by Simone Stark
And then he said, low and calm and gorgeous, “Are you naked?”
She closed her eyes. Apparently German six a.m. was sexy.
“Answer me, Abigail.”
“No.”
He tutted once, the sound disapproving and pitying. “Oh, cher…what did we talk about?”
“We didn’t talk,” she said. “You commanded.”
“And you disobeyed.”
“Well, I’m not a soldier under your command, so you don’t simply get my obedience.”
“Keep talking like that and I’ll take it as a challenge.” It wasn’t a threat. It was a promise. One that shot through her and pooled in all the places she’d been aching for months. Since this had started.
She sucked in a breath at the ache, heavy and devastating, but she didn’t speak. Didn’t dare.
Silence stretched between them, and then, “Cher?”
“What?” she snapped. She was frustrated. She’d dreamed of this. She’d imagined this. She wanted this. And she knew that it was an enormously, colossally, impossibly bad idea. Because it didn’t end well.
“Are you in bed?”
She sighed. How was it possible that one man could make the word bed sound so glorious? “Yes.”
“Mmm.”
And like that, with one low, rolling syllable full of his pleasure and desire and fantasy, she was lost again. Goose bumps broke out across her skin as her own desire, her own pleasure, her own fantasy rippled through her. And all she wanted was to make him do it again.
He seemed to sense the shift in her. “So, you’re not naked. What are you wearing?”
She closed her eyes at the question. She shouldn’t answer him.
Nothing good would come of it.
But damned if she didn’t want to, even if the whole thing had her blushing. “I suppose I should tell you I’m wearing silk or something.”
He did not hesitate. “No, you should tell me the truth.”
“I’m wearing pajama pants and a t-shirt.”
“Bon. What color t-shirt?”
She looked down and couldn’t help a little huff of laughter. “Gray.”
“That’s funny?”
“Not the color. It’s a message tee.”
“What’s the message?”
“It’s silly.”
“Even better,” he said, and she heard him shift, like he was getting comfortable. “I like silly.”
“It says, You’ve Cat to be Kitten Me Right Meow.”
He laughed, low and rich and perfect, the sound shooting right to the core of her.
“People give them to me as gifts—weird animal pun t-shirts. It started as a joke when I graduated from vet school, but now it’s just a thing.”
She loved the smile in his voice when he said, “I think it’s very cool.”
It was her turn to laugh. “I assure you, it is many things, but cool is not one of them.”
“Hot, then.”
She laughed more. “And not that, either.”
“You’re wrong about that,” he said, his voice rolling through her. “Everything about you is hot.”
He thinks you look like Kelly, Abby reminded herself, hating the way she warmed at the words, the way she let them flatter her. He thinks you’re thin and gorgeous and run six times a week.
She changed the subject. “How long are you in Germany?”
“Not long,” he said, the words soft, like a secret. “Just long enough to fill out some paperwork, debrief the tour and get back on a plane.”
Back to war.
Her chest tightened at the words. “I hate that you’re in danger so much.”
“No, cher,” he whispered. “Don’t.”
She tightened her grip on the phone, as though it could bring him closer. Keep him safe. “I know I don’t have the right to worry, but I do.”
“Who says you don’t have the right?” She didn’t reply, and he added on a low growl, “I hate to make you worry, Abby. But damn if I don’t love the fact that you do.”
The words warmed her in all the right places, and she said the first thing that came to mind. “I love your accent.”
“Oui?”
She smiled at the French. He was playing it up for her. “Mmm.” She snuggled into her pillow, pressing the phone closer to her ear. “I love the way it rolls around me. Slow and deep.”
“Dat’s not the only thing I wan’ do slow and deep, cher.”
She blushed, heat flooding through her. “I don’t know what to say when you talk like that.”
“You don’t like it?”
She hesitated, long enough for him to worry.
“Abby?”
“I like it too much,” she confessed, the words barely a whisper.
A low, knowing laugh rumbled over the phone line. “No such thing as liking me too much.”
“It feels like there is, though,” she said, the words out before she could stop them.
There was nothing languid in his reply. “Why?”
Because this isn’t real.
It only felt real. It wasn’t a thing that could last, though. He was a tall, strong, outrageously handsome man deployed halfway around the globe, and she was a chubby girl in Colorado.
“I like you, too, you know,” he said, the words a promise. “I like your little laugh and the sound of your voice and the way you write my name on your pretty pink paper…it makes me wonder what else you have that’s pretty and pink.”
The words shot through her, making that other, secret pink place ache for him. “You’re making me blush.”
“All over?”
“Roux,” she admonished, not meaning it.
There was a pause. “Say it again.”
It was an order she couldn’t refuse. She sighed and repeated his name, and it came out needy. Yearning.
He swore softly on the other end of the line. “Abigail Trent, when I finally get my hands on you, I’m gon’ find every one of those pink places and make them all pinker.” Before she could reply, he said, low and dark as a promise, “I’m going to start with those pretty pink lips, cher. I want to know if they taste as good as they look.”
And like that, Abby was reminded of what she’d done. He didn’t know what her lips looked like. He didn’t know anything about what she looked like. He thought she was beautiful and thin and perfect.
