by Marie Harte
“I’m not telling you jack, Shaw. It’s your turn to answer a question or two. How did you get into doing what you do?”
A good enough distraction, he supposed. “I was recruited at a young age, had a thing for melee weapons. You know, daggers, clubs, batons. I was especially fond of throwing knives.” He smiled. “And the rest is history.”
“I don’t think so.” The electric kettle dinged, and she poured two mugs of tea. That she prepared it just the way he liked it gave him the warm and fuzzies. A domestic scene, a man and woman sharing an evening cup of tea. When she handed it to him, their eyes met, and her cheeks turned a pretty shade of pink. Her lips parted, and he had to look away.
He stifled a groan, took a sip and nearly burned his tongue. “Hot,” he rasped.
“Are you trying to hurt yourself?” She rolled her eyes. “Now stop stalling. I want to know how a man becomes an assassin.”
He cleared his throat. “We prefer the term contractor. Even agent works. Makes it less sticky if the police come asking questions, so you don’t accidentally slip and call me something that implies I’m involved in anything illegal.”
“Accidentally slip? Problem you once had with an old girlfriend?” she teased.
“Not at all.” Deacon’s lovers had been casual acquaintances and nothing more. He didn’t trust the people in his profession enough to let down his guard for sex. And the women he’d been intimate with never knew more than whatever name he’d been using at the time.
“Well? Still waiting.”
Stubborn woman. He blew out a breath. “I was living on the streets by the time I was ten, got picked up by the cops for stealing. They found my loot, and it was impressive.” He grinned, doing his best to ignore the memories of his childhood, focusing on his escape into a new life. “Social services took over and dropped me off at a boarding school for gifted youngsters. There was this bald guy in wheelchair, and—”
“I’ve read a comic or two, Deacon. So, unless you’re actually a mutant—which doesn’t seem that farfetched since coming to know you…”
He grinned. One more reason he had a thing for the brainy beauty. She knew her comics. “Fine. Social services did pick me up. But it wasn’t long before some suits came and took me to a government-funded ‘camp.’ They’d tracked down my mother, and she signed her rights away for some serious cash.” He said it without feeling, no longer hurt that he’d actually been sold like used goods at a garage sale.
Solene gaped. “No way. You can’t sell people.”
“Can and did, Blondie.” He basked in her compassion, but not wanting her pity, he hurried the story. “And it was the best thing that could have happened to me. I got three square meals a day, a roof over my head, and learned a real skillset. I was already sharp from living on the streets, but they taught me more than just academics.” Despite being turned into a killer, Deacon appreciated all the Business had done to turn his life around. “I learned how to see and hear with attention to detail. To be still, to remember with accurate recall. I can use a gun, a knife, you name the weapon, I can figure out how to make it sing. I’m partial to knives, though. Not close-up work so much as throwing them. It’s fun.”
She stared.
“I mean, not the killing part.” He didn’t want her to think him a psycho. “I’m talking about hitting the target. Like darts or marksmanship competitions. For sport.”
“But your sport is a lot more…serious.”
He shrugged. “I pick and choose from the assignments they give us. And yeah, I kill for money. I also put away people who do things you’d only see in your nightmares. I mean, the worst of the worst.” She didn’t seem to be cringing away from him. He’d thought perhaps being honest would dismay her. She’d keep her distance, and he could stop thinking he had a shot with her.
With most women, he worked the charm. With Solene, apparently honesty was the key. Damn.
“Okay,” she said.
“Okay?”
She nodded. “But you never said what put you on the streets. Bad parenting, I take it?”
“Probably no worse than yours.” Now that was a total lie.
“Really?” She raised a brow, not believing him. “If you read Noel’s files, you’d know all about my parents.” She still seemed a little peeved that he knew her background.
