by Eden Summers
But this man sees more than he should. Those hands touch more than I want to allow. And whatever is going on in that mind of his is sure to create havoc.
No more.
I hitch my chin high. “I’m visiting my boyfriend.”
How do you like them apples?
The tight clench of his jaw is a blatant sign he doesn’t like my apples at all.
“Is that right?” he snarls.
“Yep.”
His nostrils flare, and he licks his lower lip in such a delightfully slow roll of predatory intent that I have to squeeze my thighs together to stem the growing throb.
“And this boyfriend of yours, does he mind that you’re fucking me?”
Chills. So many chills.
“Fucked,” I clarify. “We did it once, and it was a mistake.”
He steps closer, looming over me. “That’s not the vibe I’m getting.”
I squeak internally. On the outside, I stare like a motherfucker. “Really?” I inch into him, straightening my shoulders, raising my chin. “You’re looming over me, glaring. To me, the only vibe here is threatening.”
He flashes a smirk. “And I bet you’re wet as hell because of it.”
Touché, asshole.
I turn my back and re-enter the pin code into the keypad. “I’m sorry, but I’m not interested.”
The panel beeps, the lock releases, but he’s pressed into me before I can reach for the door, his thighs nestled behind mine, his chest against my back.
“Say it to my face,” he demands.
My heart races, the rapid beat out of control. I swallow, knowing a believable declaration will be difficult to achieve. Hard, because this prick has my ovaries in his tight-fisted grip, but not impossible.
I turn, my brows raised in superiority. “I. Don’t. Want. You.”
I plaster myself to the wall, hoping for distance. He’s hot. Scorching. Every inch of his body pressed into mine is an inch of heavenly connection.
He leans closer, his breath warming my lips. “Bullshit.”
I want to succumb, to surrender to his erotic distraction but…
He strips the decision away from me, charging forward, taking my mouth with his. He steals my breath, his tongue swiping my lips to demand immediate entrance.
Goddamnit.
I can’t deny him. I can’t deny myself. I’m going down with this ship. Going down faster and harder than a cheerleader on prom night.
I grip his jacket, kissing him as if my life depends on the enthusiasm I place into our contact.
He growls, the rumble of his chest vibrating through me. He pushes me harder into the wall and grips my hips, his fingers digging into my jeans. His erection grinds against my pubic bone, making me want to beg.
No matter how risky or careless or insane, I want this man. I need him, if only to uplift me for those few short moments before I come crashing back down.
He retreats, retracting his devilish affection in a slap of withdrawal. His heavy breathing brushes my lips, my chin, my cheeks. Those fingers continue to dig into me. The light from inside highlights the flecks of color in his eyes, the greens, the browns as he stares at me with such sweet bewilderment that I know he thinks this is crazy, too.
I’ve kicked him out of my apartment and thrown his gun out a window. I’ve vomited in front of him, then launched into attack mode, before falling into bed in a mass of our tangled limbs.
This doesn’t make sense. It’s not what attraction is supposed to be. But attraction is what it is.
“Lie to me again,” he murmurs. “Tell me you don’t want me.”
My heart climbs into my throat, restricting, suffocating.
“Yeah, I didn’t think you could,” he taunts, releasing my hips. His fingers find the waistband of my jeans, unclasping the button, lowering the zipper. A hand delves into my pants, beneath my panties, sliding straight to my pussy.
I gasp, not in shock, in undiluted pleasure. Everything tingles. Vibrates.
“For someone who doesn’t want me, you sure are wet.”
His fingers plunge inside me, two or three, I’m not sure. I’m too focused on grasping his shoulders to stop myself from crumpling to the floor. He twists, pulses, strokes. He pulls no stops in his masterful manipulation as he peers down at me, stalking my expression.
I want to succumb, not just physically, but emotionally, too. I want to admit how I feel. To tell him the tiny morsels of time in his presence are like a feast to my starving soul.
