by Cynthia Eden
Bailey stared at him, desire bright in her gaze. “What are you waiting for?”
“I’ll be . . . in control.” He could hold on to his control. For her. He wouldn’t be rough. He’d be—
“Why? That isn’t how I want you.” She smiled at him. “Don’t you get it yet, Asher? I don’t need you to hold back. I want everything you have.”
Then she would get it.
He ditched his clothes and was in that shower with her in seconds. He pressed her back to the tiled wall and his fingers went straight to her sex even as his lips took hers. The water pounded on him, but it sure didn’t do anything to cool him off. His fingers sank into her, thrusting knuckle deep, and she gave a quick gasp as she arched toward him.
“Asher!”
He liked the way she said his name, but he loved it when she screamed it.
He kissed a hot path down her neck. He used his teeth to give her a quick bite, a mark. His fingers kept pushing into her sex. Playing with her, readying her, and when he felt her delicate little muscles start to squeeze around him . . .
“Are you going to come for me, sweetheart?”
Her lashes lifted. Her breath rushed out in pants.
His thumb pushed down on her clit, he stroked her harder, working her desire into a frenzy with his touch.
“No, Asher!” Her hands clamped around his upper arms. “I want you in me.”
“Trust me, I will be.” But he pulled away from her delectable sex. For the moment. He wrapped his arms around her hips and lifted her up, holding her easily against the tile, and then he took her breast into his mouth. Her nipple was tight and sweet and he worked it with his tongue. The water crashed onto his back and he didn’t care. All that mattered was her. He was fucking breathing her in because she was everything to him right then.
He kissed his way to her other breast. Her legs were around his hips, her tempting sex flush against his cock. He could push, could thrust, and he’d be in her. Tight and wet and driving him insane.
If he pushed . . .
His lips closed around her breast. He sucked hard even as he surged forward with his hips.
“Asher!”
Hell, yes, that was the scream he’d wanted. He withdrew, plunged in deep, but he made sure to slide right over her clit.
Come for me, sweetheart.
Withdraw. Thrust.
The water poured down on them.
Come for me.
He caught her arms. Pinned them to the cold tile. Steam was all around them. Her legs were locked around his hips. He wanted her to climax and squeeze him tighter with her sex. Wanted to feel those wild ripples of her release.
Withdraw. Thrust.
Come for me.
He kissed her neck again. Licked her. Felt her buck against him.
He drove into her, even harder than before. His control was holding by a thread . . .
And her climax hit. He saw her face flood with pleasure, saw her eyes seem to go blind. Contractions of her delicate inner muscles vibrated all along his cock and he locked his muscles, holding still as he enjoyed that fucking glorious ride.
When it was over, when her ragged breath steadied and she blinked up at him, he couldn’t manage a smile. All he could say was, “Are you ready for more?”
She bit her lip.
No, I get to bite.
And he did. He caught her lip. Tugged. Enjoyed her quick gasp. “Are you ready?” he whispered.
She nodded.
His hands freed hers. Bailey didn’t move her hands, though; she kept them up against the tile, on either side of her head. His fingers trailed down her body. Over her neck. Over her breasts. Over her tight nipples.
She jerked beneath his touch. “Sensitive . . .”
Good.
Down, down his hands went. He was still in her and he loved to see their bodies joined but . . .
Asher pulled out of her.
“Asher?”
He flipped her body around. “Put your hands back on the tile.”
Her hands slapped against the tile.
“Trust me.”
She looked back at him. “I do.”
Yes, he thought that she did and it was damn humbling. I won’t ever betray your trust, Bailey.
He could see the tattoo on her shoulder. Those dark wings. He put his mouth on the wings. Kissed her softly there.
Then he lifted her hips up, positioning her, controlling her completely, and he sank into her in one long, hard plunge. Instantly, he was balls deep in her hot core, feeling the aftershocks of her release once more as they squeezed his cock.
