by Tracy Wolff
Not that it mattered what Marc thought, she promised herself as she allowed Gideon to propel her toward the exit with a proprietary hand on her lower back. She’d told Marc that what had happened on that balcony wouldn’t happen again, and she’d meant it. She’d let him destroy her once. No way would it happen again. It didn’t matter if she was still attracted to him, didn’t matter if there was unfinished business between them. She was no longer the love-struck girl she’d been six years ago, willing to risk anything and everything for a chance to be with him.
No, life had taught her a lot of hard lessons in the intervening years and she’d ended up building an entirely new life for herself. One she was proud of. One that meant something to her. One that Marc would be only too happy to ruin as completely as he’d ruined her old one.
She couldn’t let that happen. Not when her job—and her reputation—were all she had.
Five
The ride home with Gideon was easy. But then, everything was easy with him. There was no smolder. No dark past that tainted every interaction, no love or hate to color the way they looked at each other. The way they were with each other. No, she and Gideon had a comfortable friendship, one built on shared interests, lively conversations and similar senses of humor.
And never had she been more grateful for that than she was right now, as he pulled up in front of the small house she’d bought for herself when she’d moved here four years ago.
Gideon walked her to the door, but he didn’t linger. Didn’t expect an invite inside or even a good-night kiss. Instead, he hugged her and dropped a quick kiss on her forehead. Then, with a murmured, “Feel better,” he was gone. And she was alone.
Thank God.
Ignoring the way memories of Marc simmered right under the surface, she changed out of her dinner clothes into yoga pants and a black tank top. Then she poured herself one more glass of wine and settled on the couch to watch television and try to forget her disaster of a day.
Except she’d barely streamed the opening credits to her current favorite TV show before there was a knock on her door. Figuring Gideon had come back because she’d left something in his car, she opened the front door with a grin. “What did I forget this time? If you want to come in, we can share a bottle of—”
Her voice cut off as it registered just who was standing on her front porch—and he definitely wasn’t Gideon.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded. “And how did you even find out where I live?”
“I followed you.”
“You followed—Jesus. Stalk much?” She started to close the door in his face.
His hand flashed out, holding the door before she could get it more than halfway closed. “I’ve spent the last six years looking for you.”
For a second, she was sure she had heard him wrong. After all, the last thing Marc had said to her was that if he ever saw her again, he’d make sure she and her father both ended up in prison.
But the look on his face—a little guilty, all annoyed—told her she had heard correctly. And that he hadn’t meant to blurt out the truth like that. But now that he had, she wanted to know—“Why? Why would you do that?”
“It was a shitty thing to do.”
“I believe we’ve already covered how you feel about what I did—”
“No. I mean what I did. Tossing you out on the street like that, having security escort you from the building with nothing... I regretted it almost as soon as it happened. I went outside the building, tried to find you. Went to your apartment, but you never went back there. I was worried that something had happened to you because of me.”
It was the last thing she’d expected him to say, the last thing she’d ever expected to hear from Marc Durand. For long seconds she could do nothing but stare at him as she tried to absorb the words. She didn’t want them to matter, didn’t want anything to get in the way of her ability to tell him to go to hell once and for all. After all, the words—and the sentiment behind them—were six years too late.
And still she felt something melt inside her. For six long years she’d carried a twisted mess of betrayal and pain, regret and rage. Every bit of it had his name on it and no matter how many times she’d tried to let it go, no matter how many times she’d tried to move on, it had been there, choking her. But now, somehow, with just a few words, Marc had loosened its stranglehold on her. She could take what felt like her first deep breath in forever.
“I’m sorry,” he continued, and it sounded like he was swallowing razor blades. Not that she was surprised. In her experience, men like Marc didn’t apologize often.
And now that he had...she had a choice. She could tell him to go to hell and slam the door in his face or she could accept his apology. Since she’d always understood why he’d done what he had—her father had stolen from him, and in begging Marc to spare him, she had chosen her father over Marc—there really was only one choice she could make.
Opening the door a little wider, she stepped back. “I just opened a bottle of Pinot Noir. If you’re interested.”
“I’m very interested.” His voice was dark, wicked. She felt the heat of it in her stomach and her sex.
It made her nervous. Made her sweat, despite the chill of the air-conditioning. “It’s probably not as fancy as the wines you’re used to,” she told him as she entered the kitchen and poured him a glass of her favorite Pinot. “But I like it.”
He took the glass, drained it in one long sip. Put it on the counter behind him.
“Okay, then. Do you want m—”
He moved to cage her against the cabinet, an arm on either side of her and his long, lithe body pressed against her own. “I didn’t come for the wine, Isa.”
“Obv—” Her voice cracked, so she cleared her throat. “Obviously.”
“I didn’t come to apologize, either. I’m glad I did, but that’s not why I’m here.”
“Marc.” The word was low, broken. “I don’t think—”
“Don’t think,” he said, cupping her face in his big, worn hand. “Just listen.” He leaned down until his lips brushed, soft as butterfly wings, against her jaw.
