Claiming My Vengeance

by Jessica Blake

  Olivia hung up. “She’s going to send over a couple of police officers, and Detective Kincaid is going to call you.”

  Sure enough, my phone rang right away. I answered it and Liv turned around in her seat. I thought she was looking for more damage to the car, but she held up one of my dress shirts and mouthed “Can I use this?”

  I nodded, more focused on what Detective Kincaid was saying about bringing the car in for a ballistics expert to look at, something I promised to do the following day, but Olivia caught my attention again by ripping my shirt.

  I quickly disconnected with Kincaid.

  “What are you doing?” I was merging onto the Kennedy Expressway and couldn’t look. By the time I glanced over, we were going through a tunnel. The yellowish lights washed out her face, and I couldn’t tell for sure because she always looked fucking pale, but I thought Olivia looked peaked, her mouth pinched.

  “Keep your eyes on the road,” she snapped, taking a wadded-up piece of the shirt from her shoulder and refolding it, but not before I saw blood on the white fabric.

  Fear iced my gut. “Dammit, Olivia! Why didn’t you tell me you were hit?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Liv

  “Jesus, Gabe,” I yelled back. “The windows are rolled up. Don’t roar at me like that.” My heart was racing, and my shoulder was on fire. I was in no mood for any of his temper tantrums. “It’s a scratch,” I said, lying a little before lying a little more. “It’s barely bleeding. Now concentrate on your driving. Where are we going, anyway?”

  His face drawn into a scowl, which I chose to interpret as worry rather than irritation at my audacity in getting in the way of a bullet, he looked at me again. “I’m taking you to my house. Will you be okay for a little bit or do I need to go to a hospital?”

  I scoffed. “Would you go to the hospital for a scrape? Watch the fucking road!”

  He did, punching the accelerator, and maneuvered the Mercedes in and out of the light nighttime traffic like a master. My phone vibrated against my leg on the seat, and I ignored it. Gabe needed no more excuse to overreact and I was already starting to get a fierce headache. “You drive like your grandpa,” I commented. He didn’t answer.

  It was nearly a half-hour later when Gabe turned down a dark, tree-lined residential street. As he pulled up in front of a looming shape in the darkness, motion-detecting floodlights lit the driveway, showing glimpses of what looked like a huge stone building. I wasn’t given much time to look around.

  Gabe jumped out of the car and rounded the front, opening my door for me. “Come on,” he ordered. He was gentle about it, but I was literally dragged down the walk, to an imposing, iron-gated front door framed with lighted sconces, flanked with two roaring cement lions. I could smell the lake and hear the waves crashing on the shore, sounding very close.

  “Is this your lair?” I asked, tiredly teasing, hoping a painkiller and a comfortable bed were in my near future.

  “I guess it is. I’ve never brought anyone here.” He flashed a look at me with those silvery eyes, punched a code in on the keypad, and opened the front door for me. He hit a light switch and acres of gleaming dark gray marble were suddenly lit by a few crystal chandeliers. I squinted as he disengaged the alarm system, taking in the dusky gray walls, the intricately detailed moldings and painted tile ceilings, the dreamy, impressionistic paintings that still somehow fit the masculine vibe.

  “Nice digs, Batman.”

  He didn’t reply to that, just swept me up and walked quickly toward the kitchen. “Come on. I’ve got a first aid kit.”

  I glanced curiously into darkened rooms as we passed, catching quick glimpses: a grand piano that I wondered if Gabe ever played, a pair of French doors leading out to a terrace with a softly lit fountain in the center, a luxuriously comfortable looking den. The kitchen was massive, high-tech, stainless steel appliances seamlessly blending with the Victorian design.

  He pulled out a chair at a small round table in one corner and sat me down. Looking up, I noticed a conical skylight where I could see brightly shining stars, even with the reflection of the kitchen lights on the glass.

  Gabe was back in just a moment with a large first aid kit, a glass of water, and a bottle of extra-strength ibuprofen. He flipped on a bright, hanging overhead light and pulled a chair out so that he was sitting in front of me. “Here you go, Wonder Woman,” he said gruffly. “Get some pain meds on board. You put up a good front, but ‘just a scratch’ or not, I’m guessing bullets still hurt.”