I sink my teeth into my lower lip, caging those words inside.
“You fucking want me,” he snarls. “I bet you want me more than any other guy.”
I close my eyes and grip him tight. Those talented fingers don’t stop moving. The heat of his stare doesn’t fade.
I’m falling, yet soaring. I’m hurting, yet drowning in the most exquisite pleasure. There’s no life. No past. No future.
There’s only now. Only ecstasy. Only sexual possibility.
We should take this upstairs. We could. If only my secrets weren’t scattered over the floor in a mass of devastation.
The door swings open in a swoosh of noise and displaced air. I snap my eyes open and freeze when I see a woman standing there, gaping.
Mystery man shoves his shoulder into the wall, plastering his body to mine. He covers me, hiding what he’s doing without stopping the pulse of his fingers for even a second.
“Get out of here,” he snarls at her.
Protective. Oh, so protective.
I could swoon. Instead, my body trembles. I know nothing about this man, and yet he slays me. “Tell me your name.”
His fingers plunge deeper as he holds my gaze. “Why? You’ve never shown any interest before.”
I pant, my breathing fractured. “Well, I’m interested now.” I need something to call him. Something other than ‘my mystery man.’ I have to dissociate him from being mine at all.
He releases a barely audible chuckle. “If I tell you my name, will you promise to scream it when I make you come?”
I shake my head. “No.” No way in hell. I’m out in the open, probably in view of Brent and those drunks who would be getting the show of their life. Not to mention the current state of my soaked panties is already a big enough compliment to satisfy even the largest ego. “I won’t.”
His fingers stop moving in a harsh threat. “Then whisper it for only me to hear.”
Oh, God. My restraint snaps, and I moan in agreement. There’s no will to deny him. Not when it’s a mere whisper of surrender.
“Promise.” His thumb flicks over my clit, igniting a pulse of wildfire.
“I will,” I blurt. “I promise.”
“Good.” He leans closer, the rough stubble of his cheek brushing mine. His lips gently slide over my ear. “You can call me Hunter.”
I whimper.
Hunter.
What a fucking seductive name. So much better than Jim or Jeff or Bill.
He twists those fingers, deeper, faster, the pad of his thumb pressing harder on my clit.
“Hunter,” I whisper in warning. I’m close, nudging the precipice.
He inches back and gazes down at me, his eyes intent, his lips tight. God, I want to fuck him. I want to pull him close and kiss and kiss and kiss until I feel my soul return.
“What, princess?”
“Hunter.” I can’t say anything else. I can’t think anything else. “Oh, God, Hunter.”
I close my eyes and rest my head against the wall as my pussy clamps tight. My core contracts over and over, the height of bliss hitting me as he leans his body into mine to keep me upright.
He doesn’t stop fingering me. Those digits pulse. His thumb continues to work my clit.
I cling to him, my mouth finding his neck, my teeth digging into his flesh. I taste. I feel. I become invigorated. All because of this man.
The realization lessens the bliss, guiding me down from my peak in a gentle descent. I whimper as he holds me in one arm,
his other hand still filling me.
“You done?” he murmurs.
My voice is lost to pleasure, my throat too tight to speak. I nod and meet his taut expression, noticing the wild, restrained lust in those harsh eyes.
“Good.” He pulls away and steps back. His jaw ticks as he adjusts his cock, the thick outline of his erection bulging at his zipper. Then, without a goodbye, he turns and walks away muttering, “Tell your boyfriend I said hi.”
9
Him
I stride across the street, holding back the need to shove my fist against something that will break bone. She’s playing me, I know that, but I still listen to her lies like a man starved of sound.
Problem is, I can’t tell what’s the truth and what’s bullshit. Decker couldn’t get a trail on her. Her apartment is owned by Brent Hendrix—the fucking bartender. Even the utilities are in his name. There are no ties to a Stephanie or Emma Stephens. She has to be paying him in cash to make sure she doesn’t leave breadcrumbs.
