Hard. Hard as rebar, making the man a liar. He needs this as badly as I do. This is what we are, what we are to each other. This is the part we’ve always understood, even when we fought it.
“Stop, Cass,” he hisses and removes his hand from my breast to pull my hand from his dick. “This is about you. Only you.”
And he thrusts his fingers into me.
I cry out, the sensation zigging and zagging through my blood. I cant my hips forward, seeking more. Seeking friction. His hand returns to my breast and plucks at the nipple, tugging, rolling it between his fingers, pinching it hard enough I cry out again.
It feels amazing. This is my reward for all those nights when I sprawled across the bed, wishing he was with me. The sharp, bright pain, the buzzing heat surging through my veins, his hard body holding me up while he destroys me with strokes and glides and the barest hint of his fingertips on my skin. He surrounds me and keeps me safe even as he pushes me for more.
He rubs his thumb around my clit in tight, slippery circles, pushing down every so often, the surge of pleasure rising higher every time. When he crooks his fingers inside me and withdraws, I moan, just like he knew I would.
“Did you think I didn’t miss this?” he murmurs. “A couple weeks, Cassidy, of you in my bed, as hungry as I am. I fucking love how responsive you are. You seduced me.”
There was no seduction. Only greed. The desire to take as much as I could from him because that was all I could handle. It was never about feelings and always about lust.
He twists his fingers as they plunge, and I whimper. “I’ve been patient,” he continues. “I’ll wait as long as you need. But fuck, I need you.” Another press of his thumb, and he wiggles it from side to side. The pressure’s building, and he fucks his fingers into me, fast, shallow thrusts. “You’re getting hotter. Slicker. You’ll do anything I ask, won’t you? Strip in the middle of my office and spread your legs.”
I would.
“Let me lick you unconscious.”
He’d almost succeeded one time.
“Will you let me in you bare?”
No condom? I’ve never, ever, gone that far before. Never wanted to. Never wanted to feel the heat of him, every ridge rubbing unemcumbered against my swollen tissues, never—
The orgasm breaks over me like a tidal wave, swamping me, smashing into millions of pieces, the aftershocks drawn out as his hand continues to move. My legs are noodles, each breath laden with damp and the scent of sex.
He kisses the side of my neck, the underside of my jaw, the corner of my mouth, bringing me down to earth. “Better?” he murmurs.
“Uh-huh.” I let him take most of my weight, willing my heart to slow down and the strength to return to my legs. First orgasm in over a month. I guess I needed that.
The hard length of him presses into my ass. I turn around and shift to the side, kissing his chest, his throat, the strong line of his collarbone. I scratch my nail lightly along the underside of his shaft and slick my thumb over the head. He groans and bucks his hips, his fingers digging into my shoulder.
Turnabout’s fair play. I’m not sure I can find the words to send him over the edge like he did with me, but I’m going to try. I stroke him slowly, firmly, chasing drops of water across his chest with my tongue. “You’re right,” I say, and it doesn’t take much to make my voice husky and low. “Whatever you want me to do, I’ll do it. Get on my knees. Let you take me against the wall.” Strangely, that’s one we haven’t tried.
I bring my palm over the top of the crown, squeeze gently, and slide down again as I stretch up to trace the shell of his ear with my tongue. I suck his earlobe into my mouth, thinking of all the sweet and dirty things we haven’t done. His cock throbs in my hand, growing harder. “Is that what you want?” I whisper. “To slide into me, feel me around you? All slick and hot and tight, knowing you made me that way?”
The words have the desired effect, and he sags at the knees, my name echoing off the tile as his release spills over my fingers.
In the ensuing quiet, the impact crashes down on me. What the hell did I say? What did I do? It’s a dangerous game, this sex roulette. I don’t know the rules, and I’m afraid I just made a move I can’t back up.
The water’s growing cool, so we finish our shower quickly, not speaking. He turns off the tap and reaches around the shower curtain to snag towels. He hands one to me. I dry off and twist the towel around my hair, avoiding his gaze.
