by Jianne Carlo
He was taller even than Lincoln, his complexion gold dusted, and his eyes, slanted and piercing, seemed impossibly blue against his tanned skin. His massive shoulders were bunched and intimidating, with arms that threatened a Popeye bulge when he let them drop. Destiny gulped and forced herself not to pedal backward.
His words sank in.
“Linc sent me.”
“Linc?” Her hand rose to encompass her throat, as if that would contain the pulse threatening to leap out of her skin. “Oh God, he's hurt.”
“A slight graze. Nothing serious. I'm Sax Anders.” He held out an enormous hand, the fingers thick, nails recently manicured.
Destiny couldn't form a coherent thought.
“You're in shock, Destiny sweetheart. I'm going to take your purse and help you get into your apartment. Can you hear me?”
He escorted her into the apartment, made her sit on the sofa, and poured her a glass of wine. “Drink, Destiny.”
Destiny almost swallowed a huge gulp of cooking wine that had soured to vinegar. The acrid taste kick-started her brain. She spat the red liquid into the tumbler he'd given her.
“Linc? Where is he? A slight graze? He's been shot.” She scrambled upright, only to have her knees buckle, and she collapsed on the sofa again.
“A slight graze on his right shoulder. Didn't even need a stitch.”
“Oh. Where is he?”
“On the way back from Sumatra. He didn't want you learning he'd been injured on the news tonight.”
“He's coming back tonight?” She'd wake up next to his hot, naked body tomorrow. She squinted at the man leaning on her fridge. “I don't remember Linc mentioning anyone named Sax Anders.”
“You probably know me as Lucifer.”
“Lucifer? You're Lucifer,” she blurted. “Trust me—you're more the archangel Gabriel.”
His rosy lips twitched. “I wouldn't mention that moniker to Sinner. He'd pop me one.”
“It wasn't meant like it came out.” She prayed he didn't think she was flirting with him.
“I'm to stay with you until he arrives.” Lucifer straightened, pointed to the TV in the diagonal corner, and asked, “Mind if we watch the news? I want to hear the media spin on the rescue.”
“He rescued the hostages?”
“Satan, Sinner, Demon, and Devil rescued the hostages.”
“And you stayed behind?”
“I lost rock, paper, scissors.” He shrugged, and the tight black T-shirt he wore strained to contain one watermelon of a bicep. “Someone has to man the communications and coordinate the events.”
Lucifer, she discovered, epitomized the strong, silent type. Where possible, he answered her questions with one word. Drawing blood out of a stone would prove easier than prying information from the man.
She did learn he and the rest of the squad had an annual tradition of having Thanksgiving dinner with the Chapmans. That the annual pre-dinner ball game stirred a passionate macho rivalry between the paratroopers and former Navy SEALs and Linc's brothers.
For the past five years, the paratroopers had lost by a margin of twenty.
“Twenty?” She wrinkled her nose. “You guys lose? And by twenty?”
“Cheating.” He refused to elaborate and quelled the questions dancing around Destiny’s brain by pointing to the screen. “It's coming up.”
The eleven-o'clock-news anchor devoted a concise two and a half minutes to the hijacking.
“I didn't know women piloted supertankers,” Destiny ruminated.
“Glass ceiling progress,” Lucifer explained.
The door intercom buzzed. “Destiny, let me in.”
Linc's voice shrouded her in the coziness of a heated towel on a blustery winter's day.
“My cue.” Lucifer's long legs uncrossed
Destiny watched as the blond giant ambled to the door, buzzed Linc in, and then shrugged into his jacket. He returned to stand in front of her and tweaked her nose, startling her into a small “ow.”
The door banged open.
Dazed by the affectionate gesture, she gazed up at him.
“See you on Thanksgiving Day, little sweetheart.” Lucifer’s grin proved somewhat bemusing.
“I saw that,” Linc growled, and then the door slammed shut. “Sweetheart?”
“Yep.” Lucifer's matching growl made Destiny chortle and shake her head. Her hoop earrings danced, tickling her neck.
But she couldn't take her eyes off Linc, off his craggy features, drinking in his glorious face, the way his growing hair curled over the tips of his ears. She bounded off the couch, started to sprint to him, but halted when the two men paused in the doorway.
