The nerve of the bastard…
“Is this an interrogation?” I ask, refusing to be his prey. “You used to be a Royal Marine seven days of the week, it’s ingrained into you. I get that. But do me a favour, take this morning off.”
I hear him let out a short genuine laugh and I stiffen. I can feel his breath on top of my head. He must be standing right behind me. I try not to flinch at the close proximity. Never show weakness to men like Lenic. It is important to be confident, maybe a little bit spunky. But don’t let him see a moment of weakness.
I try to be covert about my eyes darting around the room, but I can feel his eyes following my frantic glance as I search. When I scan an armchair with a T-shirt slung over it, my eyes land on a flash of red poking out from underneath the side. I examine it again before giving him a wary sideways glance.
I need to distract him. “I’d like to offer you some housework.”
“You would?”
“Yes. Um, you know, in return for your generous hospitality.”
“You nearly drowned yesterday. Just rest up today.”
“No really, it’s the least I can do,” I lie, having no intention of dusting his home, as I edge slowly towards the chair.
He shakes his head. “Don’t lift a finger. You’re my guest.”
“I insist.”
“I can’t allow it.”
“It won’t take me long.”
“I’m pretty efficient in the upkeep of my space. Marine training, and all.”
What’s wrong with this guy? A woman’s offering her free cleaning services and he’s like a brick wall of stubborn germs.
“Oh for goodness sakes, I’ll just tidy the mess I made then,” I say curtly, rushing towards the chair.
He beats me to it, pulling out my underwear from their hiding place. He lifts them up in between his index finger and thumb. “Looking for these?” He looks at me like he is Death capturing another soul to be damned. I try to hide the blaze of heat in my cheeks as I cross over to him. “Thought you didn’t like guys coming from behind?” Flabbergasted, my wide eyes shoot up to lock with his.
Big mistake.
Those deep chocolate eyes show dark and dirty promises of sexual fulfilment, as he thrusts the underwear into my hands and says huskily, “Good to know."
My bright red-and-white polka-dot underwear.
With ‘Back Entrance’ written on the backside.
Sophisticated? Classy?
I make a mental note to book a flight to Australia.
Yesterday was laundry day, and these were the last pair. Go figure. They were last year’s birthday gift from Delphine. This cringe-worthy underwear only adds more fuel to the fire of humiliation that started last night, one that is refusing to extinguish.
“I feel like I know a lot more about you than I should, given we’ve just met. Is that a beautiful thing? I’m not quite sure,” he says cockily.
“And how do you know they’re not Delphine’s?” I mutter, shame burning my face. “You shouldn’t be so quick to judge a girl.”
He crosses his arms. “Marine hunch. It’s never wrong.”
My lips form a defensive line. “OK, fine. They’re mine. But I don’t do anal. Never have, never will.” He raises an eyebrow. I raise mine higher. “Not even on your birthday.” I shoot him a coy smile.
He leans in close, his breath hot on my ear, and my pulse elevates as he whispers, “Who said you were getting some?”
There is that certainty. No damn hesitation. Not an instant where he sounds unsure of himself.
I think those butterflies in my stomach are pole dancing to the sound of his husky voice hitting my G-spot, as if he just poured double cream onto my naked body.
He pulls back slowly, his T-shirt in hand, giving me that same cocky grin that says he will happily and skilfully take care of any sexual cravings I desire at the drop of a hat. I think I’d give him whatever he wanted. He is the only man to make me vaguely curious.
I turn my back, breaking his carnal gaze, determined to reach the kitchen sink. I feel like a dead woman walking. My skin begins to feel too tight across my bones. I briefly reach my hand down to touch myself through the boxer briefs I’m wearing, trying to relieve some of the pressure that has built up, but without attaining too much pleasure.
Getting a handle on myself, I run a cool glass of water and take it down in one. When I turn around, my eyes nearly bulge out. His joggers decorate the sofa instead of his lower half. I find it difficult to breathe when I get an eyeful of his fitted black briefs that don't go far enough in hiding what’s beneath.