“I wasn’t messing with you on the balcony earlier.” His breath was hot against her ear. “I wasn’t trying to humiliate you at work.”
Her nipples beaded despite her earlier resolve to never let him make her feel like this again. “It felt like that to me.”
“I know. And that’s my fault, too.” His mouth skimmed across her jaw, his tongue darting out to taste the corner of her mouth. “Wrong time, wrong place.”
He licked his way across her lips, soft and delicate and oh so coaxing. She gasped at the first touch of his tongue on her lower lip and he took instant advantage, licking inside to stroke her.
“My only excuse,” he said, in between each dark and wicked kiss, “is that even after all this time, you make me crazy. You make me forget where.” His other hand cupped her breast through the thin cotton of her shirt. “You make me forget when.” He stroked his thumb around her areola.
Her heart was beating too fast, her chest heaving with each ragged breath she sucked past her too-tight throat. Still, she managed to force out the question she was desperate for an answer to. “Do I make you forget who, as well?”
“I’ve never been able to forget you, Isa. And believe me, I’ve tried.”
The words stung, of course they did. But there was an honesty to them that echoed her own experience, that had her weakened defenses crumbling into dust.
She could blame her surrender on the wine or the loneliness or the shock of seeing him after all this time. But the truth was, she wanted him. She’d always wanted him. And if this night, this moment, was all she’d ever have of Marc Durand...well, it was a more fitting goodbye than the last one they’d shared.
And so she didn�
��t fight him when he moved to trail kisses down her throat. Instead she let her fingers tangle in his dark, silky hair even as she tilted her head back to give him better access.
“Your heart is beating so fast,” he murmured against her skin.
“It’s been a long time since—” She forced herself to stop before she revealed too much.
But he wouldn’t let her off the hook that easily. “Since what?” he asked between pressing kisses across the upper slope of first one breast and then the other.
She couldn’t tell him the truth, didn’t want him to know just how much she’d once loved him—or just how long it had been since she’d made love to someone. “Since you’ve touched me. Our chemistry was never in question.”
Then, to keep him from digging any deeper into what was a very sore subject, she ran her hands over his chest. He’d discarded his jacket and tie before coming to her door, so all that was between her fingers and his hot skin was a thin piece of dark blue silk the same color as his eyes.
He was as powerfully built as ever—maybe more so—and she’d be lying if she said she didn’t want to see him naked. Didn’t want to feel the heat of his skin, the resilience of his muscles, under her tongue.
But sanity finally intruded—in the form of his long-ago rejection that was still fresh in her mind. She didn’t think she’d be able to go through that a second time. At least not if she wanted to come out anywhere close to whole. So instead of unbuttoning his shirt as she longed to do, instead of slipping her hands inside the midnight-blue silk and stroking his pecs, his six-pack, the V-cut that had always made her mouth water, she forced herself to pull back. “What are we doing, Marc?”
He lifted his head from where he was licking a warm strip just below her neckline. “I would have thought that was obvious, Isa.”
She blushed then, her face turning hot at the sardonic amusement in his tone and the powerful look in his eye. “I just mean...” She turned away, refusing to look at him. “I don’t know what you want from me.”
“Yes, you do.” He straightened up then and looked her straight in the eye. Meeting his gaze when she felt so vulnerable, so uncertain, was one of the hardest things she’d ever done. But she forced herself to do it. Forced herself not to flinch or blink or look away. She had a right to know what she was getting into. With their history, this could be anything from revenge sex to reunion sex or a bunch of things in between.
Before she gave herself to him, she needed to know just what it was.
Except Marc had always been better at bedroom games than she. More experienced, more able to control his responses. More able to articulate his thoughts and wishes. Tonight was no different.
“I want you, Isa,” he told her, his hands stroking up and down her back in a rhythm that was at once soothing and arousing. “I want to kiss your breasts, to take your nipples into my mouth and see if you can still come from just the feel of me rolling them against my tongue and teeth.”
She gasped then, didn’t even try to hide the flush of arousal his words sent ricocheting through her.
“I want to be on my knees in front of you. I want to lick along your sex and feel you come on my tongue.”
His words were so powerful, the need in his voice so seductive, that she grew wet from them alone.
“I want to pick you up and press you against the nearest wall. Want to feel your gorgeous legs wrap around my waist as I slide into you, nice and slow. I want to feel you clench around me, want to hear you call my name.”
“Marc.” She cried out his name and it was as much a demand as a plea. “I need—”
“I want you to come again and again and again. On my fingers, on my dick, on my tongue. Until all you know is pleasure. Until—”
He broke off as she threaded her hands into his hair and pulled his mouth to hers in a kiss so hard she knew her lips would be bruised. Not that she cared. Right now, all she cared about was Marc and this moment and the feel of him inside her. She wanted to hold him, wanted him to empty himself inside her until she finally felt full.
Until she finally felt whole.
