by Kit Rocha
He winced. "Fuck, I'm sorry. I've been covered over this week, arranging things for the opening. I didn't even think."
She'd sat in silent vigil over a hundred cold dinners in her life, usually with relief at her husband's absence. Disappointment was a new sensation, and it felt utterly, ridiculously selfish.
Jared looked exhausted. Worn and stiff, and clearly braced for a confrontation. So she swallowed her hurt and circled the table. "Have you eaten at all today?"
"I grabbed something from the market before I headed into the city this morning." He paused, then shook his head. "No, that was yesterday."
Which might very well mean he'd slept at the bar the previous night. Guilt joined the uncomfortable tangle in her gut, and she hid it by easing his coat from his shoulders and pushing him gently toward the table. "Sit. Most of this will reheat just fine."
He turned instead, caught her hand, and dragged it to his face. "I missed you."
She believed him. His cheek was warm beneath her fingers. His eyes were dark but hotter now, as if bits of Eden were sliding away.
And she was still acting like a Sector Five housewife. Training, maybe, or habit. Muscle memory. It was so easy to fall back into the patterns she'd learned out of self-defense. She'd been foolish to think pleasure could wipe away her past in a few short weeks.
She forced herself to take a deep breath as she stroked his cheek. "I missed you, too. But you still need to eat."
He took a step, nudging her back toward the couch. "I don't want to."
"Jared…" Her instincts had evolved. She could read his intent, the slow shift in mood that her own body echoed.
His hand trailed up her arm, leaving goose bumps in its wake. "Would you rather have dinner?"
Dinner was safer. That was a performance she could give—had given—stoned out of her mind. Reheat the food. Refill the drinks. Ask polite, bland questions about his day, each carefully composed to allow answers without substance. Because the last thing she'd want to risk was knowing too much.
They were both so good at playing the game. But when he touched her, when they touched each other—that was the only time she was sure she wasn't playing at all.
Safe was an illusion, anyway. "No. I'm not hungry."
"Not hungry?" He bent his head, his lips barely brushing her ear. "Not even a little?"
"Not for dinner."
"For what?"
She tilted her head back. "You. Being hungry for me."
He slid his hand up to rest across the vulnerable expanse of her throat. "I've been dreaming about you, how hot it is to watch you come. How it's even hotter when you let go."
Little bits of Sector Five were slipping away from her, all right. Every time her body stirred, it was new and amazing and just for him. "I know you have to hold back in Eden. Don't hold back with me."
He went rigid, his muscles tensing beneath his tailored shirt. "Are you certain, Lili?"
"Give and take," she reminded him softly. "It's your turn to take."
The dam broke. He hauled her to his chest and crushed her lips beneath his. There was a desperation in his touch, as if every bit of that hard-won control had splintered and might shatter at any moment.
She dug her hands into his hair and let her nails prick his scalp—rough, because it was the best way she knew to say yes.
He backed her against the counter, the sharp edge biting into her lower back. Then Jared lifted her and held her there, half on and half off the countertop, his eyes blazing. "Say it. You have to say it, love."
She fought for breath. "I want you. Now. However you need me."
He nodded, his chest heaving. He dropped her to the smooth surface, and his hands skipped down to the hem of her dress and began to slowly gather it.
Fast. No careful seduction this time, but she didn't need to be seduced. As much as she loved his relentless, teasing touches, they seemed tame compared to the impact of his obvious arousal. His hands were shaking this time, as if he was the one feeling too much.
Needing too much.
She reached for him, stroked her fingers up his arms. "Do you want me to keep saying it?"
"Can you?" he rasped as his fingers slid under the lace of her panties. He drew them down her legs until they caught on her shoe, and he left them there to dangle from one ankle. "Not for long."
"I want you." Her voice wavered, so she edged her knees apart and showed him.
He worked his belt open, then his pants. He was ready, his dick hard and hot as he braced her with one hand across her ass. But he didn't push into her, just kept moving, rocking, every roll of his hips grinding against her clit and making her wetter.
She clung to his shoulders and let her head fall back. "I—I want—" He twisted his hips, and she gasped as heat flashed through her. "Oh God."
He sucked in a breath, raw and rough. "That's it." His shaft was wet now, slick with her arousal as his movements slowed but turned harder. More focused.
Perfect.
She dug her nails into his shoulders, hating the fabric that stopped her from touching his skin but loving it, too. This was a different kind of obscene—desperate and rushed, clothing shoved aside, grinding against her in the kitchen, of all places. The next time she cooked for him, she wouldn't be able to think of anything but this feeling.
Maybe if they did this in every room, she'd never be able to slip back into old habits again.
Release was rushing toward her already. She moaned again, moaned his name, and tried to pull him closer.
But he was a rock, immovable. "Come for me first," he whispered, soft, seductive words with a sharp sting of command that shivered through her. "Come for me, and I'll fuck you."
That shiver didn't scare her anymore. She understood what it meant—and what it didn't. She understood the sweetness of trust and the strength it took to offer it. Teetering on the edge, she forced her head up and met his eyes. "Because I'm yours."
"Damn right." He caught her chin. "Now, Lili."
