by Cara McKenna
“Stop,” he said, but limply. He wanted this as badly as he didn’t, confusion and lust and worry tugging him in a dozen directions.
“Not on your life.”
“I haven’t showered.”
“I don’t care.”
“No, stop. I don’t like having things . . . done to me,” he panted.
She shushed him softly.
“Stop. I mean it.”
She did, but only to look up into his eyes, lips barely an inch from his beading crown. Christ, she looked good. Tempting.
“Is getting head really so hard-core to you?” she asked. “Really?”
His eyes darted, panic seeming to flatten the room. “I don’t know. It feels that way. I’m rather uptight.”
She smiled at that. “But you’ve done it before, right? At some point?”
Duncan swallowed.
Her eyes grew round and she sat up straight, hands moving to his hips. “What, never?”
“No. Never.” And not because of a trauma—not because he’d ever had this forced on him, or been forced to perform it himself. He’d suffered more than any child’s fair share of abuse, but none of it had been sexual.
“I won’t ask you why,” she said. “But jeez . . . Have you ever fantasized about it, at least? Wondered about it?”
He nodded. Yes, he had thought about it, and been turned on by the idea, but to actually do it struck him as somehow . . . Not disgusting. Tacky, perhaps. Too tacky an act for the sort of women he used to fancy as his type. And too aggressive, coming from Raina. It demanded too much from him, even as he’d ostensibly be spoiled by the deed. It demanded receptivity. Demanded that he surrender control and simply take pleasure, and Duncan didn’t know how to take pleasure without simultaneously being the one giving it. He didn’t know how to be . . . tended to. He’d had so very, very little practice at feeling cared for.
“You’re going to let me do this,” she said, her gaze steady, “and I’m going to love every second of it. And maybe you’ll love it, too. And all this is is my mouth on your cock—a woman wanting to make a man feel good. I don’t care if it’s unladylike, or unattractive, or unhygienic. Or if it makes you feel like the sort of man who likes getting his dick sucked, or how you feel about that. It’s what I want, and you’re going to give it to me. Okay?”
He blinked, uncertain. Swallowed. Nodded.
Raina smiled. “Thank you.”
He flushed. She knelt between his legs, easing them wider. Duncan’s eyes shut and he swallowed again, the anticipation looming large and dark and heavy.
She stroked his legs first, palms gliding up and down in lazy trails from his ankles to his hips. In time she grew bolder, and he shivered as her thumbs traced the creases of his uppermost thighs. He was getting hard again. He stole a glance at the evidence confirming that, yes, he wanted this. His cock felt hot and heavy, foreskin drawing back, head flushed—and she’d not so much as grazed him there yet.
All at once, he needed this. Needed to know if her mouth was warmer than her sex. What the suction would feel like. What her tongue might do, and how tight she’d make her lips. Would she use her hand as well? Would she take him deep, in her throat? Did he even want her to? Christ, he could’ve been a teenager, for all the certainty he felt.
Her cool hand closed around him, and he groaned from the quenching pleasure of her slow strokes. “Yes.”
“You don’t have to just lie there,” she said.
He realized he was doing just that—surely as erotic as a man bracing himself for a medical exam. One of her hands was on his hip, and he covered it with his own. When she lowered her face, he gathered her hair in the other, wanting the view unobstructed. She blew a soft breath across his aching skin, and his cock twitched in reply. She smiled. Then she kissed him—a whisper of her lower lip along his crown. Another. The softest lap of her tongue.
He gulped a breath. Good as it felt, the anxiety still hounded him. His muscles were taut, eager to be doing. He tuned them out as best he could, focusing on the pleasure. And the pleasure was exquisite. She tasted and teased him with the relish of a woman sampling a fine wine or a delicious bite of food. She didn’t serve him—she consumed him.
He shuddered as her mouth took him deeper, grunted as she eased back, tongue taunting. He bucked when her hand slid low to cup his balls, and his back arched up off the covers. “Yes.”
Cool air enveloped his fevered cock, and she spoke. “Say my name. My actual name.”
