by J. Kenner
As if he could read my mind, he bent to my ear and whispered, “Foreplay. The motorcycle especially, don’t you think? All that power vibrating between your legs?”
My mouth went completely dry, and he flashed a mischievous grin, took my hand, and led me to the living room. “Wine?” he asked as I settled onto the sofa. His voice and attitude were perfectly casual, as if he hadn’t just made perfectly clear that he knew exactly where my thoughts had been all afternoon.
I nodded, and he brought me a glass of red. I drank it, welcoming the buzz and barely even tasting the grape. All I wanted was for him to kiss me.
And finally, thank God, he did.
He didn’t ask. He simply set his glass down, then took mine from my fingers and set it on the table, too. Then he leaned in and closed his mouth over mine, and I just about melted from the pleasure of his lips on mine, his tongue teasing and demanding entrance. He buried his fingers in my hair and pulled me closer, taking the kiss deeper and wilder, as if he’d been thinking about nothing else all day, and now he couldn’t get his fill. God knew I couldn’t either.
Then his hands were at my waist and he was pulling me onto his lap. I was wearing thin black leggings, and I could easily feel his erection through his jeans, and the knowledge that he was as turned on as I was only made me more excited. I ground against him, letting the sweet sensations build as he deepened the kiss, one hand still holding my head steady and the other cupping my breast.
I lost myself in that kiss, in the feel of him. In the tremors of pleasure that coursed through me, more intense than anything I’d ever felt before.
“Take off your clothes and get on the bed,” he said, and I froze, my hips going still in the midst of grinding myself to my own climax.
“What?”
He leaned back, putting space between us as he cupped both my breasts, his thumb and forefingers teasing the nipples that were straining against my lacy bra.
“I—”
“Do you trust me?”
I licked my lips, but I nodded. I did trust him.
“Then go. Naked,” he said, as if I’d forgotten. “On your back. Your legs spread.” He looked me up and down, and the heat in his eyes almost made me come right then. “And I want to see you touching yourself when I walk into that room.”
I swallowed, not at all sure I liked this. Being on display. It was too much. And I didn’t want those harsh memories rising.
“I don’t think I—”
He brushed his thumb over my lower lip. “You can say no, Eliza. You can always say no.”
“I can?” For some insane reason, that simple statement was a revelation to me. I’d never been able to say no with him. And Emma sure as hell hadn’t been able to either. Did he mean it? My gaze dipped down to the very obvious bulge in his jeans. As if reading my mind, Quincy chuckled. “I promise, I’ll survive. There are plenty of other options. Or we can just watch television.”
He pulled me close, then kissed me sweetly. “I want to touch you,” he whispered. “I want to take you places you’ve never gone, and I want to make you explode as you scream my name. But I don’t want any of that unless you do. Whatever you want, Eliza. All you have to do is decide.”
I drew a breath, then nodded. “Okay,” I said, then started to turn toward the bedroom.
“Wait.”
For a moment, fear bubbled inside me, and I was afraid that I’d hesitated too long and he’d changed his mind.
“Do you know what a safe word is?”
“I—kind of.”
“It’s another way of saying no. A better way, with no confusion. What’s your safe word, Eliza? Something you wouldn’t normally say in bed. Something you can remember.”
“Ducks,” I said, thinking of the first moment I’d met him. “Ducklings.”
It was silly, but from his smile and nod, I could tell that he approved.
“Go on,” he said, and with those two words, his entire demeanor changed. Where only moments before he’d been warm and careful and instructive, now he seemed dark and sensual and a little dangerous. But not scary. My fear had entirely disappeared.
I did as he asked and got undressed.
Naked and with my heart pounding, I climbed onto the bed. And though I started out wildly embarrassed, once I closed my eyes and imagined Quincy watching me, I actually got into touching myself. So much that by the time I heard his footsteps and his soft command to keep my eyes shut, my body was already sparking with the precursor to an amazing orgasm.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, and I felt the bed shift under his weight as he sat on the edge of the mattress. Then he gently lifted my hands and I gasped in surprise, almost opening my eyes when I felt him put velcro padded cuffs around my wrists.
“Quincy…”
I heard the tension in my voice, and he must have as well, because he whispered, “Shhh. It’s okay. Keep your eyes closed.” And then, as if to ensure that I did, he slipped a blindfold over my eyes.
Without conscious thought, I pulled my legs together, as if my body was trying to claim some amount of modesty in response to the fact that I couldn’t move my legs. “Oh, no, love. None of that.”
I whimpered, then bit my lower lip, but he showed no pity. Instead, he moved down to my ankles, binding me fully to the bed, my body forming an X. Honestly, I was glad for the blindfold. I don’t know that I could have stood the embarrassment of seeing the way he looked at me, even though the tone of his voice and the words he spoke told me that he both liked the way I looked and that he was very turned on.
I’d never done anything like this before, and I got lost in the slow, delicious sensuality of his touch. First teasing me with a feather, then tormenting me with an ice cube. But those touches were nothing compared to an actual vibrator that created such a riot of sensations that I writhed and strained against my bonds, trying desperately to close my legs as my body both rebelled and rejoiced from a harsh pleasure so intense it bordered on pain.
