Variations (Base Branch Series Book 9)

by Megan Mitcham

Heat rose to her cheeks, and her fingers fumbled over the cold metal buttons.

  “That’s it, Bonnie. Good job.” His hand went back to the task of holding up the barrier.

  One at a time, Marina’s needle-pricked fingers released the buttons until Oliver’s soaked shirt hung open. Her arms collapsed to her sides, spent. She hated being vulnerable, but baring every weakness to Oliver wedged a lump in her throat.

  “I can’t get it off,” she croaked.

  A sweet smile quirked his mustache, as though he acknowledged her exposure, both emotional and physical. Gaze locked on hers, Oliver pressed the soft towel to her bare chest and wrapped it gently under the shirt, around her torso, and tucked it into the side around her back.

  Oliver had taken a shirt off her body earlier, but this time was different. Before, he’d been above her, distant and mechanical. Now, his thighs straddled hers. Warmth seeped into her skin. His gaze leveled hers. Without looking away, his fingers smoothed across her shoulder. A current of electricity followed its path as he worked the fabric off one arm, peeled it off her back, and dragged it over her other shoulder. This was no happenstance touch. It was deliberate, even if he didn’t know it.

  He threw the shirt to the floor and grabbed a towel. Gently, slowly, he dabbed at her hair, at the water droplets on her shoulders, back, and neck.

  Far sooner than she expected, the chill fled her body, replaced by forbidden warmth pooling between her thighs. Shockingly, this morphed from a planned seduction to being seduced. Unintentionally on Oliver’s part, for sure, but perilous all the same.

  The heavy weight of the towel settled across her shoulders. He grabbed another, the last from the pile. His fierce blue gaze lowered to her thighs, towel in hands to dry her legs. The whites of his eyes widened. Had he not realized how close he’d been to her? How intimate?

  His hands and knees created craters in the confectionary duvet, each divot a sign of his quick retreat. He scrambled off the bed, leaving her colder than she’d been when he’d plucked her out of the tub.

  Tentatively, he dried the bottoms of her feet and then her toes. The small circles moved steadily higher. His towel blotted away water droplets, while the steady strokes worked in desire.

  Her nipples beaded against the rough cotton. Pressed between her thighs, her clit pulsed. His touch amplified each wave of passion.

  Before Brödraskapet had taken her, she’d been a virgin, but she’d known her own touch beautifully. She’d known how to read her body and its reactions. Not in many years had she experienced such heated responses.

  Marina’s lips parted without her permission, and tiny sighs warmed the air around them. It emboldened her.

  She could do this. She could do this for herself, for her own pleasure…and to regain some of the power she’d lost at the hand of the Brotherhood. She could do this to make Oliver nothing more than another man.

  “The color’s coming back to your cheeks pretty quickly.” Oliver measured her.

  If he only knew.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Surprised,” she admitted, keeping aroused to herself…until she showed him.

  “If it’s okay, I’d like to lay you back and check your ribs.” He plowed a hand through his long hair.

  Her arousal spiked.

  “I’d keep you covered, of course,” he added with a sheepish grin.

  Oliver inched onto the bed—not over her this time but next to her. His strong hand cupped the back of her neck, and he laid her down with such reverence it hurt. Not in her limbs or her ribs, but deep down in her heart, where no feeling had crept in for so long.

  He blanketed the towel over her legs, working it up her thighs. When it crested her mons, fireworks lit behind her lids. She gnashed a moan between her teeth. Higher he dragged the stiff material until it reached her belly button. Her breaths doubled in speed, curling her toes, making her lightheaded.

  “I’m going to lift this towel but only to your ribs.” His long lashes and devilish eye gave a wink. “No peeking. I promise.”

  “You’ve promised that before,” she panted.

  “And I’d kept my promise,” he said in a husky voice. “As best I could.”

  He’d kept it dutifully. So honorably, she wondered if her seduction scheme would even work.

  Cool air breezed over her belly. She sucked in a breath.

  “Is it too cold? We can wait.”