Surely she’d noticed that he’d never managed to speak those two syllables in simple conversation with her. She can’t say thanks, yet you can’t even call her by her own name? Was she really the cagey one on this bed? Really?
She took him back inside. He sat up, gathering her hair in his hand. Her eyes met his, the contact shooting sharp pleasure down the length of him.
“Raina.” The name made him feel naked, but the sensation was apt. He dressed her up when he called her Ms. Harper, same as he’d dressed himself, to paper over the vulnerability. But everything was different, since last night. He said it again, craving that exposure. “Raina.”
Her mouth was perfection. Hot, slick, hungry. He’d never felt so big, never felt half so wanted. Nor half so naked, or owned. He had to wonder, if he came, would . . . Yes, she would. She’d taste him. Drink him down like whiskey. Fuck, why was that so exciting?
This was so much more than he’d ever guessed . . . and he’d theorized about it plenty in his thirty-eight years. But this was so . . . so intimate. So fucking intimate. Dirty, personal; pure and utter spoiling. It made his blood hotter than he’d imagined it could, made the pleasure surge in such exquisite, perfect time with her actions. She was controlling him, and Christ, it felt fucking magical. “Suck me. Please.”
I’m not a man who begs, he’d told her once. He hadn’t been then, but he’d changed in the past few days—hell, he’d been changing since the second he set foot in her bar. He’d beg for this, and happily.
“Please, Raina. Don’t stop.”
He felt her moans as surely as he did her lips or tongue or breath.
“I’m close.”
And cruel creature that she was, she backed off. He moaned his frustration at her lighter touches and suction, the slower pace, but she seemed determined to draw this out. No—to draw him out, he realized at once. He held her hair a little tighter, and gave a gentle, shallow thrust, slipping deeper. Another, and what she offered intensified, rewarding his motions. In time they were moving and meeting as one, her mouth mirroring his curt thrusts, deeper and deeper until her lips teased the hair at the very base of his cock. Fucking mesmerizing.
“Yes. Suck me.”
So much more welcoming than any embrace he might crave, any utterance of his name he could request. With every motion she told him, I want this. I want you. And it was with those unspoken words ringing through him that he came apart. Her moans joined his as the orgasm crested, and she drank him down.
He knew in that blinding, brazen instant, he’d be fantasizing about this moment for the rest of his life. And just as surely, he knew something else, something that paled this act, utterly.
Good God, I’m in love with you.
Dazed, rattled, and spent, he sank back against the covers, muscles so limp the bed could’ve been a hot tub.
Raina stretched her body along his and cupped his jaw in her palm. She held his stare as she spoke. “You got any more doubts how grateful—how thankful—I am to be with you?”
He shook his head limply against the pillow, unraveled. Totaled. Obliterated.
“Good.” She smiled, leaned in, and kissed his forehead. “You’re welcome.”
Chapter 21
Duncan woke up well after the sun had risen, finding himself alone—Raina and Astrid were nowhere to be seen, and the clock told him it was nearly eleven. “Dear God.”
He gave himself a minute to lie there and remember the things she’d done to him, but stopped before he got too heated. It took an icy shower to finally scare his erection away.
He skipped a shave and dressed for another day of riding, then found Raina and Astrid both in the kitchen, perched on adjacent chairs.
“Morning,” Raina said. She was drinking coffee, a book open before her on the table.
“Good morning. What’s that you’re reading?”
“Small business stuff. In case I ever make something of my side gig. I’d have had a cup of tea waiting for you, lazybones, but I wasn’t sure when you might be joining us.”
“I can make it myself,” he said, and got the kettle heating. “I didn’t mean to sleep in.”
“I wouldn’t even say you did—I don’t think I put you to sleep before three.”
“Yes, about that . . .” About the most mind-blowing sexual experience of his entire life. “It was rather unchivalrous of me to fall asleep right after.”
“Not unchivalrous—merely male.”
“In either case, I owe you some reciprocity.” Even thinking about it, he was ready to drop to his knees and deliver.
She smiled. “And if I had a spare minute today, I’d totally take you up on that. But I’ll be camped out with Flores till God knows when. Then tonight the bar should be packed—Kim’s going to do the shoot, with some of my clients.”