“It was Noel, not me who initially looked into—”
“Everyone. I get it. Still weirds me out a little though.” She rubbed her hand, a nervous tell. “My parents weren’t awful, just bad. My mother tried living vicariously through me, pushing me into modeling, then turned into that parent-turned-agent-from-hell. My parents argued a lot about what to do with my money. Eventually they divorced. My father basically deserted me, and though I haven’t seen him since my fifteenth birthday, once I emancipated myself, I never had to scrounge in alleys and steal things.” Nice way to turn the conversation back to him. He had to admit, she was good. “Okay, Deacon. You wanted the truth? You got it. Your turn.”
So she’d know the ugly facts. Big deal. Except Deacon didn’t share them with anyone. It was a part of his past he didn’t like facing. Yet some part of him wanted Solene to know.
“Fine. Truth—my mother was a druggie more concerned with shooting up than with me. She killed my older brother by accident, when she forgot he was in the car during a hot summer day. The kid died, and she never told the cops she was getting high while it happened. Back then she looked decent, and you couldn’t tell she was doping up. A year later, she had me to replace him.” He thought he’d put it behind him, but he still hated Beatrice Shaw with all his heart. “My childhood sucked.”
He gauged Solene for a reaction, but she wasn’t giving him any, and he found it easier to continue. “My mother was never there, so I learned to forage for myself. The only reason I survived was because the old lady who lived next door liked me. She’d feed me, and I’d steal shit for her. Not because she asked, but because it was an honest trade, and I liked her.”
She gave him a small smile. “That sounds like you. A ladies’ man even as a little boy. But somehow I get the feeling you stole more to help your caretaker than for yourself.”
To his surprise, she didn’t condemn him. He felt himself blushing and hoped she didn’t notice. “I don’t remember.”
“Uh-huh.”
He glared. “I’m not that nice. Anyway, the old lady died. I was on my own, and I got bolder. Stole enough to keep me flush and ended up fencing my own crap, pretending I was doing it for a mobster who owned a piece of the city. Told everyone he was my uncle, so they bought it. He was a real bad guy, so I didn’t feel bad fleecing him. Then I got busted on a stupid job, and the rest is history.”
Busted because he’d done the right thing and turned the mobster in—which she didn’t need to know. He’d had enough talking about himself. “What about you? Why do you hate men?”
“I don’t know I’d say I hate them.”
“Yeah, right. You have a real hard-on for anyone with a Y chromosome. And not a good hard-on, either.”
She scowled. “Nice mouth.”
“So I’ve been told.”
She choked on a laugh. “You’re such an asshole.”
“You’re deflecting.”
“It’s no big deal. Some douche broke my heart, and I’m done with men. Every guy I’ve ever been with has wanted something from me. Modeling connections, money, my body. You name it. They never just wanted to be with me for me.”
“I’m sorry, but isn’t your body a part of you?”
“You know what I’m saying.”
“I do, but you’re not being fair. Your body is a part of you. You’re stunning. You know that. So what if a guy is attracted to you? I’m attracted to you. Doesn’t mean I’m going to use you.”
“You’re using me as bait right now.”
“To protect you. By drawing out the threat before you’re hurt. It’s not as if I’ve staked you out like a sacrificial goat. I’m right here with y
ou, in case it’s escaped your notice.”
“Oh, I noticed,” she huffed. “I can’t help noticing your colossal ego strutting around half-naked all the time.”
He’d planned to ask for more details about getting her heart broken, but she seemed fixed on him being half-naked. He liked that a lot. “Oh? So you do like my flannel pajama pants. I knew it.”
“I’d like them better if you wore the shirt that goes with them,” she muttered. “You don’t see me prancing around half-dressed.”
“I can only wish.”
She sipped her tea, glaring at him.
He sipped his as well, smiling back. Man, she was sexy when steamed. Her eyes glowed, her soft lips shone, ripe and ready. And her cheeks turned that rosy shade, darkening her skin.
“Take down your ponytail.”
“What? No.”