  “I think you’re getting your Marvel and DC characters mixed up.” I was almost giddy with exhaustion and gratefully downed the pills. “Wonder Woman and Batman coexisting in the same universe?”

  “I’m right. They’re both DC.” Gabe carefully began unwrapping my makeshift bandage and I hissed out a breath from where the fabric had stuck to the small wound after the blood dried. “Sorry,” he murmured, looking pained. I studied his face in the bright glow of the lights above. He looked tired too, and light, grim lines bracketed his firm, unsmiling lips. His dark lashes shadowed his cheeks as he focused on the alcohol-soaked gauze pad he was using to clean up around the scratch on my arm. “Let me know if I hurt you.”

  He had hurt me already in the short time we’d known each other. And while he carefully re-bandaged my arm and I watched his hands, strong and capable, nicked and marked with scars both recent and old that proved he wasn’t just a boardroom suit, I recognized with a frightening jolt that he was going to do it again.

  I was in love with him.

  Dammit, I’d fallen in love with the son of a bitch.

  It wasn’t anything like the love portrayed in songs and movies. I wasn’t seeing bluebirds twittering around his head or feeling my heart ker-thumping outside of my chest. Instead, it was a painful, wrenching realization, because I knew that we had no basis for a future together. Just a tension-fraught present.

  He was damaged.

  I was damaged.

  In the time that I’d known Gabe, we hadn’t magically fit our damaged parts together to heal one another… we’d just fucked and fought, and then repeated the process all over again. And he’d made it abundantly clear that he wasn’t interested in anything outside of an easy lay.

  Not that there had been anything easy about the sex between us.

  I felt the friction of his rough palm lightly brush against my shoulder. I wanted him. I wanted to touch his stubble-bristled cheek. Mess up his smoothly combed hair. Make his eyes light up with the wicked gleam that would haunt my dreams when I finally went home.

  This was the reason I had previously limited my sex life to one-night stands. Too close, and you’re bound to get hurt.

  Fuck it. One more time wouldn’t make it hurt any more than it was already going to when we went our separate ways. It might bind my stupid, blind heart to him a little tighter, but I was smart enough to realize that ripping it free would be devastating no matter what.

  “Gabe,” I asked quietly, and he looked up, his face concerned. “Does this place have a bedroom?”

  “I’m sorry. You must be exhausted.”

  “Either you are, or you’re an idiot.”

  I leaned forward and took his mouth with mine, my hand going around the back of his neck to anchor him in place. After a moment, an almost unnoticeable hesitation, he kissed me back. In an instant, he took over, and at the feel of his lips against mine, his tongue searching, his hand cradling the side of my face as if he was afraid to touch me too hard or I’d break… a flood of heat rushed through me in a tidal wave.

  “Bedroom,” I reminded him, pulling away.

  He got up and took my hand, and I followed through the dimly lit hallways, up a staircase with a wrought-iron rail that was smooth and cold beneath my hand. Thick, plush, stone-colored carpet silenced my footsteps as we traveled down another hallway to a room done in a pale blue. The east wall was lined with floor-to-ceiling windows, now black with the night outside. Masculine furniture cra
fted on a large scale was done in rich mahogany wood. A sleigh bed dominated the room, piled with pillows in a rich, blue-gray, and a soft, matching down coverlet.

  Gabe crossed the room and opened the three sets of French doors, so the soft breeze brought in the scent and sound of the night. He’d long ago discarded the tie he’d worn to work, but he unbuttoned the white dress shirt he still wore, untucking it and leaving it open. In the dimmed overhead light, I could make out the shadowy contours of his pectoral muscles, the ripple of his abdominals as he pulled back the covers and the top sheet. Quietly, he walked to me, his face intense, inscrutable.

  He brought up a hand and traced my cheek with the back of his knuckles. Light as a whisper, he laid his lips on mine, continuing the exploration he’d begun in the kitchen. Instead of a flash of heat, this was more intense, and I let my eyes drift shut as he drew my braid to one side, kissing my neck, a slow drag of his tongue, a gentle scrape of teeth at my earlobe.