A slow spreading smile curves his mouth upwards and I think my legs are going to give out beneath me. He winks at me from across the room, slinging his T-shirt over his shoulder.
Something isn’t right. The miserable, bad-tempered Lenic I met yesterday is a stark contrast to the flirtatious and playful Lenic in this room.
‘Trust me … I’m looking forward to taking it up with you tomorrow.’
I set my jaw. This is ‘taking it up’ with me? He is making me squirm purposely. That sexy bastard is aware of the crush I carry, and he is, what? Getting off on it? Payback for yesterday? For a man who chooses fishing over porn, this must be his only form of entertainment. He really does need another hobby.
With a new and improved mindset, I lean against the counter, cross my arms, and straighten up my shoulders, determined not to be roadkill.
Oh, for God’s sakes.
The sunlight streaming through the window lights his silhouette. He looks like he has just stepped off of a plinth at the Roman Coliseum. I think I hear angels singing in my ears.
I shake myself mentally. The memory of Lenic squeezing his eyes shut last night, over my naked body, reminds me that I am not the only one who can squirm.
I tie the white collared shirt I borrowed high above my waist, and undo the top buttons so my cleavage is on show. What? It is my summer look — sexy in the kitchen look. Then, I look at him like I haven’t eaten in days and he is a fountain of Belgium chocolate. “I’m hot,” I say to him, in way of an explanation. He clears his throat, coughs.
I love being a woman.
He walks in my direction, acting unperturbed. “How you feeling this morning?” he asks, scratching the back of his head.
I expected to wake with a pounding head, and to hear my liver scream for a mercy kill. But I feel OK. Head feels fine. I don’t ache anywhere. And I have an appetite for a full breakfast.
“Remind me to make a toast to your father. Nothing like drinking arse to make you feel good in the morning.”
He raises a quick smile. “Coffee?" I back up just enough for him to squeeze by and get to the kettle. His firm buttocks just brush my exposed waist and I bite down on my bottom lip. He is too close. Too fucking close. “Or tea or something?” he prods, studying me with a lack of apology for personal space. I nod, barely quelling a shiver, shifting a little.
What is wrong with me? Usually I carry an air of sexual confidence around men, but I feel like a rapturous teenage girl with hormone troubles.
He laughs. “Which is it?”
“Sorry, what?”
“Where’s my phone? I’ll ring for an ambulance.”
“What? Why?”
“You’re staring off into space. I think you’re having an episode.”
I tilt my head. “Coffee, smart arse. I was just thinking about something I needed to do today. You know … for life and stuff…”
Life and stuff?
Smooth.
This is going to be hard. I have a feeling that everything comes hard with him.
Not helping, I chide myself. Damn it, focus.
When he turns the sink on and puts the kettle under, I set my hand on his broad forearm that’s marbled with thick veins, diverting his attention from the kettle and solely onto me.
Oh God…
His forearm could bring on my destruction. Just much more subtly. Much more slowly.
I find my inner bala
nce, focussing. “You saved my life. How am I ever supposed to repay you?” My phone-sex voice should win the Noble prize for cultural advances in seduction.
I finally feel in control. I finally feel like the confident woman I am. It lasts as long as sand does through fingers. He is watching me, closely, long enough to think the world has stopped spinning, and hard enough I feel a burning sensation in every inch of my body. My confidence cracks under his gaze as his eyes lower to my lips and then to my cleavage in a slow, teasing sweep.
“With the way you’re looking in my white shirt … I can think of several ways you can repay me."
I don’t know how to react to his answer … God, he is big. He is enormous. Big, tall, heavy, wide, hard, rock-solid … he towers over my petite five-foot-three form like a steel giant.
I swallow.
Hard.
He hears it, and his smirk gets dirtier, filthier. I watch his eyes roam across my cleavage, a faint smile on his lips. Every cell in my body is screaming at me to move, or slap him. But I can’t be offended; after all, I was the one to put it on a platter.
I feel like a lamb going into the slaughter. He is Playgirl material. And I am … yes, I’m auditioning for the ghost part in a horror movie, remember?