I get away with it until he hitches his towel around his waist. He traps me against the sink, eyes intent on mine. “What the fuck was that?” he says quietly.
He’s asked me that before, the night I met his family for the first time. A tipping point when we finally figured out we both want this, whatever it is, for however long it lasts.
Following through on those dirty words implies a whole new level of trust. “I don’t know.”
He narrows his eyes. “I think you do.” He kisses me, hard and quick, leaving behind a burning imprint of his lips on mine. “Not yet. We need to talk about it when we’re not right in the middle of it.”
He’s right. Of course, he’s right. It’ll give me time to figure out if it’s what I want. If I’m willing to take that step. It’s an important step. A huge one. It pushes us forward, faster, and opens me up to heartbreak. I don’t know that my heart can handle it.
Chapter 5
Turner’s indifference is an anvil on my shoulders, pushing me farther and farther into the ground. His attention is focused on his monitor, finger clicking the mouse every so often.
I entertained some fantasies about how this reunion would go, having not seen each other in weeks. They all involved hugs and a genuine smile from my dad, and sometimes he looked at me like he used to, like I was his little princess caught escaping from the tower. Come on. I died. That should be all anyone needs to shed their masks and reveal their true feelings. Isn’t that what Nick and I were doing?
But no, Turner took my request to resume martial arts training like I asked him if it was going to rain tomorrow. The warmth I harbored over a happy, or happyish, reunion freezes slowly, chilling me to the bone. He clicks through link after link, sometimes pausing to read a description. He hasn’t spoken a word beyond asking what I was considering. Wushu, I told him, same as before.
“Have you considered more of a challenge?”
The flat note in his voice seals the ice into my skin. There’s no father and daughter here. We’re just Cass and Turner, mentor and mentee. The only thing that might bring a gleam of joy to his eye is me telling him I’ve changed my mind; I’ll continue in the family trade.
How is it this man has no problem showing how devoted he is to my mother and can’t bring himself to even give me a pat on the shoulder? It’s pathetic that I’ll settle for a “there, there,” but damn.
“Krav Maga,” I say, and my voice is just as flat as his.
I should ask my mother some time what she does to make my father respond, to give her more than this robot sitting on the other side of the desk. Because the only affection I receive from him is when I’m standing in range of my mother, where the warmth he shows her has no choice but to spill over onto me.
He flicks his gaze from the monitor to me and back again. “There’s a gym that offers it out near Nick’s house. I’ll check them out.”
“No.” I’ve had enough of pretending I’m okay with this. “I’m a big girl. I can do it myself.”
He sits back and places his hands on the armrests of his chair. “There’s no need to be dramatic, Cassidy.”
I arch a brow. Seriously? It was one line. “You want dramatic? I can do dramatic. How about the part where I died twice and was forced to recuperate in a foreign country, all alone, because we couldn’t be certain I wouldn’t get nailed again while I was laid up? How about the part where I’m your fucking daughter, and you can’t even be bothered to say, ‘Hey, I’m glad you’re back’? Are you even glad I�
�m alive?”
His gaze is passive. Blank. He’s not even impatiently waiting for me to finish. I swallow against the lump in my throat. “Is it too much to ask for a hug? Oh, someone broke into the house the other night. Guy didn’t even see me coming. Nice and clean, though he bled all over Nick’s kitchen floor. That should make you proud. I get it. I’m a disappointment to you. At some point, it would be nice if you could get over it and be my father again, but I’m not holding out hope.”
The ice cracks and shifts, and I let the hurt trickle through. “I needed you, Dad,” I whisper. “I needed my dad, not an assassin. I needed reassurances that everything was going to be okay, and you know where I got them? From Nick. I wanted them from you.”
I stand and move around the chair to the door. “I’m done trying, Turner. You know where to find me.”
Walking out of my dad’s office this time is harder than the last. I ignore the greetings and waves as I head down the hall to the entrance. Sunlight blinds me as I step out into the parking lot and walk over to the car. Constantine’s leaning against the driver’s side door. His presence is Nick’s concession to my request I handle this on my own. I had no idea if this meeting with Turner would end badly, but if it did, I didn’t want Nick to see me. I don’t particularly relish the idea of dealing with Constantine right now, either, but you pick your battles.