With expert skill, he teased me, taking me close to orgasm and then pulling back until I was teetering on the edge and begging for release. Only then did he continue his erotic assault with his own fingers and mouth, as I shamelessly bucked against him, craving a control that he’d forbidden and begging for the feel of him inside me.
When I finally came—when he finally let me—the force of the orgasm was overwhelming, more than I’d ever experienced as every cell in my body seemed to turn inside out until I was nothing more than a limp, satisfied shell of a woman.
“You’re amazing,” he whispered, his hands stroking me as he moved along my body and down to my ankles and wrists. Gently, he released me so that I could curl up beside him. “Do you have any idea how incredible it is to watch you? To see you writhe in pleasure from my touch?”
I couldn’t answer; I was too spent. But I molded my body to his, my face tucked in against his neck, and murmured something about being lost in heaven.
His low laughter rumbled through me, and he pulled me close, then stroked my hair as I floated somewhere above the earth until finally—finally—I came enough back to myself to form coherent sentences.
“I thought I would hate it,” I murmured, then gathered enough strength to prop myself up so that I could see his face. “I thought I’d cry out the safe word in the first few minutes.”
His forehead creased, and I knew that I’d worried him. That he understood that I wasn’t talking like a woman who simply hadn’t ever played these kinds of sex games before. But instead like a woman with secrets.
Gently, he brushed my cheek. “Eliza, love. What is it you haven’t told me?”
I knew I should have said something before, but even as nervous as I was, I’d wanted to be with him. To experience everything he had to give. And I hadn’t wanted him to back away, believing that I was too fragile.
But when we were all relaxed after, I did tell him. Even more, I wanted to.
I wanted him to understand my hesitations. And—God help me�
��I wanted to share that deepest, darkest piece of me.
So I told him. I told him about my father.
About the horrible things he did to Emma. The things he did to me.
True, we weren’t tied up. No wrist cuffs or ankle restraints. But we still couldn’t get away. Our father had all the power.
It was horrible, and I told Quincy all of it.
And then, as he brushed away my tears, I confessed that I thought it would be like that with him. “I thought I’d feel trapped. Used.” I ducked my head, embarrassed. “But it wasn’t like that at all.”
For a moment, he simply looked at me, and I thought that I’d blown it. That I should have just kept my mouth shut. “You thought you’d be helpless,” he said. “The way you were with him?”
I nodded as he hooked his arm under my shoulders and propped me up while he used his free hand to point out the window. “I know a bit about that,” he said. “Do you see that window?”
I nodded.
“That was my parents’ bedroom. The night those men came in—the ones who had the vendetta against my father—I was seven years old. I’d been playing on the foot of the bed while my mother read a book. She shoved me under the bed and told me not to come out for anything. I was flat on my belly and shaking with terror and there wasn’t a bloody thing I could do.”
He turned to face me. “So I understand helpless. It’s when you have no control. When it’s ripped from you. Like me with those men when I had no chance in hell of protecting my mother. And you with your father, when you were powerless to do a goddamn thing.”
I blinked away the tears that had pooled in my eyes.
“With your father, you had control ripped away from you. With me, you have all the control.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You gave control to me, El. You did that. You had the power to stop at any moment. You gave me your trust. And that was your gift to me. You surrendered control. I didn’t steal it. Do you get it?”
“Yeah.” I thought about it, then grinned as I rolled on top of him. “Want to try it again?”
He laughed, but he didn’t turn me down. And, honestly, I could have spent the rest of my months in London in bed with him. At that point, I was addicted.
As it turned out, we explored the city as much as we explored each other. Quincy made me feel free. Confident. Most of all, he made me feel loved, and every day we grew closer, as we learned each other’s boundaries. We pushed each other’s limits sexually, and I discovered things about myself that I’d never known. We played and experimented and laughed, and through him I learned that I truly enjoyed sex. That it wasn’t something to be endured, but something to be shared.
Maybe I would have eventually discovered that on my own, but that wasn’t the point. Because with Quincy, I’d fallen in love.
I would have stayed forever if he’d let me, and for those three months, I truly believed that he would.
I never expected that his love for me was an illusion. That our days together were nothing more than a fantasy, something ephemeral that could be swept away on a whim, or flicked out of existence like a rabbit on the wrong end of a magician’s wand.
But that’s what happened. And soon enough our storybook romance ended, and I was thrust rudely out into the cold, bitter embrace of reality.
And now here I am, tossed into the backseat of a car zipping through Los Angeles with the man who threw me away.
And all I can think is that this time I will not trust him.
This time, I know that he lies.
9
“Anything?” Quincy asks, as he paces along a row of computers. They’re all dormant, a 3D rendition of the SSA logo tumbling across the otherwise quiet screens. All except for the one where Denny sits, now wearing black track pants and a white tank top—both also with the SSA logo.
“Yes, I’ve cracked the case,” she says, without looking up. An incomprehensible string of numbers and letters pour across the screen like a reverse waterfall, moving so quickly it almost makes me dizzy.