They could never meet.
They would never happen.
She’d made sure of that the moment she’d tucked another woman’s picture into that envelope.
And then, as though he heard the thoughts, he said, "Who’s the woman in the picture with you?"
She froze. "What?"
"You sent me two pictures, cher. One of you alone—” That was Kelly, blonde and perfect. "And one with another woman. A brunette. You’re both smiling and happy."
He was talking about her. The photo of Kelly and her. The one she’d meant to frame and forgotten about. Forgotten, because she’d accidentally sent it to Roux. She closed her eyes, the pain in her chest made more devastating by the fact that he’d now seen her.
She’d been silent for too long, and he spoke again, the words fast and clipped. "It’s not a big deal. I just wondered."
"No! No...it’s okay. That’s—”
Tell him the truth, Abby. You can get out of it. Tell him you made a mistake sending Kelly alone. Tell him you’re the brunette.
She couldn’t. He’d been fantasizing about Kelly for weeks. Probably stroking himself, staring at her, imagining his lips on hers. Imagining his body on hers. The beautiful blonde, not the mediocre brunette.
She closed her eyes. What a disaster this was. What a mistake.
She cleared her throat, guilt and regret clinging there. “That’s my sister. Kelly.”
“Ah,” he said. “Kelly of the birthday cake.”
“Right.”
“And the party.”
“Yes.”
“Which brings us back to you being naked.”
&nbs
p; She blinked. “It does?”
He gave a little chuckle. “Most things bring me back to you being naked, béb.”
She couldn’t laugh. This was horrible. She’d lied to him. And it had seemed harmless, but now it seemed like it could do harm. Serious, irreparable harm. To her.
Because she had fallen for him.
Like an idiot.
“Abby?”
“I’m here,” she whispered.
“I wish I was there, too,” he said, and she hated the ache in the words. The one she knew so well.
She gripped the phone tight to her ear and told him the truth, knowing she shouldn’t. “Me, too.” But it wasn’t the whole truth. Because there was a little part of her that was happy he wasn’t there. That tonight she could pretend she was beautiful enough for him. That tonight she could be everything he thought she was.
Tonight, she could have it all. Just once.
She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and took what she wanted. “What would you do if you were here?”
CHAPTER TEN
IF HE WERE THERE, he’d lay her back on that bed and worship her until she screamed. He’d run his tongue over every inch of her body, part her thighs, and eat her out until she came again and again, until he’d forgotten the taste of anything but her, and would never forget the taste of her.
Roux almost told her that.
But he could sense her nervousness. Her reticence. As though she was afraid of him. And maybe she was. Maybe she was right to be. Maybe she wasn’t ready for him to tell her the truth, which was she was his and this was real and there was no way he was going to let her walk away from it when it was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
When she was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
When he would stop at nothing to be the best thing that ever happened to her.
He could keep from telling her that truth, though, if what she wanted now was to talk about all the ways he’d pleasure her. And that was what she wanted, the moment she’d asked him in that soft, beautiful, sexy-as-fuck voice, “What would you do if you were here?”
If he hadn’t been hard as a rock already, that would have gotten him there. But this wasn’t for him. It was for her. He closed his eyes and leaned back in his bed, shutting out the world beyond. “I’d climb right into that bed with you, baby.”
She sighed. A barely-there sound that was like sniper fire. Like that, Roux was tight as a bow. “I’d like that.”
“I’d start slow. Like a gentleman. Hold you tight. Learn the feel of you. Run my fingers over all your pretty, soft skin. Put my mouth to it, taste the heat of you.”
A pause. Then, “That’s too bad.”
His brows shot up. “It is?”
He heard her shift against the sheets a million miles away and his cock throbbed, aching for her. “I mean, with all your promises of wolves, I was hoping for more than a gentleman.”
Fuck.
“Oh, cher, you wan’ the wolf, you get the wolf.”
Another pause, then, softly, “I want the wolf.”
She was fucking perfect. He was hard as steel and she was fucking perfect.
“Take off that cat t-shirt, Abigail. And the rest.”
She laughed, low like sin. “And what about you? What are you wearing at oh-six-hundred?”
He ran a big hand down his bare chest. He had her. “Nothing.”
She didn’t wait. “Hold on.”
He could hear it, the way she got naked, the rub of skin against fabric, and he closed his eyes, jealous of her fucking sheets. When she came back, she was out of breath.
Just as he was. “You just destroyed me.”
“I did?”
He couldn’t hold back his smile. “You sound like you like that.”
“I mean—” She paused. “I do, but…”
“Imagining you taking off all your clothes, hearing the movement, knowing that you’re pink and pretty for me.” His turn to pause. “Are you naked now, love?”
“Yes.” It was a whisper. Barely sound.
He groaned at the confession. He’d give everything he had to be there with her. To be able to see her. To touch her. To kiss her. “If I were there…”
“What would you do, loup?”
And like that, he was on fire. “I’d open your thighs and get real comfortable between them, baby.” She inhaled sharply, and he kept going. “I’d want you to wrap your pretty legs around me while we kissed, while I explored you. I’d wan’ the scent of you while I ran my hands over your body, felt the weight of your pretty tits. And they are so pretty, aren’t they?”