I pull out my sunglasses and slip them on, then nod to Constantine. “Ready when you are.”
He unlocks the car. I slide into the passenger seat and snap on my seat belt. The hurt and anger shaking my insides is so intense the rest of me should be shaking, but my hands are steady.
“Everything all right?” He pulls out of the lot, merging smoothly into traffic.
“Fine.”
The streets fly by, scrubby palm trees breaking up the monotony of the sidewalks. “Did he have any good suggestions?”
“Yup.”
“You going to answer all of my questions with a single word?”
“Probably.”
He shuts up after that, and we make the drive out to Santa Monica in silence, allowing me to box up my rage and shut it in a closet.
The streets become more familiar, and I realize we’re close to Nick’s. “Can we make a detour by the grocery store, please?” I feel like brownies. Lots and lots of brownies.
If I can’t cry, can’t scream and kick things, I’ll eat chocolate until I’m sick.
* * * *
The air stinks of chocolate. Chocolate, chocolate, and more chocolate. I’m nauseous with it, and yet I can’t stop myself from pinching off another piece of the brownie on my plate. Cartoon mice are running around on Nick’s flat screen and singing about making a dress for Cinderelly, and I’m on brownie number six. Or seven. Either one of the two, on top of the four or five chocolate chip cookies I ate.
Eating sugar until I puked seemed like a better idea than drinking until I puked. At least my mind would still be clear. The flaw in this plan is I decided to go ahead and add some rum to the mix. Now I’m seriously considering expelling all this excess from my stomach. It’s a roiling, tumultuous mess, jumping at the sound of the front door opening. Saliva pools in my mouth, and panic rises along with bile. I don’t want him to see me like this. Weak and sullen and wondering what else has to happen before my father will finally be the dad I want.
Nick’s footsteps are unnaturally loud on the hardwood floor before stopping next to the couch. One brow lifts in question. “Did the Keebler elves move in while I was gone?”
I wish he’d stayed gone for a few more minutes.
Swallowing convulsively, I stand up and hand Nick the plate with the brownie on it, then hurry down the hall and lock myself in the bathroom. My stomach spasms and clenches, my eyes watering in protest as I hunch over the toilet.
When my stomach’s empty, I slump against the side of the tub and tip my head back. Throwing knives at trees probably would have been a better idea. Or talking Nick into hard, bruising sex. I never want to see another brownie. My stomach rumbles in agreement.
“Cass. Open the door.”
Groaning, I stagger to my feet, unlock the door, and brace my hands on the bathroom counter. “I’m okay,” I rasp.
“Since when does eating half a pan of brownies and then bending over the toilet equal okay?” Nick guides me over to the toilet and puts the lid down. I collapse, not convinced I won’t have to scramble up in another minute or so.
Less than a minute. I slide off the toilet onto my knees and push up the lid. My face burns with embarrassment as I retch, Nick’s fingers tangled in my hair as he holds it back.
He hands me a damp washcloth when I sit on my heels. I wipe off my face, clammy and shivering with sweat. I feel disgusting, inside and out, and if I thought I could stand long enough to take a shower, I’d strip and hop in.
“Thanks,” I murmur when he helps me up. I grab the water glass, fill it, and rinse my mouth, careful not to swallow. I’m pretty sure a single drop would cause my stomach to revolt again. “It wasn’t just brownies. You forgot the rum.”
“Wondered about the bottle of Kraken on the counter.”
“Yeah, well, drinking on an empty stomach didn’t seem like such a smart idea, and I was already making cookies. It just sort of”—I wave a hand around—“spiraled from there.”
He smooths my hair away from my face. “What did your dad have to say?”
The last of the nausea balls in the pit of my stomach and settles like a rock, one with jagged edges. I manage a shrug. “About the same as my visits with Turner usually go. There’s a place nearby that offers Krav Maga. He recommended a Wushu dojo out here as well if I wanted to continue the discipline.”