“Tonight? That’s awfully soon.”
Raina shut her book and set it aside. “I left a message for one of my clients yesterday—this girl I did an amazing back piece for. I heard back early this morning; she’s in town just until tomorrow, visiting her parents. It’s probably in the top five of my favorite pieces I’ve ever done. So I called Kim, then a bunch of other clients, and suddenly it’s happening. Here’s hoping Flores is done with me early enough that I get to enjoy it.”
“How many clients, all told?”
“Five for sure, and I left messages for another dozen. Free drinks can’t hurt. And I told everyone to bring friends. It’s a start, anyhow.”
“An excellent start. Would you like me to draw up a release for them to sign so you’ll have permission to use the photos as you wish?”
“Kim’s got that covered. You gonna come down and watch?”
Duncan made a face, torn between curiosity and distaste. This woman might have fucked off the great, fussy bulk of his armor, but he still rankled to imagine her hands engaged in such strange intimacies with other men’s bodies. Though perhaps the evening might demystify it all.
“We’ll see.” He rose when the kettle sounded and got his tea steeping.
“You riding today?” she asked.
“I am.”
“Not alone, I trust?”
“Casey sounded interested last night. Do you have his number, by any chance?”
Raina laughed. “Now, that is one weird bromance.” She pulled out her own phone and Duncan copied down Casey’s number.
“Bromance? Perish the thought. Merely a mutual tolerance. When does Flores descend?”
She craned her neck to check the microwave clock. “In about an hour.”
“I think it’s probably best if we don’t mention to him that I helped you sort things out, if he thinks we’re somehow in cahoots.”
“He already knows we’re fucking.”
“True.” And she was in good shape, either way. The authorities would be hard-pressed to infer any money laundering into the business; the bookkeeping had been chaos before they sorted through the piles, but nothing important was missing. “You should be fine today. Most everything’s in order.”
“More your doing than mine, but yeah. Man, I’ve got to keep better records downstairs. My dad’s method was always just to shove everything important-looking into the filing cabinet. I really shouldn’t have carried on that tradition.”
“The feds are grasping at straws—I suspect this is all a formality, and they’ll leave you be when nothing obvious presents itself.” Duncan bobbed his tea bag and glanced at where she sat. He felt compelled to walk up behind her chair, to lean down and kiss her cheek or temple or the crown of her head, but didn’t. He didn’t think he was the sort of man who did such a thing, nor that she was the sort of woman who’d welcome it. Ridiculous that it should seem too intimate, considering everything they’d done in the name of sex, everything they’d spoken about. But in a way, that delineation so perfectly encapsulated their . . . courtship? No, not courtship. Their crossing of paths. Yes—a brief intersection of two incompatible lives. A fleeting, glorious, perpendicular encounter, but not a merging.
Though it was becoming more and more difficult to see it that way. If he didn’t know himself so well, he might worry he was growing attached.
Just a by-product of the identity crisis.
He texted Casey and was about to sit, just as Raina stood.
“Need to hole up and get my crap in order with the tattooing stuff.” She nodded to the door to her little studio.
“Right. If I don’t see you, good luck with Flores.” Wait—could he kiss her good-bye, or . . . ? “And good luck with the shoot, if I don’t attend.”
She leveled him with a look.
“What?”
She curled a finger and he stepped close. She hooked that same finger under his tee’s collar and bade him to bend close, until their faces were level. “Come,” she said. “Come to the shoot.”
And could he really say no to that mouth? After everything it had done for him? “Fine.”
“Good. See you there.” She kissed his chin and let him go. Astrid followed her to the door to the tattooing room. “Bipeds only, beyond this point,” Raina told the cat, and shut herself inside. Astrid’s tail twitched irritably; then she sat, glanced morosely back at Duncan, and sighed.
“Chopped liver, am I now? Don’t forget who changes your litter,” he warned, just as his phone buzzed.
He hadn’t expected Casey to be awake, given his security shift, but the text read its a date mf. meet at garage. 12:30.