He’d been pushed past his ability to stay away from her days ago. Deacon rounded the island and caged her against it. He took the tea from her hands and slowly eased the band from her hair, bemused she didn’t try to fight him.
Then he saw her desire burning bright, saw the rise and fall of her full breasts as she tried to hold onto her anger. He ran his fingers through her silky hair and wondered what the strands would feel like against his belly. Or better yet, his inner thighs.
She licked her lips. “S-stop that.”
He zeroed in on her mouth. “Make me.”
She put her hands on his chest and ignited the sparks flaring inside him. “Deacon?”
That tiny kiss at the restaurant had only whetted his monstrous appetite. Tired of holding back, he leaned in, took her mouth, and indulged.
Solene tensed for a moment, then softened under him. He drew her closer, his hands on her hips. He couldn’t help his erection against her belly or the hunger for her taste.
He deepened the kiss, moaning when she parted her lips. For a man known for his skill at seduction, he’d never felt so out of control. Like his body belonged to her, and he could do no more than follow where she led.
Solene opened her mouth. She licked his lips, penetrated with her tongue. He jerked against her, ready to take himself out and shove up hard and fast inside her. No finesse, no more seduction, just wild, animalistic fucking.
She grabbed him by the neck and yanked him closer. He ground against her, kissing, lost in Solene. Her hands somehow found bare skin, her nails raking his back, trails of heat in their wake.
When her hands circled to his front, he pulled back, panting, and stared down at beauty personified. Why did this woman get to him like no one else ever had?
Her eyes smoldered. “Take off your shirt.”
He ripped his shirt off and groaned when she latched onto his nipple. She teethed and sucked, laving the tight flesh, and he nearly came.
“Solene,” he growled. “Wait, I—” His breath caught when she teased the other side of his chest, then slid her hand down his belly, under his jeans and underwear, caressing the tip of his slick cock.
He pumped into her, cupping her head to his chest as she took advantage of his weakness—his inability to stop her.
Before he knew it, his jeans had parted, her hand was around his bare cock, and she’d leaned back to watch him as she jerked him off.
“I’m gonna come,” he warned, so close it was embarrassing. Or it would have been if he could feel anything but desire.
“Do it.”
“All over your hand,” he panted, pumping into sheer heaven. Her hand was slick from his arousal, and he had little stamina left. So fucking hard and hurting.
“Better yet in my mouth,” she whispered and licked her lips. So naughty, a fantasy made real. He lost it.
Deacon gasped her name as he made a mess of her hand and, hell, her shirt. He’d been pent up, but God, she’d destroyed him. He continued to pump until he had nothing left to give.
After she’d milked him dry, she wiped her hand over his belly. Solene crooked her finger, and when he could focus, he obeyed, leaning toward her.
She kissed him with soft but firm lips before pushing him back with the hand that had held him so intimately.
“Now if I hated men, would I have done that?”
She blew him a kiss and sauntered away.
Deacon could only stand there, his dick hanging out, his mouth open, and watch her leave.
* * *
Solene made it to her bedroom and closed the door behind her before giving in to her trembling knees and sinking to the floor. She wanted him inside her so much she would have begged him to take her if she’d stayed a moment longer. She had no doubt that even after the sexiest orgasm she’d ever seen, the man would be raring to go with little provocation.
Sweet Jesus, but he was huge. Thick and long and sexy as sin in her hand. So much for wanting another kiss. First his lips, then the definition of his chest. All that hard muscle, so much strength. He’d tasted fine, of man and power. But to see him so sensitive to her touch, learning more about him through taste and scent, she’d been seduced with little effort.
Hell, she’d seduced herself, drunk on his kiss.
She’d been helpless to stop herself from reaching for that thick, hard part of him shoving against her belly. But holding him, seeing him, had done her completely in. Solene wasn’t normally attracted to every body part on a man. Chest and arms, thighs, sure. She’d never considered herself an ass girl and she could do without the many dick-pics she’d unfortunately received over the years. Deacon, though, was a work of art.