They conducted a murmured conversation Destiny couldn't catch. She plodded back to the sofa, sat, and slumped into the upholstery, wondering how long their discussion would last.
“I thought he'd never leave.” Linc snapped the dead bolt in place and pivoted. “Jesus, it's good to see you, Destiny.”
Two long strides had him at the sofa, kneeling between her spread legs, palms cupping her cheeks. His gaze raked her. He dropped a hot, wet kiss on the corner of her mouth, tugged her bottom lip between his teeth, biting down gently; then he sucked the stinging spot.
Her tongue snaked out to caress the smoothness of his mouth, slinking inside.
When his lips left hers, his thumb rubbed a hypnotic tease at one corner, dipping into the seam. His stare intensified. He didn’t utter a word and wore such a somber expression, her heart ached. She kissed his finger.
“What's wrong, Linc?”
“Marry me, Destiny Driven.”
A huge grin slid her lips wide. She didn't hesitate, not for a single beat of her heart. “Tomorrow, if you want.”
His eyes squeezed shut for a two-second pulse. “We'll buy a ring tomorrow. Are you up for a quiet civil ceremony in the afternoon? My mom's gonna want the whole church bit, and I'm warning you right now, she's a steamroller.”
He stood, shrugged out of his jacket, and winced when he tugged off the right sleeve. “And the girls, my sisters, are all going to jump in.”
“Make love to me, Linc.” She pressed a finger on his mouth. “I want you inside of me. I never want to wake up and find you not there.”
He picked her up.
“Your shoulder, Linc. Be careful.”
“It's a scratch. No nagging, Destiny. I need to carry you, need to suckle your nipples, need to eat your cream, need to feel your snug pussy clamping my dick.”
“I love you, Linc Chapman.” She couldn't prevent the words.
He halted, angled his head. “I love you, Destiny Driven. I gave my heart to you in Alaska.”
Destiny insisted he lie down on the mattress first; threatened never to suck his dick again if he didn't hold still while she undressed him.
“I'll hold still if you get naked.”
She figured humoring him would be her best strategy. “It's a deal. I'll be back in a second. Don't move.”
She whipped into the living room, gathered up Linc’s iPod and the two wireless speakers, imagined his expression when the music started to play, and couldn’t stop grinning. Glad now she hadn't changed out of her strapless black sheath, she toed on her black stiletto sandals and jogged back into the bedroom.
“I told you not to move,” she grumped. Her gaze trailed his naked beauty.
“I give the orders, woman.”
“Most of the time, but not tonight,” Destiny stated. “I have a feeling you're going to like my surprise. But first I want to take a look at that injury.”
She placed the wireless speakers and iPod base on the dresser, sat on the edge of the mattress, and carefully peeled one end of the bandage loose. The bullet had gouged a jagged chunk from just below the cusp of his shoulder.
“I like the outfit,” Linc growled, his voice huskier than normal. He trailed a finger over the cleavage plumped by the corset she wore underneath the crepe silk.
“It's not as bad as I thought it would be,�
� she murmured and patted the white tape back into place. “How did it happen, Linc?”
“Later, Destiny. We'll talk later. So, are you getting naked?” he asked, slipping a finger under her neckline, rolling a nipple, then pinching lightly.
In Alaska, Linc had explained a soldier's reaction to an adrenaline surge, the craving for sex. Between the fact they'd been apart for five days and the danger that he had faced, she figured his desire was on a tight rein, and she wanted to tease the semen out of him.
Knowing she'd never get through the little routine the dance instructor at her gym had shown her if he kept distracting her, Destiny wriggled away from his questing fingers.
“I signed up for a pole-dancing class while you were gone.” She popped the iPod into its receiver and hit Play.
Linc's eyes bugged out when the first distinctive notes of the classic “The Stripper” echoed around the room.
She'd chickened out of wearing the long black gloves to the book launch, but with her back to him, she tugged them on while circling her rump to the music. Twirling around on a cymbal clash, she rocked in time to the beat, placed one foot forward, and did a slow shoulder shrug.