And then she wanted him to do it all again.
“Yes.” She breathed the word into his mouth even as she ripped at the fine silk of his shirt, desperate to get it off him. Desperate to feel his skin—hot and smooth—against her own.
Marc growled low in his throat—whether at her acquiescence or the feel of her nails scratching against his chest, she didn’t know. Buttons flew and he shrugged out of his ruined shirt even as he whipped her tank top over her head.
“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” he growled. And then he was cupping her breasts in his calloused hands. She jerked, arching into the sensation that was somehow familiar and brand-new at the same time.
It was a double shot of sensation, to both watch and feel as he touched her. Need—hot and powerful—skyrocketed inside her with each swirl of his fingers around her nipples. It raced through her blood, slid from nerve ending to nerve ending until she burned with it, consumed by it. Until all she could think or feel, all she could smell or taste or see, was him.
Finally—finally—his thumbs brushed fully over her nipples and she cried out at the streak of pleasure that shot through her. She clutched at his shoulders. Arched her back. And offered herself to him in a way she’d offered herself to no other man.
In answer, he dropped to his knees in front of her. Pulled her yoga pants and panties down her legs. Pressed wet, openmouthed kisses to her belly, her rib cage, her breasts. And then, when she was whimpering—when her hands were clutching at his hair and her body was trembling with the need to feel him—he took her nipple in his mouth and sucked hard enough to make her scream.
He did it again and again, lashing his tongue back and forth over the hard bud until she trembled on the brink of orgasm. She fought it, not wanting to give in to him so easily. And not, she admitted in the deepest parts of herself, wanting it to end so quickly. It had been too long since Marc had held her, kissed her, made love to her, and if this was her one shot to have him again, she wasn’t going to rush it.
But then he pinched her other nipple between his thumb and middle finger—all while he continued to suck and lick and bite at her other nipple. Her knees went weak and she clutched onto his shoulders for support, her hips moving restlessly against his chest as she drew closer and closer to the edge.
As if sensing her dilemma, Marc pulled his mouth away from her breast. She whimpered—actually whimpered—until he fiercely whispered, “Let go, Isa. It’s okay. I’ve got you. I promise, I’ve got you, baby.”
And then his mouth was back on her breast and she lost it completely. Dark and broken sounds fell from her lips as she spiraled up, up, up, up.
“Yes, baby,” Marc encouraged, his fingers pinching her nipple a little more tightly. She cried out, scratching her nails down his back.
She was right there, her body poised to fly over the edge. Right there, right there, right—Marc bit her, gently, and with a scream that she was sure her neighbors could hear, she hurtled straight into ecstasy, her body convulsing again and again.
He held her, using his mouth and hands to draw out her pleasure until she was an incoherent mess. Then he pulled her close, wrapped his arms around her and murmured sweet love words against her damp skin.
She didn’t understand what was happening here, didn’t know what had transformed the angry man from earlier into the tender lover she remembered, but she wasn’t going to worry about it. Not now, when her body was still singing with the most powerful orgasm she’d had in six years. Not now, when she was wrapped up in his arms so tightly that she could feel his heart beating against her skin. Not now, when she felt whole for the first time since Marc had kicked her out.
She’d do well to remember that—he’d kicked her out with nothing but the clothes on her back. A
nd she would remember it. She would. Later. Right now, when she was naked and vulnerable and sated, she wanted to hold him and be held by him.
Wanted to love him and be loved by him—even if it was only her body she dared to give him. Even if it was only his body she was getting in return. Well, his body and long moments of completely unimaginable pleasure.
It wasn’t enough, wasn’t close to enough, but if it was all she would ever have of him, she would take it.
Six years ago, she’d learned that the future would come whether she worried about it or not. So here, now, she wouldn’t worry about what came next. She would have this night, have Marc, and for once, let the future take care of itself.
Six
God, he’d missed her. Missed the taste of her skin. Missed the feel of her body against his. Missed the sound of her cries—broken and breathless—as she came for him. Even as he held her, even as he throbbed with the need for relief, he wanted to hear those sounds again. It wasn’t an admission that came easy to him, not with everything that lay between them. But it was the truth, one he’d tried to ignore for six long years.
One—like her—he was desperate to get out of his system, once and for all.
Pushing to his feet, he picked Isa up and held her against his chest. “Which way is your bedroom?”
She stared up at him with passion-dazed eyes, and even though he felt as though he would die if he didn’t get inside her in the next two minutes, he couldn’t help lowering his head and, once again, taking her mouth with his.
She responded to him like she always did—with warmth and fire and sweet, sweet surrender. He continued to kiss her as he headed down the hall, continued to kiss her as he lay her across the queen-size bed with the sexy red comforter. Continued to kiss her as he stripped down to the skin. And then he climbed onto the bed next to her and worshipped her the way he used to. The way he’d longed to for so, so long—with his hands and mouth and body touching, teasing, tasting every inch of her soft, sweet-smelling skin.