  My heartbeat and my breath quickened, and I felt a slow, simmering heat build low in my belly. His hands went to my waist, his fingers dragging slowly up my sides, taking my shirt with them. He was careful of my bandaged shoulder, the throbbing of which had faded into the background in the presence of the sensations that were sparking along my skin at Gabe’s touch.

  My shirt gone, his hands went to the back clasp of my bra, unfastening it deftly. His mouth against my good shoulder, he used his teeth to pull one strap down my arm and I shivered. His hands slid around to cup my breasts, and his thumbs rubbed over my nipples through the lacy fabric, bringing them to hard peaks.

  I pushed his shirt from his tanned shoulders. He’d cuffed the sleeves to his elbows earlier, so when he lowered his arms, it fell as easily to the floor as my bra did. I ran my hands over the muscles of his chest, my fingertips hardly making any impression in the hard planes. He backed me up slowly until my thighs hit the soft mattress behind me, and I scooted up on the bed, widening my thighs to make space for him. I could feel his hardness pressing against my core through the denim of my jeans, and my hands went to the fastening of his pants. I wanted to feel more. See more. Taste him.

  He groaned and lowered his forehead to mine when I freed him, bracing his arms on the bed on either side of me. Thick, pulsing, solid flesh filled my hands and I ran them down his length. Softness and steel. The combination sent a spasm of anticipation through me.

  “Gabe.” I didn’t care if my voice was pleading. Now was the time for the heat and swiftness.

  But he gently disengaged from my grasp. “Lay back,” he rasped.

  The sheets were cool, silky against my naked back. In moments, there was nothing between us. He stretched over the length of me, his cock nestled against my sex, but made no move to go further. Instead, he used one finger to tuck back a strand of my hair that had come loose. His eyes were almost wary as they looked into mine, and a long moment spun out as we just focused on each other, the feel and press of our skin against the other’s. His lips started to move for a brief second, but whatever the words were, he left them unsaid.

  Going back on his knees, between my splayed legs, he touched me. Long caresses that left a trail of heat down my breasts, coasting along my belly, dipping down to my sides. From my ankles to my knees, up the sides of my thighs, along the ticklish insides, closer to where I wanted him, but not there yet.

  It was exquisite torture, almost like he was memorizing every square inch of me. Finally, he reached the slippery wet heat at my center. One caress across my clit, two… my back arched, bringing my hips toward him in an involuntarily appeal.

  Taking his cock in hand, he used the tip to rub small, hard circles against my clit. I was so close, lightheaded with need. His head slipped inside, and I gasped. So slowly that I could feel every millimeter of his erection, he pushed inside me, and my muscles stretched to accommodate his girth. Second by second, I was impaled by his cock and gripped by sensations that intensified more and more the farther he pushed inside me. Finally, he was imbedded fully, as deep as he could be.

  He leaned over me, his hands on either side of my head. “Wrap your legs around me.”

  Then he rode me. Setting a deep, plunging, leisurely rhythm that dragged out the pleasure to lengths I’d never experienced. Desire sharpened. I was almost there, but I didn’t want to go alone.

  “Come with me, Gabe,” I begged.

  I locked my arms around his neck as he pumped harder, the slick friction pushing me toward the edge until I couldn’t hold back anymore. I moaned out my orgasm, and as I did, he emptied himself inside me, coming in hard jets that seemed to go on and on as my internal muscles milked him of every last drop.

  Arms shaking with the effort of holding himself up through the storm, he kissed me softly before he pulled out, leaving me soaked and throbbing… and achingly empty.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Gabe

  I woke with Liv in my arms, soft and warm, her head on my bicep, holding her to me like I’d been afraid she’d escape in the night. And to be honest, last night, I’d have happily killed anyone who tried to take her away from me.

  Studying the bandage that wrapped around her lean upper arm, I could acknowledge to myself I would still happily kill Devlin for marring that beautiful skin.