One hand cradling his neck, Linc's eyes widened and darkened. Desire dilated his pupils when she inched a dress strap down her arm. He stroked his dick, fingering the crown when she snagged a finger on the left glove with her teeth.
“Leave the gloves on,” he raised his voice, his order terse, tone husky.
She mouthed, Spoilsport, and winked. The gloves had been a big part of her choreography. Time to ad-lib. She bent over, stroking her breasts and giving him a wicked smile. Then she tweaked her nipples taut, pinching them the way he had. Her thong rubbed over folds that were swelling and aching; her eyelids drooped. When the silk hit her clit, she moaned and her vagina clenched.
Linc sat up, legs spread, gaze fixed on her hands. He stroked his dick faster. The crown seemed plumper than she remembered, his penis too thick to suck more than halfway down the length of him. Had she really managed to swallow him to the base?
Her vision blurred when the walls of her pussy did another clench and jerk. She reached behind for the dress’ zipper and eased the plastic apart. Doing a side-to-side bump and grind, feet planted wide apart, she let the dress fall to her waist. Destiny snuck her hands under the hem of the sheath, skinned off her thong, and sailed the black pantie into the air.
Linc caught the scarlet strip and brought the fabric to his nose. “You smell like paradise.”
An inferno burned inside her.
Linc's fingers clutched the glans of his dick. His nostrils flared in tandem with his rapid, rising and falling chest. His taut belly glistened with sweat.
She did a fast shimmy, and the crepe slithered to the floor, leaving her in a scarlet garter belt, sheer black stockings, a fake ruby nestled in her belly button, and a lacy corset that ended below her breasts.
He bolted off the bed, caught her in his arms, dropped her on the mattress, and then rolled between her legs.
“You shaved your pussy,” he rasped. His fingers slid between her legs, and one dipped inside. “Thank you, Jesus. Wet. Ready.”
He fucked her in time to the music, gripping her hips, slowing through the long horns, hard and fierce thrusts in time to the cymbals, tilting her so he went deeper and deeper. It was two minutes and twenty-six seconds of an eternal orgasm, which went on and on long after he roared and collapsed.
Limp, sated, she listened as his ragged breathing evened out, waited until the erratic heartbeat pulsing beneath her palm resting on his chest measured a steady rhythm.
“Welcome home, Lincoln Abraham Chapman.” She kissed his collarbone.
“I'll buy a pole tomorrow. That was sexy as all hell, woman.” His lips brushed her forehead. He flexed inside her, his hardness rubbing her sensitive walls.
A series of aftershocks ripped through her, and she moaned.
“It feels different,” he commented, doing a lazy in and out. “I can't wait to suck all those naked folds. I know exactly what I'm having for brunch on weekends.”
Weekends.
The Plaza.
“I finished the book I've been working on for the last five years.”
He drew back, gaze raking her features. “That's what you did in the Adirondacks.”
“Juanita stole it. It's her next blockbuster.”
Chapter Sixteen
Two days later, Linc twisted a thick strand of Destiny's hair around a finger. He liked the lemony scent of the new organic shampoo she'd used, but he missed the spring-like lavender aroma that evoked memories of their time in the cabin. Feeling as content as a wolf that had finally found its mate, he drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly.
Destiny'd been great.
She'd blushed all day, rose pink coloring her throat and cheeks when she uttered the words “I do.” Picking out the engagement ring had been a tussle. He'd wanted three carats; she'd balked and then jutted that stubborn chin. Finally, they'd settled on a two-carat princess-cut diamond, and damned if he couldn't help but pick up her left hand and kiss that one knuckle every time the stone winked at him.
All day long he'd sported an erection that wouldn't lie down and act civilized. The minute they signed the civil ceremony agreement, he hustled her out of the court building. She'd taken the day off work, phoning some automated system and claiming she had the stomach flu.
Lincoln knew he'd bullied Destiny a tad. Making love to her until the wee hours of the morning, waking her with an insistent arousal. He’d insisted she remain her naked since getting home after the wedding and allowed her to wear nothing but his ring. Carrying her, feeding her—fucking hell, he loved every single minute.