As if she had any choice. The friction was too exquisite, and he knew it. Her breath seized as she hung for an endless moment, held there by his gaze.
Then she fell.
She came fast, hard. She came shuddering, writhing in his grip and clutching at his shirt until it tore open, and she had the frantic, hysterical thought that she'd have to take up mending because she couldn't stop tearing his clothes from his body. And then that thought was gone, too, swept away in a rush of joy.
Jared's groan echoed in her ears as he slid both hands under her ass. "Don't stop," he ordered, a mere heartbeat before he thrust into her.
Hard. Deep. Her body was still tight, still clenching, but he was slick and so was she, and she wanted him so much. She wrapped her legs around his hips and clung to him, panting for breath as discomfort fought lingering pleasure—and lost. "More."
She didn't have to ask again. He pulled back and drove into her, harder this time, and she had to grab the counter to brace herself. Every deep thrust hit that spot that hollowed her out, twisting her into tighter and tighter knots.
Her head fell back, bumping into the cupboards behind her. Jared wrapped his hand around the back of her head, protecting it from the wood as he pounded into her mercilessly, never slowing or hesitating for an instant.
The physical pleasure was maddening, but that wasn't the part that stripped her bare. It was the naked need on his face, the shredded control, the sounds—her breathless moans and his low grunts, both of them reduced to base instinct.
No masks. No games. When she came again, she screamed—not a sweet whimper or a breathless moan, but a hoarse cry as jagged and out of control as she felt. The release of tension was almost violent, her entire body clenching tight.
Jared hauled her to him, all the way on the edge of the counter, so that the only thing holding her up was him—his body against hers, his hands on her head and then her mouth, silencing her cries. He flexed his hips, growling when she gripped his cock even more tightly.
"Again," he ordered.
She shivered when he flexed his hips again. The angle was so different, stroking new places, and his fingers across her lips muffled her moan. Tingles prickled over her as she stared up into his eyes, his dark, demanding eyes.
This was Jared, naked. This was his basest desire. Not to coax pleasure from her, but to demand it. Not from anyone else.
From her.
"Fuck," he groaned. "The way you look at me…"
She must be as naked as he was. Her vulnerability. Her trust. The growing awareness that they had careened past friends long ago, and were headed for something too big to wrap her pleasure-addled wits around.
And she was addled. Her body was primed now, the stretch of his cock pure pleasure and the grinding pressure on her clit too much to resist. Release didn't crash into her this time. It snuck over her, little pulses that grew brighter and brighter, until she was groaning against his hand and shaking.
Jared breathed her name, his voice as tight and trembling as the rest of her world. He drove deep, as deep as he could go, then arched as he shuddered through the force of his orgasm.
Her fingers ached from gripping the counter. She forced them open and wrapped her arms around Jared. He dropped his hand from her mouth, lifted her from the counter, and began carrying her toward his bedroom.
How he could walk at all was a mystery. Her limbs were liquid, all her previous tension melted away. She stroked her fingers over the back of his neck as a sleepy smile curved her lips. "I ripped your shirt again."
"I don't care." He grinned as he set her down beside the bed and stripped her dress over her head. "You can go in my closet and tear them all up. But later."
Or she could mend them. It might be nice to put more of the skills she'd learned out of obligation to use for a better cause. Her final rude gesture to her old life, in true O'Kane spirit. "I imagine the ripping is only fun when you're wearing them."
"Touché." He knelt at her feet and began unbuckling her heeled sandals. "I am sorry, you know. About dinner."
"I know." She slipped her fingers into his hair and smoothed the strands back into place. "You're working so hard to get the bar ready. I don't want to add more stress."
"You're not," he assured her.
"How close are you to being finished?"
"To having things settled for opening night? Not close enough." He rose, kicked off his shoes, and stripped off his socks and pants.
"Is there anything I can do to help?" She smiled a little ruefully. "I know more than I want to about hosting parties for Eden's elite."
He shook his head as he pulled the covers back. "I've got it under control. Hop in."
She obeyed, because he looked like he needed sleep far more than anything else. "You open next week still, right?"
"That's the plan." Jared settled into his pillow with a sigh and drew her close to his side, but he didn't elaborate. And, as loose as her limbs felt, his were stiff again.
Tense muscles. Short answers. A lifetime of wary attention to the moods of the men around her had taught her one course of action when presented with Jared's body language: agreeable silence.
She turned into him and stroked his chest lightly, drawing absent patterns until his breathing lengthened and the tension in his muscles slowly relaxed. He slipped into sleep, and Lili watched him until she was sure he wouldn't stir.
Then she climbed from the bed.
The candles still burned in the dining room. She blew them out and winced at the mess the wax had left all over the tablecloth. She spent a few absent minutes trying to scrape up the red splatters with a butter knife, but the stains would be hopeless without an iron and some paper towels.
She let it go and gathered the plates instead. Putting away the food and washing the dishes was hypnotic. Her body went through the motions without input from her mind, which was skittering in too many directions.
Jared was exhausted. The stress of the grand opening would weigh on him, no matter how carefully he'd planned it. That stiffness in him hadn't been distance, just the natural result of having too much on his mind and too little time.