He held her hips, probably too tightly, probably bruising her, but his control was gone. He thrust into her, over and over, the slap of their flesh making him growl with raw need. More. Everything. He wanted to take every single thing that Bailey had to give.
And he wanted to give her so much pleasure in return that she would never, ever be the same.
Her hands had fisted against the wall. She shoved her hips back against him, the movement just making his lust burn darker. His right hand slid around her body. He stroked her. Loved working her with his fingers even as his cock drove into her again and again.
“Asher! I’m coming—again . . .” Her voice broke off as she trembled.
He didn’t stop thrusting this time. Didn’t go still. He took her and he went wild. There was no restraint. There was just the drive for release and when his climax hit him, he poured into her on a hot blast that seemed to surge from his fucking soul. It didn’t end, just kept going, and he was wrung out, spent, so sated he thought he’d lost his damn mind.
And maybe he had lost it.
Sanity returned slowly. So slowly.
First he heard the roar of the shower. Then he felt the water on his back. Sharp pinpricks on his skin. He blinked open his eyes and the water droplets were sliding down his cheeks.
His body was bowed over Bailey’s. He held her hip in a desperate grip, and he made his hand relax.
Fuck, one of his hands was still stroking her sex. Again and again, like it had a mind of its own.
My body is obsessed with hers.
Her head was tilted forward. Her forehead rested on the tile. Her shoulders were arched.
Once more, his gaze slid to that dark tattoo.
Not his angel. Mine.
He kissed that mark once more.
His fingers rose up her side, over her scars, and he slowly pulled out of her. Bailey gasped at the contact, and he froze, realizing he’d probably hurt her and—
“I don’t want to stop,” Bailey said, looking back at him. “I don’t want to be done.”
And Asher felt a hungry smile curve his lips. “Sweetheart, we aren’t.” He didn’t think he could ever be done with her. He turned off the faucet. The roar of the water became a steady drip-drip-drip.
Bailey turned toward him.
His gaze raked over her and he said, “You are the most perfect woman I’ve ever seen.”
Her hands came down then, sliding over her body, over the scars. “You don’t have to lie to me.”
Asher caught her hands. Stared straight into her eyes. “I’m not.”
Her smile came, starting with a slow stretch of her lips. Moving ever so tentatively until that smile crept into her eyes, lighting them up and making them sparkle.
He wrapped a towel around her and picked her up into his arms, holding her against his chest. One of his arms was under her knee, and the other was behind her back. She laughed and hooked her elbow around his neck.
He loved her laughter.
Asher carried her out of the bathroom and put her just where he wanted her—in bed, with him.
And as they drifted to sleep, he realized he hadn’t told her about the shrink. About the money in the guy’s account. About someone else she shouldn’t trust.
Soon enough, he’d have to tell her. Soon enough . . .
But for that moment, he just wanted her to have some peace.
Royce
Donnelley tapped the top of the bar, indicating that he wanted another drink. It was still early—damn, only six o’clock? But he’d been hitting the drinks hard.
Ever since the run-in at Bailey’s. That visit sure as shit hadn’t gone the way he planned. The woman was freaking haunting him. Everywhere he turned . . .
“Bailey Jones narrowly escaped death today . . .”
His eyes squinted and Royce looked up at the TV. Sure the fuck enough, Bailey was there. Or rather, she was in the background and that Asher asshole was with her. The news footage showed the two of them huddling close near a burning building.
The bartender had turned around to stare at the TV. Everyone stared when the news was about Bailey.
I should have stayed with her. Fuck.
“What is happening in this town?” the reporter asked as the camera zoomed back in on him. “Is the Death Angel hunting again? And what about the man who saved Bailey today? Asher Young—”
“Is an asshole,” Royce muttered.
“—is himself the survivor of an abduction. Only Asher didn’t just escape, he killed the men who had taken him and his sister.”
What the fuck?