She was his now. His.
“I still can't figure out how Juanita stole my book.” He liked his wife this way, naked, sated, playing with his left tit. His nipple reacted to her frisky explorations, budding to the slight graze of her snowy teeth.
Concentrate. Juanita. He didn’t want her working with the bitch.
“You mentioned that you'd emailed a copy of the book to your work email and your Gmail address?” He traced her navel. Could he talk her into one of those sexy belly rings? His dick did a song and dance when he remembered the stripper routine she'd done, that fake ruby nestled in her navel. “And you'd copied the book to your work desktop?”
“You need a password to get on the desktop. IT programmed the system so it logs me out if I'm not working on it,” Destiny protested.
Jesus, he was a goner. He wanted to solve all her problems, maybe cause a few, like blowjobs in a moving car, maybe on the highway. Nah…truck drivers had great views, for miles. Focus, focus. “Let me guess—your password's your birthday.”
She squealed and pushed up onto an elbow. “Not many people know my birthday. But I guess that's an obvious thing to try.”
Did her nipples ever get soft? Go lax? Not when he was around, that's for damned certain. Where were they? Passwords—her book. “I'll get Lucifer to run his magic on your PC. With any luck we'll be able to pin the last access to a date and time.”
“Won't work.” She grimaced. “I cleaned up my folders a while back.”
Lucifer could wring tears from a computer. Most people had no clue what remained on a hard drive when they hit the Delete key.
“Stuff's still there, not to worry. Unless you've done a low-level format, there're ways of retrieving data you thought you permanently deleted.” He chose his next words with caution. “Did that guy from the sex tape ever spend the night here?”
An adorable stain washed over her cheeks. “No.”
Inky lashes fluttered; his gaze found the familiar half-moon shadows they cast. Maybe now was the time to suggest that lashes-tickling-his-dick fantasy.
She slapped his stomach. “The rat! Before you showed up in New York, he sent me a rose with a note asking if we could get back together. I went out for a break, and when I came back, he was sitting in my cube. Now
that I think back on it, my display hadn’t gone to screensaver, and it’s set to do that after fifteen minutes. He knew my password. Damn it. I use the same password for everything. Oh, don’t look at me like that. I know I’m not supposed to. ”
“And he and Juanita were together at the book launch?” He captured the fingers wandering circles in his pubic hair and shot a rueful glance at his stiffening dick.
Down, boy. We're in a talkative mode.
“Oh yeah. I bet he was the one who took Mrs. C to the Plaza for lunch. Kenny does PR for St. Paul's, and Jess mentioned he was the one who suggested the change of venue for the book launch to Steven.”
“And Mrs. C is one of the few people in New York who knows your real name.” Lincoln made a mental note to have a mugger run into Kenny within the next couple of weeks.
“Juanita knew about my book. I’ve been writing and re-writing the book since college. She’s read several versions of the book along the years. Why would she do this? She's a New York Times best seller, for cripes sake.”
“Writer's block?” he suggested, licking the center of her palm. He'd puzzled through the events more than once while he'd been away, and a theory had emerged. His hypothesis would only add to Destiny's sense of betrayal. Stifling a sigh, he forged on. “I overheard you when you were editing Nadine's manuscript. You basically rewrote her first chapter. Did you have to make as many changes with Juanita's?”
“Hmm.” She leaned over to tickle his ribs. “We worked on her book for two and a half months. I hardly remember the first version. We did a lot of brainstorming.” Her forefinger dipped into his belly-button cavity, did a lazy three-sixty. She glanced up. “Jess thinks Juanita's always used me, but Jess also thinks I'm talented.”
“Jess is right. You are talented. To get back to the point—what do you want to do about Juanita stealing Fated Destiny? I like the title, by the way.”
Destiny's jaw clenched. He knuckled her downy skin.
“I could go after Juanita. I gave Jess my first chapter of Fated Destiny—back then it didn’t have a title—when I first started with St. Paul’s. That, plus the computer dates, could maybe prove I wrote Fated Destiny. But you know what? Scandalous free publicity could just send Juanita's first book back to the best-seller list. And there's no way in hell that I'm going to let that happen.”