“Sugar?” he asks, still mostly looking at my platter. I’m wondering if I should offer him a snack, it is going on that long. Does he think I’ll swoon and beg at his feet?
Probably.
Most likely.
“Only got Stevia—”
“Three heaped teaspoons and cream if you’ve got any — are you going to put on some clothes?” I suddenly blurt out, flustered.
He grins. “Yeah, funny thing. Two drunken girls trespassed last night and one of them went skinny dipping during a storm and nearly drowned. And now the other one is still sleeping where my clean clothes are hanging up.” He shrugs. “Nothing I can do about it until she wakes up.” He reaches around me to pull out a tin of coffee beans from the cabinet behind me. Our bodies are so tightly packed together; I feel like a human Tetris. He is the long L-shaped block, and I am the tiny box. And somehow, we connect perfectly. “It’s not distracting you is it?”
My mouth starts to move but I shut it tight. I was almost on the verge of confessing, ‘You make me so wet.’ But it doesn’t matter, because he already knows. He damn well knows he is thermometer-breaking hot. He is looking at me as if he is enjoying watching his carnal flames licking at the perfect spot between my legs.
I straighten my spine. "I know what you’re doing," I grumble, folding my arms in front of my boobs. "Don’t think you’re clever." I shake my head at him, but the sexy grin on his face just gets filthier.
"Tell me," he prompts, his body conquering my personal space as he leans across to open the top cabinet for two coffee mugs.
"You’re toying with me because you think I have this silly crush on you,” I mutter. “And you’re trying to make me turn into some pathetic drooling fan who kneels at your feet. It’s your way to get back at me for the truthful things I said to you at Box Fest."
The way his lips continue their upward curl makes me want to smack the smirk right off his face ... during a long session of angry sex.
“I think you have a crush on me? The way you’ve been looking at me — you’d think there was nothing above my waist.” My jaw drops to the floor. It is one of those wait, what? moments that prickle my cheeks with heat. And the wait, what? hits keep coming. “And I distinctly remember you shouting that I could, what was it…? Oh, yeah. ‘Hook, line, and fuck you any day.’ So don’t act shy, Felicity. I don’t do shy.”
He runs his finger over my exposed middle, and I groan, a pathetic sound in the back of my throat, and with the adrenaline coursing through my veins, just smelling his vagina-exploding scent makes me wet.
My fingers curl and uncurl pathetically, my breath becoming arduous. And then Lenic gets closer, towering over me, all lust and concern for his wayward guest, his sad little lamb who fell into the den with the lion — the lion I couldn't ever hope to go up against. Not like this. Not when his touch is electric, hot and cold, like nothing I’ve ever felt before.
He watches me intently, fingers brushing the sensitive flesh on my stomach, waiting to see if I will make a move, waiting to see if I will try to escape. But I don’t do or say anything. I can’t do anything. All I can do is stand there, looking at him. Looking at everything: his face, his lips, his cheeks, his eyes. I can feel myself drowning in his eyes. I glance down at his thick calloused hand, caught in some kind of spell from his light suggestive touch.
“Today’s pretty good for me.” My eyes widen and my head shoots up in disbelief. He tugs me close to him, too damn close, until our noses are touching and our breath is caressing each other's lips. He is close enough to see the tiny beauty spot by the corner of my eye, and I feel every inch the little girl who is cannon fodder to this steel giant. “You’re tight.”
“What?” I gasp.
“Your body. You must work out.”
He is shameless.
Shameless.
Is this the real Lenic Reevus? Is he a player? He hides his reputation exceedingly well if that’s his position. Maybe he dips his boat into a pool outside of town, a real Casanova across the borders of Stonebrook. I remind myself he is a stranger. Anything is possible.
“You’re filthy,” I breathe out. “You think you can do or say anything.”
“I’m the captain of this boat. Makes me in charge.”
“It’s rather a small boat, considering.”
He coughs out a laugh. “Don’t worry.” He flicks his gaze down on himself for a beat. “My other boat is bigger. Much, much, bigger. Plenty of seamen riding that one.” His lips curl at the edges.