Denny looks back over her shoulder at Quincy. “The butler did it.”
I laugh, and Quincy turns the scowl he’d aimed at her in my direction.
“Seriously, Q. It’s encrypted, remember? And you only walked through the door ten minutes ago. I’m good, but give a girl some space.”
Quincy catches my eye, clearly frustrated. As for me, I have a total girl crush on his partner.
I’ve pulled my hair back into a ponytail and am dressed similarly to Denny, the outfit provided by the fitness room of the Stark Security Agency. According to Quincy, it’s a relatively new venture, part of the broad universe of billionaire Damien Stark.
The same Damien Stark who—even though it’s three in the morning—is in the glass-enclosed conference room on a speaker call with another man who, unlike Stark, I’ve never seen in the tabloids. He has hair the color of mine, and a no-nonsense smile. Quincy identified him as Ryan Hunter, the head of the SSA, and promised he’d introduce me to both men when they were off the call.
There’d been another man in the office when we arrived, too. Liam Foster. A tall black man with military bearing, a rock-solid build, and kind eyes that looked like they’d kept a lot of secrets. He’d taken my key and gone off to Emma’s condo. Not only to retrieve the phone that I’m desperate to check, but also because I’d told Quincy that Lorenzo and I disagreed about whether someone had poked around in Emma’s things. Quincy assured me that if anyone could clock the signs of an intruder, it would be Liam.
I glance at the digital clock on the far wall and consider calling Lorenzo again. But I’ve already called twice. Once in the Uber using Quincy’s phone, and once from a landline in the fitness center. Both times had rolled to voicemail.
I’m frustrated, but not too concerned. True, Lorenzo knew that I was going undercover to the party, but he also knew that I might have to play the role of party girl all night in order to maintain my cover. I’d seen the disapproval in his eyes when he’d hit that realization, but to his credit, he didn’t try to talk me out of it. Other than Emma, no one knows me better than Lorenzo, and he knows that there are no limits to what I’ll do for my sister.
So while he knew I might not check in until morning, I also expected him to be glued to his phone. But considering it’s almost four in the morning, I should probably cut him some slack. He probably fell asleep. And despite all the stereotypes about law enforcement types being constantly aware, Lorenzo sleeps like the dead.
He wakes at six every morning, so I’ll call him then. In the meantime, I watch Denny’s fingers fly across the keyboard as I try to figure out what she’s doing. Since I haven’t got a clue, I quickly tire of that activity. I find Quince at a nearby workstation. He’s wearing half-frame reading glasses that make him look both intellectual and ridiculously sexy, and he’s scowling at something on the screen.
I consider going and peering over his shoulder, but decide against it. My relief and gratitude at being saved from Red’s knife has already started to melt away, once again exposing all my raw edges where Quincy Radcliffe is concerned. And here—in this fancy office in front of these strangers—is really not where I want to get into it.
Instead, I cross the giant room to the western-facing wall of windows. This building is located at the center of a new Santa Monica office park called The Domino. According to Quincy, the SSA takes up four floors, with this first floor serving as home base for analysts and the IT staff, which explains the rows and rows of computer-topped workstations.
This wall is made entirely of one-way glass, and I stand there now and look out at a tranquil garden area, obviously designed as a respite from all the craziness going on around it.
Because of the lighting, I can see Quincy’s reflection as he approaches me. He slides his hands into the pockets of his trousers. He hasn’t changed clothes, and while I look like a sloppy student who rolled out of bed for class, he looks like a master of the universe.
>
The disparity pisses me off, which isn’t fair, but I’m bone-tired and no closer to finding my sister than I was before. Only now instead of being on my own and befuddled I’m surrounded by gazillions of dollars in tech and befuddled.
That doesn’t make me feel better.
As if that weren’t enough to be going on with, I’ve spent the last few hours with a man I once loved who it turns out I never really knew. And I’m not sure if that’s his fault for keeping secrets or mine for being so ridiculously naive.
His eyes meet mine in the glass. “How are you hanging in there?”
“Fine. Who doesn’t like to be tossed down the rabbit hole?”
A single brow arches, and my heart twists painfully. It’s a trademark Quincy affectation, and one that used to make me melt. Now, I just want to slap him. “What?” I demand.
“Seems to me you walked into the warren of your own free will.”
“The party, you mean?”
He nods, and on that point I have to agree. Possibly not the smartest of decisions, especially when I factor Red into the equation and the fact that he seemed to want me—or at least Emma—dead. But I wasn’t thinking about that. “I meant you,” I tell him. “The rabbit hole of you.”
I turn so that I’m looking at him rather than his reflection. “The slippery slope of realizing that the man I spent three months with—the man who I confessed my love to—the man who fucking walked out on me—was never the man I thought he was. Sucks for me, right?”
He doesn’t react. Of course he doesn’t. Quincy always did have one hell of a poker face.
I yank the ponytail holder off my hair, just for something to do with my hands, and my hair spills over my shoulders. “This isn’t a new venture, is it? You didn’t suddenly get tired of the world of high finance and decide to leap into the wide and exciting world of private intelligence. Did you?”
“No,” he says. “I didn’t.”