Then a grainy clip filled the scene. Of some punk kid and his sister being taken into a hospital.
The bartender nodded. “Sounds like the guy is a real hero.”
What. The. Hell. “Sounds like I still need my drink!” Royce snarled.
Then . . . then she appeared. A woman who smelled like brandy and who had on one tight-fitting black dress. She sat on the stool next to him. Glanced up at the TV, then turned away dismissively.
That’s what I’m talking about.
She smiled at him, and, hey, she was pretty enough, so he smiled back.
Fuck you, Bailey Jones. I’m moving on.
“Make it two drinks,” Royce ordered the bartender.
He stopped watching the news, turning to focus on the woman he planned to soon have naked. But the reporter’s voice kept blasting . . .
“Sources are saying that Bailey Jones managed to track down another woman who escaped the Death Angel’s clutches. That woman . . . Carla Drake . . . owned the shop that is now blazing behind me.” A dramatic sigh. “I’m Dave Barren, reporting live, and I will continue to bring you updates on this dark and twisted story . . .”
Royce smiled. “What is a beautiful woman like you doing in a shit hole like this?”
She blushed.
Chapter Eleven
Someone was knocking at her door.
Bailey heard the distant pounding and she cracked open one eye. Her room was dark, so she knew the sun had set, but she had no idea what time it actually was. After another toe-curling, knee-shaking, orgasm-inducing round of sex, she’d fallen into an exhausted sleep.
Um, on top of Asher.
“I swear . . .” His voice rumbled beneath her and she knew the pounding had woken him, too. The pounding and now the peal of her doorbell. “If that is your asshole ex again, I will kick his ass.”
Bailey pushed up, her palms sinking into the mattress and her elbows locking as she stared down at him. “He’s not worth an ass kicking.” Royce was better just forgotten. She’d thought that he’d forgotten her, too, until he showed up on her doorstep.
Asher tensed beneath her. “He hurt you.”
I needed him to be there for me. At the moment I needed him the most, he turned away. As if I wasn’t good enough for him anymore.
The pounding came again. So did the ring of her doorbell. Someone was persistent.
“Better not be him,” Asher murmured, then his hands settled around her hips and he very carefully lifted her off him. He yanked on a pair of jeans and started to head for the door.
Oh, wait, they’d played this routine before. Back when he’d thought she would just stay tucked away while he faced whatever trouble had come knocking.
I don’t think so. In a flash, Bailey grabbed her robe and rushed past him.
“Bailey!”
She whirled back around to face him, her hands automatically going to her hips. “How about we both go see who is out there?” And a quick glance at her bedside clock showed her that it was barely past eight p.m. Still early; they’d just hit the bed too hard and collapsed.
Asher nodded, and he caught her hand in his. A few moments later, she had her eye pressed to the peephole. Surprise rocked through her when she saw the identity of her visitor.
“Definitely not an ex,” she told Asher.
Bailey moved back, took a bracing breath, and squared her shoulders. “But apparently, I’ve got a shrink who pays house calls.”
Asher’s eyes widened as Bailey opened the door. “That’s him?” And just like that—his voice had gone cold, sinister. “Been wanting to meet that dick, too,” Asher muttered, voice carrying only to her ears. “Especially after what Gabe told me . . .”
“Bailey!” Dr. Paul Leigh hurriedly stepped over the threshold and caught her hands in his. “My God, I saw the story on the news tonight and I had to rush over!”
Right. The news. She was rather glad she’d missed that segment.
“They found the missing victim.” Paul squeezed her hands, his dark eyes somber. “They found her!”
“Well, actually . . .” Asher said, clearing his throat, “Bailey found her. Not the authorities. She’s the only one who kept looking. Seems everyone else didn’t believe her. Including you, Doc.”