That gave Duncan time to finish his tea, eat some toast, and put Band-Aids on his blistered toes. He gave Astrid a parting stroke on his way to the stairs, and something odd happened when he stepped into the back lot—his gaze passed easily over the Merc, settling instead on the old bike. Surely an avoidance instinct, since the car’s injuries pained him. Surely not an affection for this death machine, he decided as he mounted the BMW.
When he pulled the helmet on, a wolf whistle from above drew his gaze to the open kitchen window. Raina grinned and made a cheesy feline growling noise and clawing gesture at him, Astrid in her arms.
“Drop my cat and I’ll murder you.”
“Go on. Lemme see you start it.”
He rolled his eyes and pulled his driving gloves out of his jacket pocket.
“Yes, good,” she called as he tugged one on. “Now the other.”
“Pervert.”
He was relieved when a single, smart stomp had the bike rumbling happily—nothing cooled him quite so readily as feeling incompetent. And he hoped she watched until he’d ridden out of sight.
Down the street, Casey was waiting in the front lot of the garage, astride his bike—or rather, no. Astride Vince’s. He was glowering at his phone, and waved a lazy greeting without looking up.
“Afternoon,” Duncan called over the growl of the BMW. “Thank you for keeping watch last night. On top of your little show of chivalry in the bar.”
“Whatever keeps your neck unbroken, Dunky.”
“I see you’ve borrowed your brother’s bike.”
“Yeah. You’re Mr. Off-Road Warrior, and I can’t keep up on my Harley.”
“Where are we headed?”
“You tell me. I got no agenda.” With a final frown, Casey pocketed the phone.
“That expression suggests romantic troubles,” Duncan said.
“I wish—I could stand to get laid, let me fucking tell you. Client troubles, sadly.”
Client? “I think I know better than to bother asking.”
“That you do,” Casey said. “Speaking of agendas. ’Fore we get going, you gotta answer me one question, man.”
“That strikes me as hypocritical, but fine.”
“What’s this all about—you and the bike?” Casey nodded to it. “I’m not complaining, but I know you didn’t just watch a Steve McQueen movie last week and get a hard-on for it. And I know it’s not some ploy to impress Raina, proving you’re one of us or something.”
“No?”
Casey shook his head. “Trying’s not your style, and Raina’s not impressed by anybody. Period. You got some other reason.”
Duncan shrugged, a touch unnerved to feel so easily—and accurately—analyzed by this man. Casey Grossier might present as blunt and simple, but more than once he’d shown he was savvier than the good ol’ boy he imitated.
“You sound awfully sure of yourself.”
“I’ve seen the way you scan every last inch of the ground,” Casey said. “Just tell me you’re not trying to find those fucking bones, man.”
Duncan smiled, his face growing hot.
Casey’s arms dropped to his sides, expression pure incredulity. “You’re shitting me. You don’t seriously think, what? Tremblay buried them, in Fortuity someplace? When he could’ve destroyed them, or hid them God knows where, way the fuck away from town? That’s beyond needle-in-a-haystack, man. That’s a fucking dust mote in the Mojave.”
Duncan fished his sunglasses from his jacket pocket and donned them, feeling far too transparent. “It’s merely a curiosity that distracts me when I’m out riding, surrounded by all that dirt.”
“You couldn’t be easier to read if you were a billboard, Welch. But fine. Sure. Let’s go take a lovely little scenic cruise through the badlands.”
“Yes, let’s.”
Duncan aimed them east, in the general direction of the ranch. To the north and south of Fortuity proper stretched long miles of dry desolation, seemingly endless expanses of scrubby high desert, fading into the hills in the distance. He searched the horizon for landmarks—for boulders, lone trees, anything distinctive that a man could hike to from the road. He searched for any sign that this endeavor was anything aside from hopeless. But all that came back was an echoing nothing. The urgency of that strange day must have been some contact high—the doing of Casey’s accident and John Dancer’s rum. Adrenaline. Klonopin withdrawal, perhaps. Even his reasons for wanting to find those bones had grown hazy . . . To clear his name, salvage his reputation, get his job back. To get his identity back.