cinderellas giving him the stink eye when he delivered invitations to the royal ball. Of course, he didn’t know how familiar she was with those royal balls. She snorted, amused by the thought as he got to his feet.

  “Hang on.” She left him in the hall and rummaged in her pants from last night, abandoned on the floor of her bedroom, looking for a tip. What was the proper gratuity for a royal messenger these days? When she returned to the door, she thrust a five-dollar bill at him.

  “Not necessary, milady. Already taken care of.”

  She stuffed it in his doublet. “Is Mr. James expecting you to report back to him?”

  His nod was cautious.

  “Tell him I was overcome with delight.”

  As he skedaddled, she followed him down the stairs, curious how authentic his act was. Did he have a royal steed double-parked at the curb? She watched him hop on a bike and peddle down the street, puffy shorts filling with the breeze, and snorted. Would he return with a bicycle drawn carriage at eight? Now that would be something to see, but she still didn’t belong at the grand opening.

  She went up to her apartment and got back under the covers. Business in the café had been slamming all week, and she and Quin had spent every night at her place, not sleeping, or at the bar one street over, listening to music. To her amazement, Quin had sat in with the band a couple of times, and those were the nights they’d stayed up the latest.

  She was flat-out exhausted, and had come home from work today and gone straight to bed, but now she couldn’t get back to sleep. She drifted in a dark place that wasn’t quite asleep but wasn’t awake either, body humming with memories of Quin playing guitar like a man possessed by the very soul of New Orleans.

  She’d really thrown herself into the vacation mentality this week. If she wanted to do it, she did
it. If it felt good, she kept doing it. So many firsts, so much pleasure, and not just in bed, either. They’d stuffed themselves silly in New Orleans’s finest restaurants, taken long walks in beautiful neighborhoods, and she’d rationalized every single moment of uncharacteristic abandon by reminding herself it was temporary. They’d had fun, and if any part of her was sad it was over and he hadn’t pushed her to talk about the possibility of more between them again, she wouldn’t admit it, not now, not ever, not even buried under three blankets with her head beneath a pillow.

  Vacation over. Now it was time to get back to work. His party would go late and she wouldn’t see him tonight. Maybe she’d never see him again, or at least, not all of him, not the way he’d been this week, naked and hungry, and it was for the best, even if she felt like she had the worst hangover in history.

  Her phone signaled a text, so she slid it off the bedside table and opened one eye.

  Earth to Betsy. Come in, Betsy. How are you feeling?

  Another group message from Jenna.

  Ever since Betsy had bailed on their weekly conference call last Sunday, Jenna and Lila had been peppering her with concerned texts. They knew the café was closed on Sundays, so she hadn’t been able to claim she was too busy to talk, and she certainly couldn’t tell them the truth. What was she going to say? My plan has gone to hell so I’m avoiding making a new one by screwing myself stupid? I can’t talk and orgasm at the same time? So she’d said she had the flu. It worked like a charm, and she’d kept up the fiction all week.

  Ironically, now that it was time for her to start getting better, she really did feel like hell. She was so tired. It was impossible to come up with a reply that wouldn’t garner more questions, so she dropped the phone on the bed and rolled over. Paper crumpled. She dug the envelope out from under her shoulder and gave in to the desire to open it.

  Her gaze immediately caught on the black handwritten scrawl at the bottom of the engraved invitation. Your kingdom awaits. What did that mean? Was Quin finally going to acknowledge he’d incorporated her ideas into the Keystone? A little of her exhaustion burned away. She had to admit she was curious. The hotel had been streaming with people all week, but she hadn’t set foot in it. They’d met in the alley and gone straight to her place every day. Maybe she should go check it out, just for a little while. And wear what? Pajamas? It was a formal masquerade. She tossed the invitation over the side of the bed and put the pillow over her head again.