by Meg Ripley
“Okay,” Chelsea said, gathering up the napkin and laying it in her lap. Johan took one of the plates and began filling it with small portions of everything on the table. “Let’s hear all about how it was stupid and immature of me to throw a temper tantrum.” Johan glanced at her, barely raising one wheat-colored eyebrow.
“You’re afraid, you’re under stress, and you’re dealing with a great deal of uncertainty,” Johan said. He extended the plate towards her utterly piled with delicacies. “It seems fair that you would want some time alone, even if I can’t give you much space.” Chelsea felt a ripple of irritation at his reasonable tone of voice.
“Are you a hostage negotiator on your days off?” she asked, snagging a fork from one of the bundles on the coffee table. Johan chuckled lowly.
“I have dealt with plenty of people in a similar position to you.” He began helping himself to the abundance of food in front of them. “Of course, I haven’t had sex with all of them. And I don’t think any of them have been as delicious as you are.” He popped a hulled strawberry into his mouth. “It’s good, you wanting to take control. You’re not just a helpless victim.” Chelsea pushed around one of the cold shrimp on her plate, not certain of exactly how she felt about the compliment.
“I think I bruised my tailbone,” she admitted, smiling wryly.
“If you’re interested, I can examine your cute ass in detail later,” Johan suggested, his bright eyes warming as he looked at her. He shrugged, perhaps remembering the part of her diatribe about having sex with him. “I’m sure a hotel like this has a doctor if you’d prefer a professional.” Chelsea sighed.
“I want to not want to have sex with you,” she said, narrowing her eyes as she tried to decide whether or not she had spoken correctly. “I’d really rather not be attracted to you, but you’re just…” Chelsea chuckled, shaking her head and bringing a bite of lobster to her lips. “It’s not really fair, you know.” Johan sat back with his plate, his graze trailing over the lines of her body slowly.
“And it’s fair for me? I have to focus on keeping you away from bad guys when all I want to do is keep you in bed all day.” His lips twitched in an amused, slightly lust-tinged smile. “We’re both dealing with hardships.” Chelsea rolled her eyes, though she could feel her cheeks—and the rest of her body—heating up at the suggestive tone of Johan’s words. She turned her attention more fully onto the food in front of her, tasting everything in quick bites before settling in to really enjoy the few things that appealed to her the most.
Somehow, they managed to make their way through most of the astonishing volume of food, and as Johan gathered up the plates and implements, loading them onto the room service cart, Chelsea shook her head at the carnage they’d jointly wreaked. “I had no idea I was that hungry,” she said. Johan’s lips twitched with a smile.
“I thought it might have contributed to your hair-trigger temper,” he said quietly. “You seem to be more prone to bad moods when you’re hungry.” Chelsea raised an eyebrow, twisting her lips into a wry almost-smile as she tried to decide whether it was condescending or merely matter-of-fact.
“Yeah, well,” she said finally, picking at imaginary lint on the couch cushion she sat on. “We’re ready to move past that, I hope?” Johan guided the room service cart to the door of the suite and flashed a grin at her.
“I wouldn’t want to be accused of being controlling or unfair,” Johan said, opening the door and pushing the cart through it. He locked the door as it fell shut, turning to face Chelsea and leaning against the doorframe. Chelsea rolled her eyes, pressing her lips together to suppress the smile that threatened to form, trying to hold onto her irritation at Johan. She decided that it wasn’t worth it; Johan was gorgeous, and she knew from experience that he was extremely good in bed. She didn’t think that spending the night on the couch, or in the bathroom, was a very appealing option.
“I’m not going to the salon,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. Johan shrugged, watching her with an odd mixture of calm and intensity. Chelsea felt more like an antelope under the surveillance of a lion than the object of Johan’s protection.
“Don’t go if you don’t want to go,” he replied evenly. Chelsea groaned, sliding inelegantly lengthwise on the couch.
“You know, it’s kind of annoying that you keep being so—so—agreeable,” she said, looking up at the ceiling. “It’s irritating as hell that you’re not trying to either console me or bully me or...” she pressed her lips together, trying to think of what it was she wanted from him.