He is filthy.
I love it.
But I won’t stroke his ego. Not a chance.
I blow out a frustrated breath. "I might have been a little inebriated by the time I arrived at the dock last night and I wasn’t thinking clearly. I didn’t know what I was saying—”
“You did. I think you’re a woman who knows what she wants and says it like it is. I like it. So quit lying.”
“I don't get it. Yesterday you were a perfect gentleman.”
“I am a perfect gentleman.”
“What? You mean you’ll hold the bedroom door open for me?”
He chuckles hoarsely. "Only a tosser takes advantage of a drunk girl. Yesterday you were drunk. Today — you’re fair game.”
His arrogance sets the heat between my legs on fire. And the flames keep rising. “I thought I wasn’t your type.”
“A man’s allowed to make one mistake in his life — learn from it.”
“You had your chance yesterday and blew it.”
“And I was dead wrong. Forgive me?” He cups my chin with his hand, and tilts it up. “Is this something you never thought you’d hear?” I try to move my head, but his grip tightens. “This time … I’m being serious.”
He is like the wolf in a hen house. And I really should lay one for him, but … OK, of course I want him, many times over, but right in this moment, I feel a little like I’m an easy lay. And I don’t like how it makes me feel. My desire for a one-night stand with The Tempest begins to fade as I start to realise I don’t want to be another notch on a high-profiled boxer’s bedpost — who might have gone a million rounds with his other adoring fans.
“You wanted it from the start; you’ve been begging for it,” he says. “Quick and dirty, remember?” His arrogance spirals a hot wave of anger through me, and I’ve reached my limit.
OK, Lenic, you think I'm madly, deeply in love with you? Fine.
Let me love you long time.
It is my turn to man his big ship.
“You’re absolutely right, as always,” I say in a husky voice. “Can you blame me?” I brush my hands over his lean muscular biceps. “You’re so … big and strong and—”
Wrong move.
Damn me to Hell. I shoul
dn’t have squeezed those biceps. Holy shit. Are they made from stone?
Keep it together, Felicity. You’ve got this.
I draw in close, grabbing the back of his neck. I give him the slightest smirk, running my hand up his face and across his hair before shoving his head to the side, roughly. He groans hoarsely. My fingers tremble slightly as I withdraw — the desire to twist them in that swarthy mass and drag him into a kiss is damned difficult to fight.
“I’ve been a very naughty girl, haven’t I? Since the moment we met I’ve mouthed off … I think you should punish me.”
God, I’m good. I think I’ve upgraded myself from playing the scary ghost to playing the sexy DD-cup virgin. Minus the virgin part.
But when Lenic moves in close, unnecessarily close — and I feel the heat of his hard abs against my soft bare middle — he brushes his cheek against mine for the smallest of seconds, lets his nose drag across it to my lips. I stare into his eyes as I fight to regain the ability to breathe. My heart is pounding, and with just one look from his darkening eyes, arousal floods my body and I lose all sense.
I gasp softly when he wraps his arms around my waist, drawing me in close. In any other circumstance, maybe I really would let him kiss me, press me up against his body, drag my fingernails into his flesh, and bite his neck. It is the reason my charade goes on a little bit longer than I planned.
I have to ensure he doesn’t suspect my true motive, my real plan. So I lull him into a false sense of security and part my lips slightly to his, moaning with exaggeration. When I catch his tongue darting out, I throw my head back, push him away, and laugh at his expense.
"You’ll have to try harder than that, I’m afraid," I say through laughter. “You self-centred bastard.”
He is left standing there, staring at me as I keep laughing at him, full on throw-my-head-back laughing. It is a relief after suffering from so much pent-up sexual frustration ever since I met the beautiful bastard.
The look on his face is priceless. But it isn’t the one I expected from an egotistical pig. He smiles. It’s a warm, friendly smile that goes all the way up to his beautiful eyes, and then he lets out a small chuckle. It isn’t much of a sound — just a gentle brief laugh — but it feels like a song to me. A really good song. The kind of song that makes you feel warm inside. And I know it is rare.
The Tempest Page 5