Her body had been moving when he’d entered, and the rhythm of her bare feet, ball to heel, hip dipping low, swaying gently, hands flowing so gracefully, all kept time with the earth itself. She seemed to flow gracefully, in harmony with the music, with the earth.
He was a woodworker. A musician. Everything about him had to do with nature and rhythm. At the moment, he was so out of sync with nature, so completely out of tune, but he recognized that she was the most naturally gifted woman—make that “naturally gifted person”—he’d ever met. He hadn’t known anyone like her actually existed. She could have been born of the earth itself.
It wasn’t just that incredible voice of hers, but her body as well, every movement, no matter how small, flowing and soft. He was mesmerized just by the way, when she spoke to him and she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, he felt the heartbeat of the earth, like the beat of the Arabic music playing so softly in the background.
“What are you doing?” He made every effort to gentle his voice. It still came out with his rougher rasp, but he didn’t sound like he was going to kill her. That was a plus. “Before I came in. What were you doing?”
The color sweeping up her neck and into her face deepened. “Practicing dancing. They said it would be all right to wait in here.”
Player dared to bring one hand up to his neck to massage the tight knots. He tried to breathe through the pain in his head, making it difficult to think straight. His brothers. They must have sent an exotic dancer to his room, thinking he would need some relaxing fun after his long drive. They had no idea the mission had gone to hell and things had taken a turn for the worst. This woman, with her beautiful bedroom eyes and thick pelt of glossy hair, practicing her craft while she waited for him, shouldn’t be wasted. He took another deep breath to try to get on top of the crushing pain.
“Your name?” He managed to bite out the question without sounding like he was going to take a bite out of her—at least, he thought he did. She still hadn’t moved. The little ankle bells were very still, as were the ones dripping beneath the golden coins around her hips.
“Zyah.”
She whispered it, and her name sounded so lyrical to him that already his mind was working on role-playing with her. How could he not? The setting was perfection. She was a gorgeous belly dancer hired by his brothers. They’d known he would come in tired from the long drive and tense after the mission. She was just perfect to relax him. Where had they found her?
“You’re practicing your dancing?” He encouraged her to talk to him, needing to hear the sound of that musical voice. The tone seemed to find a way into his fractured mind. Each note, each way she framed the pure pitches, along with the movements of her body, seemed to connect, to transfer nutrients to his starved brain cells.
She nodded, and again the small movement was accompanied by the shifting of her feet, the ball of her foot to her heel and then the sway of her hips. The little bells at her ankles and hips jingled, blending with the beating of the dumbek, the Arabic drum that accompanied the music playing. She had such a natural rhythm to her, and he felt it from the bare soles of his feet to the already quieting thunder in his head.
“I don’t mind. I didn’t realize you were in here. It startled me is all. It’s crazy out there.” He gestured toward the hallway, hoping she’d choose to stay. To encourage her, he kept his large frame draped against the door.
“Is this your room?”
He wanted to savor the cadence of her voice, that soft lyrical sound that moved around the broken pieces in his head and knitted them back together. With every word she uttered, the terrible pounding lessened. “Yes, but it feels like an Egyptian oasis out under the stars in here. I wouldn’t mind playing your prince. I like role-playing.” He flashed her a smile. He’d been told more than once he had a “killer” smile and could melt the panties off a woman if he tried. He was trying now. “My brothers call me Player.”
Her laughter was a soft melody, playing over his body like the touch of fingers. A slow burn started out of nowhere, a kind of molten lava moving through his veins as if she’d woken a long-forgotten part of him he hadn’t experienced naturally since he was a boy.
“Of course they do. Why aren’t you at the party like everyone else?” She tilted her head to one side, but as she did, the thick fall of her hair swayed, her abdomen undulated, hips dipping and shifting in a figure eight, bare feet rising and falling, unaware that she had found the perfect heartbeat with her music, the drum and her enticing laughter.
“I’m more of a solitary man. What about you?”
“My dancing isn’t going to work in that crowd.” She laughed again, low and musical, her arms moving gracefully out from her body, a sensuous invitation as she began to dance around the room. “I dance only for my prince, remember?”
Her voice was a blend of smoke, sin and sex. That slow burn in his veins became hotter, the fire pooling in his groin, shocking the hell out of him. He didn’t have natural erections. He was always in control of his body, commanding his own erections. The nearly violent reaction to the sultry tone of her voice was without comprehension. None. He couldn’t conceive of the hot blood pouring into his cock being real. None of this could be real, not if his cock was involved, and there was no denying the enormous and urgent reaction to her.
“You have gorgeous eyes.” She did. He doubted if he could make up those eyes of hers. He had a vivid imagination, but her eyes were unusual. They were large, a deep, deep startling color surrounded by dark lashes. He could drown in her eyes, never a good thing for a man like him. He found himself trying to choose the exact color of brown. They were a dark chocolate, almost a near black. “Are you wearing colored contacts?” He knew it wasn’t just the deep rich color, but the shape and size of her eyes and the heavy dark lashes surrounding them.