  “No, now.”

  His gaze dropped to her stomach, and a shadow crossed his eyes. Yearning? Or was it her hopeful imagination, toying with her psyche? If only he could see something beautiful inside her. He’d called her beautiful. It was just too hard for her to believe…because of what she’d become.

  The muscles at the top of Oliver’s jaw clenched. He drew a breath through his nose and let it out slowly. His clenching jaw decompressed.

  “If it hurts, I need you to tell me.”

  She nodded.

  He leaned forward. The slightest touch grazed her belly, finding one rib and then another. His hands worked mechanically over her abused torso. He pressed and prodded a long line on her left side.

  A sharp breath and pitched cry shot between her lips before she could dial it back. Tears blurred her vision.

  “Shit.” Oliver’s palm flatted over the broken bone. In a gentle back and forth, he soothed the misused area. “Found it. But damn, I wish I didn’t have to.”

  She blinked the moisture away, not expecting little tears to course down one cheek.

  “Shhh.” He drew closer. His callused thumb trailed the tears, wiping them away.

  His open hand heated her skin. Pain shifted to pleasure. The euphoria emboldened her. She pressed her cheek into his touch, catching the drag of his thumb on her lips.

  “And do I tell you if it feels good?”

  Oliver choked on a breath. His nostrils flared. The black of his pupils swelled, overtaking the fiery blue.

  At that moment, she knew he was right there with her, lost in the madness.

  “I want you to feel good, Marina.” His voice broke. “I want it more than you can understand but not like this.” He raked his gaze over her bruises and protruding hip bones.

  “I did that to myself, you know.” What was she doing, pleading her case? Pathetic.

  “You did what to yourself?” Oliver’s eyes pinched.

  “Stopped eating.”

  “Why?” His fingers delved into her hairline, and he cupped her face.

  “If I wasn’t attractive enough, they couldn’t rent me to the next man.” A tear flowed over her cheek but met the strong edge of his hand. “It gave me control back, if only a little.” She swallowed and found bravery she didn’t know she possessed. Amazing what one could do with proper motivation. “I won’t hurt you. They tested me after, every time. The price they put on me demanded it. And it’s been six months since they offered me to anyone.”

  “Christ, Marina.”

  Her hand found his wrist. She begged with a look.

  He bit his lip. The gaping distance remained between them.

  Rejection hit her like a Brödraskapet fist, only this hurt deeper. She swallowed past the tears, the frustrations, the years of being told what to do, when to do it, how to do it, and for whom.

  She gripped the towel covering her breasts with two hands and pulled it from her chest.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m taking my body back. I’m doing what I want, when and how I want. No matter the time or place. No matter whether it’s right or wrong. I’m taking control.”

  Oliver whispered her name, a plea and a song. He grabbed her hands and placed hot kisses on the palms of each, before guiding them to either side of his bearded face. His hands held hers in place this time.

  A connection lit all the way to her toes, to places she didn’t know existed. She pulled him to her mouth, but he stopped mere inches away. His eyes were tortured, his breathing ragged. Her heart thumped against her sternum. He grazed a kiss
across her forehead and kissed a path down one cheek. His whiskers tickled her livened skin.

  “Do you remember when I said I’d never hurt you?” His face hovered inches from her lips.

  “Yes.”

  “I also said I wouldn’t put the moves on you. I didn’t mean never, Marina. Not for that. Not for this.” His gaze raked over her body before returning to hers. “I’ll definitely put the moves on you when you’re ready.”

  “I am ready.” She’d never been so willing, wet, or wanting. Somewhere along the way, this became less about obscuring Oliver and more about connecting with him and her own pleasure.

  He suspended over her, indecision weighing heavily in his gaze and on her heart.

  Oliver pressed forward, connecting their lips in a gentle brush. Then he pushed off the bed, creating a chasm between them.

  “Hey, where are y’all?” Hunter called from the front of the house.