“Well you put the kibosh on trying to seduce you; you don’t need comforting, and you made it clear how you feel about bullying.” Chelsea closed her eyes, feeling her irritation rising. Before she could make a reply, she heard a soft, distant noise. Chelsea opened her eyes and turned her head just in time to see Johan approaching her, striding in quick, decisive steps across the room. He sank down into a crouch just inches away from her in front of the couch. “Or maybe you weren’t really telling the truth with all your indignation about—how did you say it? ‘Fucking on my schedule?’ ” Johan’s voice dropped lower, and in spite of her irritation, Chelsea felt her body start to tingle, start to warm up. “Did you want me to see if you bruised yourself?” His hand barely brushed against her hip, and Chelsea shivered. She bit her bottom lip.
“Fine,” she said, even as her heart started beating faster in her chest. She blushed, slightly embarrassed at the fact that she had injured herself in the adult equivalent of a temper tantrum, and turned over gracelessly on her stomach. Johan’s fingers brushed against her skin lightly as he lifted up her skirt, as he gently—gently—tugged her panties down over the curve of her buttocks. Chelsea heard a sharp intake of breath.
“You definitely bruised yourself,” Johan said, his warm fingers trailing in a line from one side of her hip to the other. “You probably won’t be comfortable sitting in the car all day tomorrow.” Chelsea shivered as his touch lingered against her tender, bruised skin, squirming slightly in a mixture of discomfort and—oddly—desire. She was almost as embarrassed at the cause of her injury as she was at the fact that Johan’s light touch was beginning to turn her on. “What a shame.” She heard Johan clucking his tongue against his teeth as he continued to caress her. Chelsea turned her head, looking at him over her shoulder.
“I think you’ve exhausted the potential for staring at my ass that comes with examining the bruise,” she said, biting her bottom lip. Johan smiled unabashedly, his fingers withdrawing.
“What do you want to do about it? I’m sure you’re in a lot of pain.” Chelsea chuckled, shaking her head in disbelief. “I mean—I’m reliably informed that sex is an excellent pain reliever, but finding the right position could be a challenge, and then there’s the fact that you don’t want to want to have sex with me…” Chelsea scrambled up onto one elbow, using her other hand to cuff Johan on the shoulder.
“You are such an asshole sometimes,” she said. Johan tilted his head to the side slightly, not even reacting to the smack she had delivered, and his hand slid against her sensitive skin once more, cupping the curve of her buttocks.
“I think the fall must have scrambled your brain; the asshole is closer to here.” Johan gave her buttocks a careful squeeze and Chelsea gasped; the little twinge of pain from the bruising just above his hand was nothing compared to the rush of sensuality she felt flowing through her. Johan grinned at her as if he understood her predicament entirely. “We could watch TV and I could see if the front desk has some aspirin,” he suggested innocently.
“Ugh.” Chelsea squirmed away from him, dragging herself up off of her stomach and wincing as the movement of sitting up put more pressure on her bruise. “Fine! I want to have sex with you.” Johan chuckled, his gaze meeting hers.
“You’ll feel better afterward,” he pointed out, leaning in close to her. Chelsea started to retort, but Johan brushed his lips against hers, his hands beginning to come alive on her body, stroking an
d caressing her. He peeled off her clothes quickly, letting them fall to the couch, to the floor, and Chelsea broke away from Johan’s lips as she felt him lift her up carefully, rising from his crouch and settling her body against his.
He carried her into the bedroom of the suite, carefully laying Chelsea down onto the bed. Johan looked down at her hungrily; before she could prompt him, however, he had already begun to strip off his clothes, hauling his tee shirt over his head and casting it aside, quickly unbuckling his belt. In a matter of moments, he was pushing his boxers down over his hips, revealing the slim, muscled body Chelsea had come to enjoy so much. She took in the sight of his lean hips, his broad chest with its scattering of wheat-colored hair, the muscled thighs, and the hard, proudly erect cock just above.