A perfectly reasonable explanation. And it felt hollow.
Even after she settled back into bed, Lili couldn't quiet her mind. Not with slow, steady breaths, not by pressing into Jared's side.
She could feel the distance. It was slight, subtle, locking into place despite their moment of total openness. He wanted her—she was sure of that. She'd offered herself, and he'd taken. Without thought, without hesitation, without—
Her body stiffened, and she realized what had been different. Not just his eagerness. Not just their total abandon. Jared had been so lost in her, he hadn't stopped to get a condom. And she'd been so lost in him, she hadn't remembered that she might need one.
Might. It was the slimmest possibility. She'd taken the fertility drugs months ago, and so briefly they might not have had time to take effect to begin with. But even that slim possibility made her stomach churn.
Not that she could tell him. Such a faint chance wasn't worth the stress it would add to his shoulders. She'd talk to the O'Kanes' doctor instead. Reassure herself. Rebuild her walls.
Jared didn't need a trembling Sector Five housewife who cracked under a missed dinner and a few short words. He needed someone like Lex—a partner who could be strong in her own right, who dealt with her own problems and always had his back.
He needed an O'Kane. And she could become one.
Chapter Sixteen
Lieutenant Malhotra had obviously not cleared his new no-more-bribes policy with the rest of Eden's Council.
Jared slid a fat envelope across Smith Peterson's desk and schooled his features to keep from wrinkling his nose at the sheer greed that lit the other man's eyes. "It's all there."
Peterson held up a hand, his other sliding quickly over the large inset tablet on his desk. A strange hum filled the room, and Peterson shrugged. "Can't be too careful, can we?"
A program to jam surveillance equipment, then. "I'm not wearing a wire."
"Of course not." Derision dripped from the words.
Jared bit the inside of his cheek to hold back a smile. No, he wasn't wearing a wire—but he had something better, something that Dallas's resident hacker, Noah, had pieced together. The tiny box hidden inside his silver cigarette lighter case was designed, as best as Jared could understand, to gather data being transmitted over Eden's ubiquitous wireless signals. All it needed was close range and enough time to complete the transfer.
Jared could keep Peterson talking. Hell, it might be able to scrape all his data before the man could finish lovingly counting Jared's money.
Which was what he was doing now. "In light of recent...unpleasantness, a less agreeable man might require an additional donation to the security fund."
"Unpleasantness?" Oh, he'd make the bastard say it.
"So much activity. Things breaking. Things being repaired. It's hard to turn a blind eye."
Especially hard, Jared assumed, when you were the one responsible. "It could have been worse. I do regret the loss of my rug, though. It was an antique."
"A pity." Peterson finished counting the bills and tucked them back into the envelope. "I could arrange for additional security, but it doesn't come free."
"Nothing ever does." Jesus Christ, this place was exhausting. He could barely fathom why Lili wanted to hear about his day when his day consisted of sitting across desks from smarmy assholes like Smith Peterson, smiling and playing nice instead of cracking their skulls.
And she did want to. The guilt rose again, choking and thick. She wanted to be part of his life, for him to share things with her, all the normal things you did when you were falling in love with someone.
It wasn't her fault that all he had to share were horror stories.
"It's your choice," Peterson said with an oily smile. "You may want to decide before your big night, though."
These Council bastards were nothing if not predic
table. Jared pulled the second envelope he'd prepared from his inner jacket pocket and slid it across the desk. "I believe in being prepared, sir."
It was amusing, watching the man's greed war with his spite. Should he taunt Jared with the threat of destroying his opening night, or take all that beautiful money?
The money won. In Eden, the money always won. Peterson picked up the envelope and thumbed through it. "The Council appreciates your dedication to improving our city's security."
"Anything I can do to make it a better place." Including burning it to the fucking ground.
"Yes, well." Peterson cleared his throat. "In the future, visiting my office won't be necessary. Someone will check up on you weekly."
"I see. How should I prepare for this guest?"
"With the usual donation. Unless you have a guilty conscience about something…?"
Jared stared at him.
Peterson stared back, something far uglier than greed lurking behind his bland expression. "If you want to do business in Eden, an association with an unscrupulous reprobate like Alexander Santana can only hurt you. Especially when it's common knowledge that he's Dallas O'Kane's creature."
Rage surged, burning through Jared's veins like fire. A quick glance at his reflection in the window behind Peterson revealed no change in his expression, but what lay in his heart was pure murder. "Ace is a friend," he said, marveling at his miraculously bland tone. "He's also retired."
"From one sort of criminal endeavor, perhaps. But a man who wants to succeed in the city can't afford too many connections to the sectors."
"You'll have your money, Peterson." Jared rose and buttoned his suit jacket. "And since I won't even ask you to scrounge around for it in Alexander Santana's pants, I presume it will suffice."
Peterson's face froze. "Money buys tolerance. You'll never have enough to erase what you are."
"Have a good day, Councilman." He turned and headed for the door without waiting for a response. He had to, because everything in the room had started to look like a weapon—the phone on the desk, the vases and artwork lining the shelves on the far wall, even the chair he'd abandoned.