He studies me for a long moment, his gaze probing, and I give him a bland stare back. “I’m fine. Really. Just didn’t want to stop eating the brownies.” If I could go back to the couch, all will be right in my world.
“Bullshit. But I’m not going to make you tell me what’s wrong.”
That’s a relief.
“At least not until you’re feeling better.”
I catch myself before I press my lips together in anger. I should have done something healthy. Gone for a run. Baked all that shit and then passed it out to homeless people. Thrown knives at tree trunks. But nooo, I had to give in to my inner child and sulk, and Nick caught me at it.
I’m only twenty-one. I’m allowed to have the occasional juvenile tantrum. That doesn’t stop me from being absolutely and completely mortified that my older and much more sophisticated and mature boyfriend caught me at a weak moment.
He helps me out to the living room and then disappears, returning minutes later with a heavy mug, steam wafting out of it. “What’s that?” I ask warily.
“Mint tea. My mother always gave us mint tea when we were sick. It’s supposed to calm upset stomachs.” He sits next to me, the warmth of his body more soothing than any magic drink.
I take the mug from him and hold it, using the unspoken excuse that the liquid is too hot to swallow. Cinderella’s in the garden in her ruined dress, sobbing for all she’s worth, when Nick shoots a pointed look at the mug. Fighting a grimace, I take a sip of tea.
By the time the glass slipper’s on Cinderella’s foot, the mug is empty and I only feel like death, not death warmed over. My head’s propped on Nick’s shoulder, and I could fall asleep, just like this, warm and cared for, the offending cocoa scent having faded to the pleasant smell of sugared air.
Then his phone rings and ruins everything.
He untangles us and boosts a hip off the couch, pulling his phone from his pocket. “Kosta.” Dropping an absent kiss on my forehead, he gets to his feet and wanders over to the dining room. I’m determined not to eavesdrop. He’ll tell me if it’s something important, something I need to know. I pull up the queue and scroll through the movies. I settle on an old James Bond movie, one with Sean Connery. My mom loves these movies. She’s seen every s
ingle one of them multiple times. The summer I was fifteen, she sat me down, and we watched them together. It was another thing between us, something Turner didn’t intrude on. Girl time, she’d tell him, and go back to her bowl of popcorn.
And he’d always smile and kiss her cheek, leaving the two of us to our movie and me wanting to run after him and beg him to stay.
The opening credits are starting as Nick hangs up and stalks over. I hit pause. “Bad shit?”
“Bad shit,” he confirms, face grim. “Two dead. Lucas took a bullet to the leg, and Nikos managed to catch one of the fuckers.”
Nikos? So there are some Greek-named associates in Nick’s merry band of men. Besides Constantine, of course.
Nick shoves his phone into his pocket and kisses me again, a slow, tender gesture at odds with the fury vibrating off him. “I’ve got some interrogating to do. There’s more tea in the cupboard to the right of the stove if you want it.”
I should stay home. This isn’t my fight, and I feel like ass, but… I’m not the little mistress, content to putter around the house, wringing my hands while I wait for my man to return. Isaiah came after me. He may have shifted his focus to Nick and taking him down, but he won’t for long, and the sooner he’s neutralized, the sooner my life, and Nick’s, will return to its regularly scheduled programming.
And this is a chance I didn’t know I’d get. I might be able to get some answers to questions no one’s been able to answer. Questions about Marc.
I push to my feet. “I’m coming with you.” My stomach offers up a rumble of protest, and I rub a fist over it.
“No, you’re staying here. Where it’s safe and there’s a toilet nearby.”
“Very funny.” I glare at him. “Look, like it or not, I’m a part of this. Isaiah’s not splitting his resources, trying to track us separately, not yet, but while he’s probably okay with having someone else finish you off, he wants me for himself. He’s made it personal.” I gamble and play my trump card. “How do you know he’s not waiting for you to leave? He’s already shown he’s not afraid to send someone to strike where it hurts the most.”
Game of Vengeance Page 4