She shook her head, and the action set the dark mass of hair flowing in waves around her face and shoulders and down her back. The lights from the candles caught in the glossy strands, highlighting the sheen, allowing him to see the various shades before the silky mass settled, framing her face and that exquisite bone structure.
“No, I inherited my eyes from my grandmother. I was very lucky to get her coloring.”
There was love in her voice when she said grandmother. Her voice had gone even softer. She was capable of wrapping a man in real love, the lasting kind. Where that thought came from, he didn’t know, since he wasn’t altogether certain he believed in love.
“You have unusual eyes as well,” Zyah pointed out. “You have dark hair, maybe not as dark as mine, but your eyes are an unusual shade of blue. Almost like an icy blue.”
When she spoke, her body moved. The movements were subtle, but his mind was so tuned to her, not even the smallest detail escaped him. It was as if those soft, sensual notes were grounded in the earth the way her body movements were. It was true that he had blue eyes, but his hair was light brown with streaks of blond while hers was a rich chestnut color, a glossy, dark mass that added to her exotic dancer appearance.
“You look like you stepped right out of Egypt or Persia. I’ve traveled to several of the Middle Eastern countries and found them quite beautiful.”
Zyah smiled. It was slow in coming, but well worth the wait. He found himself holding his breath in anticipation, watching her mouth. She had a generous mouth, just like her breasts and hips. Like her large eyes. Her lips were full and curved perfectly, like a bow, her lower lip bitable. Her mouth was a shade of red without lipstick, although he thought she wore a gloss, and he already had fantasies about having those lips stretched around his cock. When she smiled, he could see her straight white teeth, although there was one little crooked tooth on her bottom row just to the right that set his pulse pounding. She was not only gorgeous but sexy beyond imagining.
“Did you have your own private dancer when you traveled to the various countries?”
That voice of hers, so sultry, curled around him like the sounds of the variou
s instruments playing the Arabic music so softly in the background.
“No, I wasn’t there for the beautiful women, although honestly, I never saw anyone who looked like you.” He had been an instrument of death each time he’d been there. He was an assassin, trained from the time he was a child. He’d seen the dancers, beautiful women, but he hadn’t managed to stay and listen to the music or watch the dancers after he’d killed his intended targets. He couldn’t very well tell her that.
“Are you going to come all the way into the room or just stay leaning against the door?”
Her gaze drifted over him, and everywhere she looked it felt as if she touched him, caressed him with her fingers. His cock pulsed. Throbbed. Ached. He wanted to fist it right there while she danced for him. “I don’t know. If I move, are you going to leave me?”
She tilted her head to one side, and again, when she moved, her hair swung around her in a sexy slide, setting her body into motion as well. Those small, subtle moves added to the pull on every one of his senses. He found himself totally unable to look away from her. He’d never been so wrapped up in someone so fast. So completely.
“Not if you really want me to stay.” Her lashes swept down and back up, almost demurely. A look of innocence clashed with her sensual body movements and the sound of her voice.
“I want you to stay and dance for me. I want you to talk to me. You’re the best surprise I’ve had in years.” That was the absolute truth, and he hoped she believed him.
Her smile came again, and more hot blood raged through his veins and pounded through his cock. All on its own. His body actually worked. It was a fucking miracle. She was the fucking miracle. He had no idea where his brothers had found her, but whatever they’d paid her to be here in his room waiting for him, it wasn’t nearly enough. They couldn’t have known she held some kind of elemental magic in her that worked itself into his body, into his brain, repairing all the damage and making him whole again.
She held out her hand to him, and when she did, her arm movements were graceful and flowing, as if she were dancing already for him. He wrapped his fingers around her hand, touching her for the first time. Skin to skin. His cock nearly exploded right along with his heart. She led him to the bed, her hips dipping with every heel-to-toe movement. The gold coins on her hips shimmied and shook, causing the bells to jingle on the belt as well as the bracelet around her ankle. He’d had no idea he could find ankle jewelry so sexy, but he did.
He settled on the bed, pulling off his shirt, barefoot, with only his jeans on, the room lit only with those scented candles. The music started again. He felt the difference in the music this time. It was highly sensuous. He was a musician and very familiar with instruments. His ear was finely tuned to pitches. He recognized the distinctive percussion of the goblet-shaped drum, the dumbek. The kanun was a stringed instrument that produced beautiful sounds much like a harp. There was a ney, a flute that had an amazing tone to it.
Zyah seemed to become one with the harmonious rhythms of the music, her arms gracefully flowing, almost mesmerizing. She moved in a circle, hips swaying, the bells calling to him. When she faced him, her abdomen was completely isolated, undulating, while her arms were moving over her head, hands telling a story. Flowing. Spellbinding. A seductress all his. He was utterly captivated by her. Zyah. His private dancer.
TWO
Player woke slowly, shades of Arabic music running through his mind. He kept his eyes closed, savoring the dream. He didn’t have good dreams often and never after a bad experience like he’d had last night. Zyah. He let out a soft sigh, remembering her eyes, the way she’d looked at him while he moved in her. She was scorching hot. So fucking tight he thought she might strangle his cock with her sheath of silk.