But I’ll find one.
Tomorrow.
I would bet my left nut she’s not going to Seattle to meet a guy. I refuse to believe she’s fucking me with a boyfriend a few hours away. But even with my nut on the line, the slightest doubt has furious jealousy streaming through my veins.
I want to kill this lover of hers. Real or imaginary.
The feel of her body against mine has become torture. The vanilla scent of her, too. All sweet and feminine. She’s pliable to my touch, molding into me like butter, yet tough as nails at the same time.
So many conflicting aspects. A fucking kaleidoscope. Or maybe that’s what she wants me to see. Smoke and mirrors.
I storm inside Atomic Buzz, slap my palms on the bar, and demand, “Scotch.”
Brent glowers at me and prepares the drink. “Bad day?”
“You could say that.” Every day has been a mix of heaven and hell since this woman walked into my life. I can’t stop thinking about her—who she is, what she does, and why we’ve been brought together.
“Have you ever heard her talk about a boyfriend?” The question escapes my mouth without thought, making me sound like a needy little bitch.
“Steph?” Brent frowns.
“Yeah.” I guess we’ll stick with that for now because I don’t believe her real name is Emma, either.
“No. Not at all. She doesn’t share that shit with me.”
So, having another dick on the side is a possibility. Great. Fucking perfect.
He hands over my scotch.
I throw down some bills before snatching the alcohol from the bar to go sit in the far corner of the room. Yeah, I’m sulking. For fuck’s sake.
I need to leave, but I’m stuck here maintaining the charade that I showed up to get a drink, when I was actually stalking a woman who just left her apartment for the first time in days.
Impeccable timing is my only advantage, which Decker gained by hacking the video surveillance outside her apartment door. It seemed to be the only hole in her secretive existence—she logs into her online feed via her neighbor’s unsecured internet.
So I have nothing on her—no name, no insight, no fucking clue—but I get notifications when there’s motion around her door and a crystal-clear, black-and-white view of when she comes and goes.
Like right now. My cell vibrates in my jacket, and I already know it will be her. I tap into the video app to see her standing in the hall of her building. She enters the pin code to her apartment and releases the locks. I clench my cell as she opens the door, then she walks inside, out of sight, but still visible enough in my mind to make my dick pulse.
I should be doing a million other things. I should be on the other side of the city, preparing for an impromptu trip to Seattle.
Fuck.
I’m over a week late getting back to Torian. I’ve dodged his calls for days, which means I’m a heartbeat away from a gun-barrel prostate exam if I don’t pull my shit together.
I gulp the cheap scotch and flick through my cell screen to call Decker. It’s time to level-up our game.
He answers on the second ring with a chipper, “How can I be of assistance, fuck face?”
“Listen up.” I’m not in the mood for his shit. Not that I ever have been. “I need you to be on the road tomorrow.”
“Okay… Where’s the party?”
I scan the bar, making sure nobody is paying me attention, and lower my voice. “Seattle.”
“Who are we dealing with?”
Her. The woman who drives me mindless with curiosity and hunger. “We’re still on the same project. Nothing has ch—”
“Are you serious?” He chuckles. “Torian is right. You’re slipping.”
Every muscle snaps taut. “When did you speak to Torian?”
“He called a few days ago wanting an update because you won’t answer your cell.”
Fucking hell. “What did you say?”
“What could I say? You haven’t told me shit.”
If Torian took the time to call, he would’ve pushed, demanded, threatened. He wasn’t the type to walk away empty-handed.
“What did you tell him?” I repeat, my tone lethal.
“I said you were following some lead on a woman. That she’s tied to Dan somehow… Which is only an assumption at this point, because it marks the time you dove headfirst into this weirdness.”
I suck in a breath and hold it until it threatens to break my restraint. “Did you give him any specifics? Did you say anything that could lead to her?”
He gives a derisive scoff. “How is he going to find out who she is when I can’t?”