She whimpered. “They’re…” She trailed off and he froze, knowing she would change his life with whatever she was about to say.
“What, baby? Tell me?”
“They ache.”
His cock throbbed. “Poor cher. Do they ache for me?”
“You know they do.”
“Are they heavy?”
“So heavy.”
He imagined them, beautiful and round, filling his hands to overflowing as she lay beneath him, her beautiful mahogany hair spread out around her like a halo.
He stopped himself. Blonde. Abby was blonde.
“Touch them, cher, lift them. Imagine your hands are mine. Imagine me taking care of your beautiful tits. Imagine me holding them, running my fingers over them around and around, smaller and smaller circles until I get to those pretty nipples. Are they tight, baby? Do they ache?”
“God, yes…” she whispered.
“They ache for my mouth, don’t they?”
“So much.”
He was losing his mind. This had been a terrible idea. “You wan’ me to kiss them, don’t you?” She didn’t reply, but he could hear her breath in little pants. “You want me to tongue them. To suck on them until you’re feeling my mouth somewhere else, too.”
“Roux…” she said, and he knew he had her.
“Slide your hand down there, baby. To where I want to be. To where you want me.”
“I—”
No. She couldn’t stop. Not now. Not when he was so close to giving her pleasure. “I’m gon’ make it so good for you. I promise.” She hesitated. He heard it, her stillness. Her doubt. “When I get to you, I’m gon’ settle between your gorgeous thighs and kiss my way down your body, from those beautiful tits, over your impossibly soft skin until I spread you wide and get acquainted with your pretty pussy.”
She whimpered, and he bit back a growl.
“Touch yourself, baby. Tell me what you find.”
She gasped, and he thought he might come just from the sound. From her discovery. “I’m so wet.”
“Surprised?”
“So wet.” That emphasis threatened to kill him. “Roux…you make me so wet. Wetter than I’ve ever been.”
“Bon,” he said, rubbing his hand over his mouth, hating the distance and the circumstances and wanting to tear down fucking walls to get to her. He tightened his grip on the phone. His lifeline. The only way he could have her. “Touch yourself.” She gasped. “Good girl.”
“It feels…”
“Tell me.” The command was harsh, like he was in combat. No. Combat was fucking easier than this. Than not being able to touch her or kiss her or taste her or love her.
“It feels so good.” The last syllable stretched like sin into five or six, and Roux couldn’t stop himself any longer, reaching for his aching cock and fisting it, closing his eyes.
“I bet it does, baby. I want a feel.”
“You promised me a taste first.” The bold, fast words turned him inside out, even as she gasped and said, “I can’t believe I—”
“Uh-uh, baby. You don’t get to take that back. You wan’ me to lick you?” She didn’t say anything, but he could hear her breath, harsh and ragged. “Say it, love.”
“I— I can’t.”
“I’ll give you the words.” He was stroking his cock, long, rough strokes that he couldn’t stop, imagining it
was her. Losing his control even as he commanded her. “Leche-moi. Lick me.”
“I—”
“Say it and I will, baby. I’ll eat that pretty chatte so good—long and slow. I’ll suck on your little clito until you scream my name and wrap your thighs around me and beg me to stop. And then when you think you can’t take anymore, I’ll lick you clean and start over. I’m gon’ eat you for days, baby.”
She said it. So soft he could barely hear it. “Leche-moi.”
He almost didn’t hear it. “Again.” He grunted out the word, stroking his cock, hot and hard and desperate for her. He bit out the command. “Again, Abby.”
She obeyed. Louder. “Lick me.”
“Mmm. Work your little clit, baby. That’s me there. That’s my tongue. My lips. That’s me circling and sucking and tapping. That’s me. That’s mine. That’s my pussy. You understand?” His fist was working hard and fast and all he wanted was her body under his. “Say it.”
“It’s yours,” she said. “God, Roux. It is. It’s yours.”
She knew it, too.
“Roux…” She was almost there. And so was he. “I’m going to…”
“Come for me.” The words were clipped and rough and full of need and want and fucking power. “Right now, cher.”
“Yes…” she panted, beyond control. “No…wait…” And then, like a fucking goddess, “Roux…come with me.”
As though he could disobey her. As though he could resist coming with her. Finally. After all the weeks in the desert when he’d refused to let himself come without her. “Fuck…Abby…”
And then she was crying out his name and he was coming like never before, in thick ropes, in time to her glorious panting cries, and he knew there was no way he was ever…ever…ever letting her go. She was perfection. Smart and funny and sweet and sexy as hell.
He waited for her to settle, for her breath to calm, before he said, “Okay, baby?”
She exhaled, long and beautiful. “So okay.”
He grinned, loving that he’d pleased her. “You gon’ sleep well tonight, gorgeous girl.”
A long silence followed. And from eight thousand miles away, on another continent, Roux knew it wasn’t a comfortable one. And then she said, softly, “No, I won’t.”
What? He sat up, hating the words. “Abby—”