  But in the bright, unforgiving light of morning, I was uneasy.

  Last night… last night was not just fucking. For what seemed like hours, I’d lost track of where I ended and Olivia began. The lines had blurred, and I was on dangerous, dangerous ground.

  I extricated myself as carefully as I could, not waking her, and got out of bed. It was only a few minutes after six, and I badly needed coffee and a clear head. I had to get back to Chicago. Things were moving too fast. Everywhere. Spiraling in all directions and I needed to do damage control.

  I was sipping my second cup, texting at the kitchen table, when Olivia walked in. My mouth went dry at the sight of her long, pale legs, bare beneath the white shirt I’d worn to the office the day before. I wanted to rip off that shirt, so she was wearing only me, lift her up on the kitchen counter. Pound into her again until she screamed. Make her come.

  Make her mine.

  The overwhelming possessiveness I felt at the sight of her, long, dark hair streaming around her shoulders, face flushed from sleep, a soft smile on her lips and in her eyes… I was so, so fucked.

  I needed to get out of here.

  “Any more of that coffee left?” she asked sleepily.

  “Help yourself.” My voice came out rough, and she blinked in surprise. I cleared my throat and took another sip of coffee. “Do you want breakfast?” I asked more evenly.

  “Actually, do you have a computer here that I can use? One with remote network access? I woke up with an idea this morning, and I need to check something out.”

  Perfect.

  “I do. Let me get you logged in.”

  I showed her where my office was, and she settled into my chair. I tried not to think about the fact that only a thin layer of cotton separated her nakedness from the leather seat, but the vanilla-spice scent of her as I leaned over to enter the log-in passwords made that extremely difficult. I doubted I would ever sit in that chair again without thinking of Olivia.

  Dammit.

  “Awesome,” she said, her attention obviously already focused on whatever she was looking for, her fingers rapidly flying across the keys. “Thanks.”

  I went to the bedroom, changed clothes, and called Jason.

  “I need a favor.”

  “Don’t you always?” My stoic friend sounded like he was teasing, which normally would have baffled me, but I didn’t have time right now. I needed him all business.

  “I need you to send a security guard out to my place in Winnetka?”

  “Yeah, just text me the exact address.” That was better. Crisp and to the point.

  “I need someone female. And someone good.”

  I braced myself for more hassle, but this was Jason after all. H
e just grunted. “I’ve got someone.” He sounded insulted. Everyone who worked for Jason’s elite security service was better than good.

  “Not trying to be a dick here. Someone shot at Olivia last night. Grazed her shoulder.”

  “She okay?”

  “Yeah. It was just a deep scratch. It could’ve been a lot worse.”

  My friend’s voice dropped until it was almost a growl. “Devlin?”

  My nostrils flared at the name. “Yeah. I need Olivia’s things from my apartment—”

  “No worries. I’ll take care of it.”

  He disconnected.

  That was it, then. I felt like I should leave her a note or something, but I didn’t have the first idea of what I would say. The need to get out, get going, leave, before she finished whatever she was doing… it was cowardly, and I wasn’t proud of it, but I bolted.

  I stopped at the small house on the edge of the property and spoke to Victor, one half of the older couple who lived on-site and took care of the place year-round. He agreed to keep an eye out for anything suspicious and to call the police, and then me, for any reason.

  I still felt like I was leaving Liv unprotected. But the farther away I got from the lakeshore house in Winnetka, the more settled I felt. In fact, I started to feel like an idiot for the way I’d panicked.

  And there was no better word for it. I’d most definitely panicked.

  Olivia was beautiful, intelligent, gutsy. Most men would be running toward her, not away. But hell, I’d only known Olivia for a couple of weeks now, and I’d thought I knew Natalie too, after we’d dated for months.

  Natalie. The bitch.

  I’d fallen hard for the petite blonde cheerleader from Iowa almost the moment I’d seen her. It had been the first football game of the season and the other team’s offensive lineman practically waltzed right past me when I’d seen her on the side of the field. She had the beautiful perfection of a porcelain doll, a bubbling, outgoing personality, and was studying to be an elementary school teacher.