He’d never had sex like that in his life. Not in real life and certainly not in his dreams. He had no idea how many times they’d had sex, but he’d taken her over and over, in the bed, on the floor, against the wall, on her hands and knees, any way he could get her. She was the most sensual creature and so damn hot he couldn’t get enough of her. He loved the way she responded to him every single time.
He would never be able to conjure up eyes like hers. Large. That particular shade of dark, melting chocolate no one else had. Those long, dark lashes, thick, framing her eyes, drawing him in so he could drown in her when he took her slow.
Then there was her mouth. That fantasy mouth with her perfect lips. If he were a painter, he would paint those lips. The sight of them stretched around his cock while he disappeared into the hot haven of her mouth was so sexy, he’d barely kept it together long enough to enjoy himself. Especially with her eyes looking up at him.
He should have kept his dancer with him. If he had, even though it was a dream, maybe he would have made something good a reality instead of something bad. Instead, when he’d stretched out on his bed, exhausted, and she’d tried to lie down with him, he’d given her a swat on her very beautiful ass and told her he was done with her, to go home.
In his defense, when she’d looked at him with her big brown eyes, he had explained he didn’t sleep with anyone but that he believed she’d earned every penny the brothers paid her and then some. He’d dug out every hundred-dollar bill he had transferred from his old jeans and shoved it into her hand. He’d been more than generous to his private dancer—he’d given her at least a thousand dollars, and she’d earned every penny.
Why the hell hadn’t he kept her in his dream? That would have been the intelligent thing to do, so he could have her night after night. He groaned, his cock hard as a rock all over again. He went still. That was fucking impossible. His cock didn’t react to anything without his express permission. He controlled his body at all times. He didn’t have dreams, certainly not wet dreams.
Hating to face the day and give up on his private dancer dream, knowing he’d never get that one back, he forced his body to move, to turn over. The first thing that came into his view when he opened his eyes was his nightstand and the wad of money on it. He froze. Staring—just staring. He didn’t leave money around. Not when there was a party. Okay, never. He stashed cash in a drawer for easy access, but he never left it out in the open.
Keeping his eyes on it, afraid it might come alive and bite him, he sat up slowly, the sheet tangling the one leg he still had covered. Kicking, he reached for the cash and peeled back the bills. Yeah. Over a thousand. His mythical tip. His dream had been so real, not only was her fragrance—pink plumeria, Egyptian musk and ginger—lingering in the room, but he had her money right there in the palm of his hand.
Player forced himself to look around. Candles burned all the way to nothing were scattered on every surface. He suddenly had a vision of dancing lights flickering over Zyah’s undulating abdomen, her swaying hips and graceful arms. The flames had projected her figure onto the wall so that her moving hands were mesmerizing. He’d had not only his private dancer, but a shadow dancer as well. The moment had been beautiful, unique and all for him. She had smiled, her face lighting up, and his entire body had come to life all on its own.
He shook his head, not daring to believe she was real, even with the money in his hand. Zyah was a dream. Women like her didn’t exist. An exotic dancer, mysterious and beautiful, giving herself to him so completely, surrendering everything. Her mouth. Pure fire. Her tight pussy, hot as hell, a fucking inferno surrounding his cock and squeezing like a vise, milking him dry. Those eyes of hers staring into his as if he were someone real to her, someone worthwhile.
“No, this can’t be happening. Tell me I didn’t blow it this big.” He whispered his plea to the universe and then forced himself to look down at the floor, because if he actually stuck his dick in a woman, he wouldn’t do it without wearing a glove. Not ever. He would protect her and himself.
He groaned again, and this time not in a good way. The evidence lay everywhere. Filled condoms tied with knots scattered all over the floor as if he’d carelessly dropped them and grabbed the next one. They were
everywhere, like the candles, condemning him. One by the wall. He remembered pushing her up against the wall, unable to wait to get into her, although he’d had her so many times. He couldn’t get enough of her—or her him.
The chemistry between them was explosive. Crazy hot. Off the charts. No wonder he’d thought it was a fucking dream. It was too good to be true. He was so stupid, he hadn’t even gotten her number. He pushed his palm against his forehead hard, trying to think what to do. He wasn’t about to give her up, not when his body genuinely reacted to her. Not when she made him laugh the way she did. Not when just her voice and the movements of her body could heal his fragmented brain. He’d been handed a miracle, and he’d carelessly thrown it away. Not thrown it away—driven it away.
He just had to think. Breathe. Get oxygen to his brain and stop panicking. She was out there somewhere. She wasn’t a myth. He hadn’t made her up. The brothers had to have hired her. She didn’t come out of nowhere. She was in his room for a reason—to entertain him. She’d been a gift to him. His fellow Torpedo Ink brothers had to have her name and number. He breathed a sigh of relief. Of course they would know how to contact her. How else had they gotten her for him?
Player took another slow look around the room, this time with satisfaction, letting every detail sink in. He wanted to remember every aspect of the night. Everything, down to the smallest detail, about his private dancer. She’d left behind the remnants of the candles, although he recalled the two of them blowing out the flames over what remained of the dwindling wax. They’d laughed together when they’d nearly hit foreheads. She had such a beautiful, captivating laugh.
Reckless Road Page 3