  9

  Hunter’s bloated eyes and slacked jaw perfectly captured the what-the-fuckness of the situation. Oliver’s best friend had seen him balls deep in a woman while Hunter had been the same in another chick on the hotel bed beside him. So his bestie’s oh-shit expression said a hell of a lot about the… He didn’t even know what to call it between him and Marina.

  She lay half-naked in a strewn towel on his bed—soaking wet, beaten, bruised, and lusting as much as he was.

  Hunter looked from him to Marina and back. His friend lifted his hands and backed to the door he’d barreled through. He stalled there.

  “Marina, are you okay?” Hunter rubbed a hand over his tight, clipped hair.

  Her quick nod must have assured his friend enough because he turned tail and retreated.

  Oliver stared at Marina, not knowing a damn thing to say. He opened his mouth, hoping for an ounce of wisdom, but nothing came out.

  A petite palm lifted.

  His chest constricted.

  “Just hand me a shirt and boxers, if you have them, and go.”

  He did as she asked, retrieving clothes from his bag and laying them on the bed. The itch to wrap her in his arms and hold her close crawled across his skin, but her sad eyes, thinned lips, and labored breaths kept him at bay.

  “Can you remove the plastic over your bandage or do you need—”

  “I’ve got it.” Those shattered blue eyes shifted to her hands, dismissing him.

  He retreated like the pussy he was.

  Laughter erupted from the back of the house for the thousandth time that afternoon. Where had that elation been two hours ago when they’d all shared a stilted meal together? Her gaze hadn’t even flitted in his direction. Not that he’d given her any reason to look at him. He didn’t attempt an apology or explanation for their mid-morning interlude because—even after hours spent in his head—he didn’t know what to say.

  I want you so badly it hurts. You need time and loving attention to heal. I want to be the guy to give it to you, and that scares the shit out of me.

  Anything would have been better than his silence.

  Oliver shoved off the counter and stormed the hallway, following Hunter’s boisterous mulling and the magic of Marina’s giggles. His friend’s noise died off, but her sweet sound poured from the master bedroom. Apprehension slapped him across the face, but he pressed on.

  Inside, the vaulted ceiling and crystal chandelier mocked him. The comforter hung off the side of the enormous sleigh bed, and steam clouded the beveled mirror above the bathroom sink.

  His stomach hit a vortex. It cramped and whirled in the torrent building in his blood. He stepped back. The edge of his boot hit the built-in bookcase lining the wall opposite the bed. Crown molding bit into fingers. He strangled the heavy frame for balance.

  “You didn’t.” Marina guffawed.

  “Damn right, I did. And she liked it. You would too.” Hunter’s boast rumbled to Oliver from deep inside the bathroom.

  Over the years, he and Hunter had shared more women than they’d shared colds. It never mattered before. It shouldn’t matter now. He’d only known Marina maybe a few more than twenty-four hours.

  He tore across the bedroom, past the vanity, through a closet that made his bedroom look small, and into a low-ceilinged sitting area. Black lace wallpapered the space. Candlelit sconces hugged the boudoir in dim light. Two black leather stuffed loungers split by an oversized ottoman appointed the room.

  His imagination conjured the most compromising tangles of mouths and limbs. What he found hurt worse.

  Marina propped a shoulder on a lounger. The prettiest smile he’d ever seen curved her mouth. Hunter sat across from her perched on the cliff of the large footrest. The man’s thick forearms rested on his knees. His hands covered his hanging head. His shoulders shook with unvoiced laughter. She leaned toward his friend, patting her little hand on his shoulder.

  When she spotted him, her smile faltered. Her hand dropped. It twisted into a black comforter draped across her legs. She pulled it up to her chest.

  “We need to talk.” Oliver snarled but didn’t shout. A surprise win.

  Hunter’s head snapped to attention. His best friend braced both hands on his knees and shifted his bubble butt off the seat.

  “Not you. Her.” God, he sounded like a bastard, but he couldn’t stop himself any more than he could successfully flush the adrenaline churning in his veins.

  “Now, you want to talk.” Marina propped her palm on the seat and straightened with effort.