She’d loved seeing him come. Could watch that over and over again if she was lucky enough to get a recording.
Unfortunately, she didn’t think Deacon would go for that. And now she had no one to blame but herself that she was horny, uncomfortable in her wet panties, and needing sex like she needed breath.
Maybe a cold shower? No way would she touch herself after having done the same to him. With her luck, he’d catch her doing it. Or he’d somehow know. Better to maintain the appearance that she had power over him. She’d brought him to orgasm then walked away. Yep. She was in control.
Or so she kept telling herself as she locked herself in her bathroom and undressed, her body sensitive to the slightest brush.
Solene stood under the cold water for about two seconds, then turned it hot, doing her best to wash away her troubles and desire with soap and water. She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the tile, trying to relax, unable to stop seeing Deacon’s climax in her mind’s eye.
When the glass door to the shower opened, she shrieked.
“The hell you get me off then just leave.”
“Deacon?” she asked, still trying to catch her breath.
Deacon walked in, wearing only his jeans, and pushed her so that her back was against the cold tile.
“You’re getting all wet,” she said dumbly. “And I’m naked.”
His face set in a hard mask, he just stared at her. Then, before she could guess his intent, he dropped to his knees, spread her legs wide, and—
“Oh my God.” She gripped his shoulders to keep from falling, her body splintering in sensation. His lips, that tongue… He drew her into his mouth as if devouring her, and then his fingers were there. Filling her, pumping in and out as he took her higher.
He moaned against her clit, his finger deep inside her. Then he slid a digit toward her ass, playing with the entrance. He nipped her sex and slid his tongue over her as that middle finger pushed deeper.
The fullness, the indescribable pleasure, overwhelmed, and she cried out as she came with one more fast shove.
Deacon, the bastard, didn’t ease up, just held her through her orgasm before standing, kissing her until she couldn’t breathe, then muttering, “Now we’re even.”
He left a dripping mess over the floor and stalked away.
* * *
Two hours later, much too early for bed even if she hadn’t been wide awake thanks to Deacon’s sexual magic, Solene stared at her ceiling and berated h
erself for being a coward.
She didn’t need to hide from him. He’d seen her naked. So what? Much of the world had seen her in lingerie ads, where she’d been wearing not much more than a thong and teeny-tiny scraps of fabric over her nipples. And so what that he’d given her a real, frightfully intense orgasm that had made her as wet as the shower? She’d given him one first.
How immature are you? This is not a freakin’ contest, Solene!
She covered her face, wondering why she was acting so stupid. The attraction between them had been there from the start. But the liking, the feelings of affection, unnerved her. Giving him pleasure made her feel good. That he’d returned the favor showed him to be a giving lover, didn’t it? Why should mutual enjoyment be so bad? She couldn’t reason it out. An orgasm from a man without having to do anything for it should be a gift.
So why did she keep feeling as if she’d lost something?
Angry at feeling confused, she left her bed and stomped out of her room. She found Deacon lazing on her couch flipping through channels, dressed in flannel pants and no shirt.
For some weird reason, she wanted to laugh, relieved things seemed unchanged between them. Had he actually been wearing a shirt, she might have been concerned.
“You.”
He raised a brow.
“What was that about?”
He didn’t turn away from his channel surfing to look at her. “I’m sorry. Could you be more specific?”
She grabbed the remote, calmly turned off the television, and sat on the coffee table next to him. “Explain.”
“Explain what?”
At the innocent tone, she gritted her teeth, saw his smile, and wanted to kiss—smack—the grin from his handsome face.
“You entered my locked bathroom, stalked me in the shower, and…and… You know.”
His grin turned into a satisfied smile. Deacon laced his hands behind his head, all stretched out on her oversized couch. “First of all, locks don’t work on me. They’re more like foreplay.”
“Perv.”
He chuckled. “Second, that was a thank you for making me come so hard I saw stars. Aw, baby, don’t blush. You started this.”