Johan climbed into the bed with her, carefully arranging himself next to her as he let his hands wander and trail over Chelsea’s body slowly. He cupped her jaw, shifting on the bed next to her, and kissed her hungrily. Chelsea moaned as his hand fell away, slipping along the lines of her body, down between her legs. Johan’s other arm slid underneath her, shifting Chelsea onto her side to face him, holding her body close. Johan cupped her already-wet folds in his palm, his fingers brushing up and down along her labia. “If I take you like this,” Johan murmured, barely breaking his lips away from hers, “I think we can keep from hurting your poor, injured ass.” Chelsea chuckled breathlessly, gasping as Johan’s fingers pressed more deeply against her folds, as he stroked and rubbed her up and down teasingly.
“I’ll—I’ll take your word for it,” Chelsea said. Johan’s fingers retreated and she groaned in frustrated desire; but the next moment, as he kissed her again, she felt Johan’s hand moving along her leg, felt him moving and shifting her. One of her legs draped over his hip, her foot barely touching the mattress beyond him, and while she could feel the flicker of tension along her bruise, the appealing feeling of his cock brushing against her slick folds soon distracted her. Johan held her tightly, cradling her body against his, and Chelsea moaned as he thrust into her, filling her up quickly, his thick, hard cock rubbing against her inner walls.
Chelsea’s pleasure mounted quickly as they moved together, kissing and touching and rocking their hips, twisting and writhing on the bed. Hot and cold tingles of pleasure coursed through her; the way her body was draped over and wedged against Johan’s meant that every movement brought friction to bear on her clit, crackling sensations shooting through her to compete with the sharper, hotter pleasure of Johan’s cock filling her up over and over again. “This—was a good—idea,” she said, panting, barely breaking away from Johan’s lips. Johan chuckled lowly, taking advantage of the position to play with her breasts, cupping and squeezing them, teasing her nipples with his fingertips. His mouth traveled all over her, it seemed, kissing and nipping, sucking and licking as they both moved faster and faster together, falling into a rhythm that neither could resist. Chelsea gasped and shivered as Johan’s cock brushed up against her g-spot steadily, the tip rubbing along her inner walls to press her pleasure center with almost every movement of his hips.
Somehow Johan was shifting her around, even as they continued to move together, even as he thrust deeper and deeper inside of her, and Chelsea found herself on top of him, straddling his waist. Johan’s hands rested on her hips, slid up to her breasts, and Chelsea rode him hard and fast, taking him deeper, moaning and crying out in pleasure as she came closer and closer to orgasm. Johan sat up slightly, pulling her by the shoulders down against him, kissing her hungrily, and as their bodies rubbed together, Chelsea couldn’t hold back any longer; the last of her self-control dissolved as every muscle in her body flexed and then released, wave after wave of pleasure washing through her, obliterating any thought of pain or fear. She barely heard Johan’s moans of pleasure as her inner walls flexed around him, but as he reached his own climax, the hot stickiness of his come rushing into her, her climax intensified. Chelsea barely held herself up as Johan managed a few final hard, fast thrusts, before she collapsed against him, panting and gasping for breath.
****
Chelsea was still coming back to herself, basking in the hazy glow of pleasure, when she felt Johan’s body tense underneath her. “What?” she asked, something about his tension triggering an internal alarm.
“You need to get out of bed quickly,” Johan said, his voice little more than a murmur. “And you need to get dressed. Now.”
“What’s going on?” Chelsea pulled herself up to look down at Johan. He lifted her off of him in a quick, deft movement, throwing his legs over the edge of the bed and standing up seemingly all at once, with a grace that Chelsea envied.
“I hear people outside,” Johan told her. He picked up his clothes. “Quickly, Chelsea,” he said, giving her a firm look to underscore the urgency. She scrambled out of the bed, ignoring the twinge of pain from her bruised buttocks, and darted into the living room area of the suite, quickly retrieving her panties, her bra, her skirt. She pulled and tugged to get them on; in the living room, she could hear the sound of movement in the hallway.
Johan came into the room behind her, the keys to the car in his hand. “Take these,” he said. “If it’s them, you’re better off making a getaway in the car on your own.”
“Where the hell am I supposed to go?” Chelsea asked him, though she took the key chain instinctively.
“There’s money in the glove compartment,” Johan told her. He moved, and suddenly there was a gun in his hand. He shifted again, his hand going down to a subtle bulge along his hip, and produced a knife. “There’s also a spare phone in there. The only number in it will connect to my phone.”