  “I want you to talk.” He crossed the threshold and sucked the last of the oxygen from the space. “Why’d you turn on Cara?”

  Oliver knew the Bastardhood had some kind of leverage against Marina to make her do it, but he couldn't bring himself to say so. Not in the intimate echoes of their laughter.

  The pink on her glowing cheeks paled. She pulled her straight legs into a close knot. Her brow furrowed and a grimace stole every last hint of her joy. Her gaze shot to Hunter.

  Oliver’s fists burned for release.

  “Where’s Tor?” He shouted the question, demanding her attention.

  Marina’s lips welded together before his eyes. She folded into herself, like before, and remained stubbornly silent.

  Hunter tossed a WTF look at him and then hoisted both his hands and shoulders for emphasis. Oliver turned back to Marina.

  “Answer me for once.” He couldn't bank his inner asshole. “How could you turn on someone who took care of you?” The moment the words shot from his mouth, he scrambled to shove them back into the dark recesses of his demon-filled closet.

  The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees, and he’d swear her frosty gaze caused it. Marina slipped her legs from under the blanket, and her toes hit the ground. A hiss breached her lips, but she shoved past it to get off the chaise. She stood, slightly hunched, in his shirt and boxers and limped to him.

  It was as if the floor opened up to swallow him whole but gagged on his lower half. He felt so small and petty.

  “You don’t know anything.” Her lower lip quivered.

  He wished the floor would bite hard and put him out of everyone’s misery. He wished she would tell him what he didn’t know.

  “But I knew you rescued me for information, no matter how kindly you treated me.” Marina stalked and stumbled from the room.

  Sure, they could use the information she had, but the information didn’t make his heart jump and his need spike.

  Hunter broke for the doorway at a near sprint.

  Instinct placed Oliver in his friend’s path.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you, bro?” His friend sidestepped him.

  Oliver countered, leading with his chest and pressing Hunter back into the cozy space.

  “Hours ago, you were ready to…” Hunter placed both hands on his hips and squeezed. His head swiveled as though searching for words. “No, not like you were ready.” He knifed a finger at Oliver’s sternum. “I’ve known you long enough, seen you in action enough to know that I’ve ne
ver seen you look at a woman like you looked at her. You were ready to make love to her hours ago, and now, you’re raging.”

  “And what are you doing?” Oliver fired.

  “I’m hanging in the only room in this place I blend in to, kickin’ it with a sweet bird.”

  Both of Oliver’s hands popped forward, catching his best friend in the chest.

  Hunter flew backward. His calves caught the ottoman, and all four of the stool’s legs slid. The shriek of ripping material filled the room, and a gaping hole slit into the thick rug beneath the stool. Hunter tumbled onto his back and then his shoulder. He flipped. His feet landed on the floor, hands on the ottoman.

  “And I’m watching you lose your shit over a girl.” Hunter’s chest puffed on a breath. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

  “Fuck you.” Oliver hated his friend for being right and himself for not being able to rein in his shit. He turned and bounded from the room.

  “That’s on the second date, and you’ll have to bring me flowers,” Hunter called after him.

  10

  Marina’s gaze fixed on the door of the room they’d called hers. Conveniently, for them, the thing lacked a lock. There were probably even cameras in the expansively molded ceiling, but since she still heard both men’s raised voices, they probably weren’t monitoring them.

  Desperate times incited desperate measures. She clung to the fragile phone in her hand and begged the static-laced line to ring again. A bead of sweat rolled between her shoulder blades. The line clicked.

  Was that a connection or the phone going dead?

  Breath clogged her throat.

  “Hello,” a man’s voice said.

  “Hello?” Relief flooded Marina. Her fingers tingled. Her head swam. She spoke into her hand to mute the excitement in her voice. “This is Marina Sorensen. I need—”

  “You have reached Stronghold Technologies. If you know your party’s extension, you may dial it at any time.”

  Elation drained as quickly as it had flashed.

  “For open contracts,” the voice continued, “enter your account number. For proposals, press one. For—”