Jesus. It’s not about finding out who she is. Torian won’t give a shit. If he knows about her, he’ll do what I should’ve done days ago—get the information she has via whatever means necessary.
“Look,” Decker starts, “I thought I was covering your ass. What was I supposed to do? Fabricate a story when I have no clue what’s going on? We both know he’d lose his shit if he found out I was lying. And as much as I love you, buddy, it’s not enough to take the fall when it comes to that crazy motherfucker.”
No shit. Why does he think I didn’t answer my phone? I don’t need the drama.
I down the remaining scotch and breathe slowly to lessen the aggression pounding at my temples.
“What’s going on, Hunt? Who is this chick?”
“I don’t have a clue.” It’s the truth. “I know she was in that hotel room. She beat the fuck out of him, and I’m pretty sure she gained our information while doing it.”
There’s a pause. A silent criticism. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
Good question. The jury is out on that one. “Why did I need to? Would you have worked harder? Have you half-assed the background check because I didn’t give you enough info?”
I’m a weak prick, trying to distract him from the more important questions, like, why didn’t I get what I needed that first night? Why didn’t this end back then? And why did I let it continue?
“I’ve done everything I can,” he grates. “I don’t half-ass anything, asshole, and you know it.”
I do. But I don’t regret the diversion. “Then you don’t need specifics. You need to work with what I give you and remember who pays you. Me. Not Torian.”
“Please tell me you’re not sleeping with her.” His plea is almost inaudible and followed with more criticizing silence. “Fuck, Hunt. You are, aren’t you?”
I rest my glass on the table and massage my temples between my thumb and middle finger. I can’t answer him. No. I don’t need to.
“Are you still there, asshole?” he snaps. “What the fuck is going on?”
I don’t know. I’m so lost in her I can’t tell when common sense ended and obsession began. It wasn’t supposed to go down like this. It started as a bit of fun. I was messing with the cocky bombshell with the sassy mouth. Then she flipped the fucking board on me and started to beat me at my own game. She had me chasing my t
ail and second-guessing myself.
I never second-guess myself.
“You need to sort this out,” he says. “And fast. Torian isn’t going to wait forever.”
“I know.” I fucking know. “I’m going to call him.” I have no other choice. “I’ll get in touch later with specifics for tomorrow.”
“Yeah. I’ll be waiting.”
I shove from my chair and walk from the bar, not acknowledging Brent, who tracks my steps with his gaze. As I get outside, I glance up at her window, unable to break the habit.
She’s there. I can feel her staring down at me, watching my movements with the same dedication I’ve shown watching hers.
I reach the end of the building, turn down the side street to my car, and start dialing Torian’s number.
The call connects, and he greets with a, “About damn time you called.” His tone is level, calm, but the man could turn on a dime.
“You got time to talk?” I ask.
“I’m at Devoured.”
The call disconnects. One minute, conversation. The next, silence. It’s not a bad connection. It’s a demand to meet in person.
Fucking great.
I climb into my car and drive across town to his father’s restaurant. I slow as I pass the front windows and see Torian inside, standing amongst a crowd of his family while he holds a young girl on one arm. His mother is there, his sisters, too, while a million other kids run around with balloons and streamers.
A private family function.
Fucking perfect.
I park my car and stalk inside, ignoring Carlos at the door, who quickly glances at Torian for approval to let me in.
The man of the moment inclines his head and grins at me as I approach. The slimy fucker is dressed in his typical designer suit, his brown hair immaculately styled, his face clean-shaven. The guy is young. Too fucking young to have the amount of power he carries under his belt. But he owns it, taking the authority in his stride.
I bypass his attractive younger sister, his mother, the small army of children who have made his father’s restaurant their bitch, and stop in front of Torian and the girl.
“Hunt.” His smile remains in place, charismatic yet undeniably fake. I can see the anger hidden beneath the calm facade. I can sense the frustration, too. “I expected to see you sooner. You don’t usually make me wait.”