There was a loud, shuddering boom at the door and Chelsea jumped back, yelping in surprise and alarm. Johan put the knife into her hand, bringing both hands around the butt of his pistol. “Get yourself out of here, get into the car, and drive like hell,” Johan said sharply. “I’ll take care of everything else.” Four men poured through the door into the room, and Chelsea staggered backward, gripping the hilt of the knife tightly.
“Found you, Princess,” one of the men said, sneering. The four were all dressed in nondescript clothes: jeans, tee shirts, and work boots. Chelsea thought wildly that they must have gotten into the hotel by pretending to be workers, part of the staff. Their hair and faces looked greasy, and Chelsea thought fleetingly that the men had obviously not had the benefit of luxury hotels in their pursuit.
Everything became a blur, and Chelsea went almost deaf at the air-ripping report of the first shot Johan fired. She glanced at him quickly and then rushed forward, even as reinforcements came in behind the first four men. Pivoting on her heel, she looked around frantically for an alternative exit; there was a balcony attached to the suite, but the thought of the long drop down made her stop. “Go, Chelsea!” She darted towards the door to the suite, ears ringing as another shot from the pistol echoed through the room. One of the men went down. Chelsea darted through the opening the hired man’s fall created, slashing with the knife to attempt to fend off the grabs his comrades made for her. She made it through the door, but one of the men was hot on her heels.
Before she could get down the hallway, she felt a heavy weight collide with her back and she was falling forward, holding her arm out to the side instinctively to avoid stabbing herself as she hit the floor, covered by the heavy man. Chelsea screamed, struggling and squirming, and stabbed blindly with the knife Johan had given her. There was a sharp jolt of pain across her back, another against her shoulders, and she could hear—dimly—shouts and shots coming from the room behind her, thuds and thunder of the struggle. Chelsea thought wildly that they had certainly racked up a huge bill for themselves. She shouted incoherently, heart pounding in her chest, blood roaring in her ears, and stabbed down at the lump of black, pink, and blue; once, twice, three times, until he went still, groaning. She got to her feet and staggered towards the elevator, trying to ignore the misgivings she felt at leaving Johan behind.
In minutes that felt like an hour, Chelsea found herself in the parking lot, the blood-reddened knife still in one hand, the keys to the car in the other. She ached all over—sharper aches that told her she was injured indeed, though the adrenaline of the fight made them seem like a minor consideration. She limped to the car, shivering and shaking, and unlocked the door. She could only hope that she would be able to get to wherever she needed to be, and be able to get in touch with Johan when she did.
PART THREE
Chelsea pulled into an empty parking spot at a rest stop in what seemed—to her—like the middle of nowhere, exhausted. She hadn’t seen Johan in twenty-four hours; the only sleep she had gotten was a brief nap at a hospital. An hour into her panicked flight away from the hotel, the adrenaline had begun to ebb out of her system, and Chelsea had slowly realized that she was bleeding in a few places, with pain throbbing in many more. Thoughts of Johan—worries about whether or not he was still alive, concerns about where he was, if he was alive, and how she would get in contact with him once more—distracted her enough to keep going until she saw a sign on the highway with the H indicating there was a hospital nearby.
She had decided that two hours away was far enough, if Johan had indeed taken out their assailants. Chelsea had finally checked the glove compartment to find the phone and the money; much, much more of it than she would have guessed that Johan would have felt comfortable just leaving in the car. Her fingers had trembled as she attempted to count the contents of the envelope, but there was at least a thousand dollars in it. Chelsea had stuffed the envelope into her purse, slipped the phone in her pocket, and limped into the hospital.
After waiting for what seemed like an eternity—but was, she found out later, only an hour and a half—Chelsea had been called back. In addition to the cash, she’d found a note in the card to submit any bills to a particular agent, and had provided that person’s contact information to the hospital; they must have called and confirmed it, because they were more than happy to x-ray seemingly every inch of her body, run a full panel of blood tests, and examine each injury in minute detail. Chelsea had a badly sprained ankle, a partially torn ligament in her knee, a bullet graze on the back of her shoulder, and bruised ribs, all of which she had struggled to explain with as little detail as possible.