At least her shrink had the grace to flush. Grace, guilt, whatever. Bailey wasn’t really sure why he was at her house. She hadn’t gone in for a session with him in over a month. Mostly because the last time she’d visited his office, he’d told her that her continued talk of a missing victim was “delaying the healing process” and that she’d never be whole again until she let go of “the fictitious persona that you developed” to deal with her emotional stress.
In other words . . . he’d thought she had a breakdown and imagined the other woman, and he’d wanted her to move the hell on.
“I made a mistake,” Paul said gravely.
Bailey pulled her hands from his. His grip had been a little too sweaty for her taste. And this is so weird. I’m in my robe with my shrink at the door.
In case there were reporters lurking outside, Bailey waved the shrink further in. Asher shut the door behind him.
“A very terrible mistake,” Paul continued as he faced her. “And I need to offer you my deepest apologies.”
“Um, thank you?” Yes, those words did sound like a question. She tightened the robe’s belt, feeling terribly exposed in front of him.
She supposed that some people would say Paul was attractive. He had dimples that flashed when he smiled. Dark eyes that could appear warm, concerned. His jaw was strong, and his thick hair was always swept back from his high forehead.
He was in his early thirties, fit, and she knew that he’d been in the area for all of his life. Well respected, trusted . . . yep, that was Dr. Paul Leigh.
He should have been able to help her. Everyone had said that, even Wyatt.
But he didn’t help me.
“This changes everything.” Paul nodded. “Your diagnosis, of course, will need to be altered. You probably need to unburden yourself now that you’ve come face to face with the victim. You’ll want to talk through your feelings. Address any inner demons that you still have. I can treat both of you—you and Ms. Drake—and we can make real progress to—”
“Stop.” Bailey held up her hand. Had he just said address her inner demons? Like she was going to sit down and talk with them?
And have therapy with Carla Drake?
He paused, his mouth still open.
“I’m not having some therapy session with Carla Drake.” She may have tried to kill me. May have? Ha! “The authorities are looking for her now. Wasn’t that on the news, too?”
Paul’s mouth slowly closed. “They said she was a person of interest in their investigation, yes, but . . .”
“Are you writing a
book?” Asher suddenly asked.
Paul took a step back. “Excuse me?”
Bailey blinked, confused. Why was Asher even saying—
“Writing a book,” Asher snapped. “On Bailey. On the Death Angel.”
“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Paul’s gaze swept over him. What could have been anger flashed in his eyes.
He’s mad at Asher? And where was Asher getting this book stuff?
“Really?” Asher’s lips curled down as he stroked his chin. He’d stopped long enough to pull on his jeans, but his chest was bare. “Because one of my associates at LOST seems to believe otherwise. And your bank, well, I think the accountants there believe otherwise, too.”
“Asher?” Bailey shook her head. “What are you talking about?”
“Didn’t have the chance to tell you before,” he murmured. “But I got Gabe to do a little digging into the shrink’s finances . . .”
He’d done what?
“What?” Paul’s voice sounded as if he were choking.
Asher shrugged, as if digging into a person’s financial history was the normal course of business for him. “You recently received a very large advance from a New York publisher, didn’t you?”
What?
Paul’s mouth flapped open, closed, flapped open again. “How do you know that?”
“I know because LOST has quite a few helpful resources.” Asher’s head cocked as he studied the other man. “You’re writing a story on serial killers . . . or rather, on the victims that survive a serial killer’s attack. Those precious few that live to tell their dark tales.”
Bailey’s heart took on a double-time rhythm and her stomach seemed to bottom out. “You’re writing about me? How can you do that? What I told you in our meetings was confidential!” She’d told him about her nightmares, about her inability to connect physically with anyone, about the guilt that gnawed and gnawed at her because she thought she’d let the other victim die.
Paul drew himself up, as if insulted. “I am absolutely aware of HIPAA laws. I would not violate any patient confidentiality. But if people choose to volunteer, if they want to help others by sharing their stories . . . how is that wrong?”
His voice reeked of sincerity. Of perfect justification.