“Oh,” he responds under his breath, like he hadn’t meant to verbalize anything at all.
I continue as if he hadn’t spoken. “I wanted to fuck you. So I asked Madame Eve for a date with someone…similar. ”
Silence.
Picking up his lager then setting it down without drinking, he runs his finger across the shiny wood of the bar some more. “Mind-fuck, you mean? Mess with my mind?”
My heart is whirling like a sandstorm. Dalton has given me a way out. We can forget we ever attempted this one-night stand. The choice is mine.
Another lager arrives and with a perfectly steady hand, I pick it up and drink. Everything inside me is too hot, moving too fast, sparking between panic and excitement. I’m going into meltdown over the possibilities before me, yet my exterior is calm. This is one of my better bluffs.
Denial or truth? How badly could the truth hurt me? How badly will I hurt if he walks away now and I never discover if he would have followed me into a bedroom? Envisioning us entwined on a bed undoes me. Lust makes idiots of us all. I chuckle into my glass, since admitting to my desire would be a tactical error, an actual surrender, right here, and I’m going to do it anyway.
“Nope. Actual fuck.” I place the glass on the bar with a solid, purposeful clunk then twist to leer directly at him and, in my best husky growl, say, “I want your voice hoarse from shouting my name.”
A fine shiver runs through his frame in response, and he bites his lower lip. I expected revulsion in his eyes. He should be recoiling from me.
He’s not.
His gaze flitting from my eyes to the floor and back like a cactus wren unable to settle, he leans toward me. “Yeah. She…she mentioned that.” He’s blushing. “I just…wanted to be certain that…that was what you truly wanted.”
Oh, yes. He cannot imagine how long I’ve wanted that. I nod my head toward the exit. “There’s a bed-and-breakfast a few blocks from here….”
With a quick dart of his tongue, he moistens his lips. “Madame Eve covered that, too. Is your car out front? I’ll drive you. I’m more sober.” His voice has taken on a gravelly quality.
I glance at his half-finished beer. He certainly is more sober. I hand him my keys. Fuck, I’ve turned into a trusting simpleton. “Where’s yours?”
A sheepish smile crosses his face. “I parked at the bed-and-breakfast and walked here.”
Well, now.
He had faith we’d end up there. And he knew from the beginning he’d be meeting me. Not a surrogate. Actually me. I should pinch myself because this cannot be real.
After I pay, we wander outside. Stars are peeking through the purpling twilight. So far away from city lights, the glittering stars in the endless big sky are amazing.
Dalton whistles when he sees the Jag.
I pat the hood. “Want to take it up on the highway?”
Shaking his head in awe, he deploys the doors’ hidden handles. The leather seat welcomes him while I climb in the passenger side. The car isn’t mine; it was arranged for me. Too showy for work, but marvelous fun to drive. It even still has that new car smell.
Dalton runs his hands around the smooth black steering wheel. “If I didn’t have somewhere to be, yeah, I would.” He glances at me, eyes sparkling with mischief. “But there’s a bed-and-breakfast down the road begging for a thorough, comprehensive, and rigorous investigation.”
I’m glowing brighter than any star. Dalton has chosen our rendezvous over driving this fabulous machine. He must have been dropped on his head as a child, but I’m grateful, nevertheless.
He eases the Jag onto the road while I lean back and remind myself his motivation is purely the siren call of sex. A mindless biological imperative. It means nothing. It never does.
“Is your real name Dmitri?” His voice is bright and curious.
Hearing him say my name always gives me a thrill. “When I think of my name, I think first of Dmitri.” That’s not what he asked, but it is the answer.
He nods, like this makes perfect sense to him. “My first name’s Thomas.”
As if I haven’t memorized every detail about him. “Do you prefer Thomas or Tom?”
“Close friends are allowed to call me Tom.” He looks over at me, and that shy smile is back. “You can call me Tom, if you want. For tonight, I mean. Or longer. Or not.”
He’s deliciously nervous. Am I to be his first encounter with a man? Or is it part of an act to lure me into complacency? To what end, exactly?
I can spin fucking Dalton into a big win as far as my patron, as Dalton dubbed him, is concerned. There’s no danger to me from my side. On Dalton’s side, there’s no reason to go to the bed-and-breakfast to arrest me. He could have taken me into custody in the parking lot. However, if he believes my desires for his person make him vulnerable, perhaps he would rather eliminate the threat before it starts. A deserted bed-and-breakfast in a small, isolated town would be a passable location for a hit.
“Are you planning to kill me, Tom?” It’s honestly the only reason I can think for why he’d participate in this charade. A little off-the-books wet work.
“What? No!” He sounds genuinely surprised, with a touch of appalled. I fancy he’s telling the truth. He’s not that good an actor. Not like I am.
Pulling into the bed-and-breakfast’s driveway, we park next to a compact American sedan I assume is his car since it’s the only other one here. We get out, he locks up and tosses me the keys. I catch them one-handed, my eye-hand coordination unimpaired. His eyebrows raise. He needn’t be impressed. It takes a lot to get me drunk.
I lead us up the flagstone path winding amidst a colorful garden of succulents and rockeries to the turquoise front door of the inn. It’s an adobe hacienda with long red chile ristras lining the narrow ranch porch.
My being in the lead is a deliberate show of trust on my part, symbolic of my faith in him not to put a bullet or a blade in my back. Not certain he realizes the significance of this, as his world isn’t quite as hostile as mine.
I head for the prickly pear cactus in the terra cotta pot where the key is supposed to be waiting.
“Picked it up when I arrived.” Dalton brandishes an antique iron key. It makes a heavy, satisfying clank turning the lock.
The hacienda is decorated mission-style, and the air is scented with cinnamon. There are seven bedrooms in this place, and we can have any of them. Yet I’m as rooted to the Navajo rug in the foyer as the prickly pear is to its pot.
Dalton locks the door behind us, and the solid sound of that metal bolt sliding into place possesses a certain…finality to it. A chill passes through my stomach, and my heart trips. What am I doing here? I’m not in control of this situation anymore. Was I ever? Resisting the urge to go for my gun in the concealed-carry holster at my belt, I clench my fists.
Behind me, Dalton clears his throat then steps to my side and grips my right wrist. I have to remind myself not to retaliate. He isn’t a foe; there is no need to defend myself. Perhaps he detects my racing pulse. In any case, his grasp gentles immediately. Raising my hand, palm up, he massages the flesh at the base of my thumb, pressing in small circles.
“I thought I’d be the anxious one.” His voice is kind, with a hint of amusement in it.
Avoiding his eyes, I shake my head. I’m not denying I’m nervous. I’m just…in awe of his presence. He chose to be here with me, completely unarmed. There’s a level of trust implied there I can never reciprocate.
His thumb continues pressing and circling. For such a small gesture, it’s surprisingly pleasurable. I try to remember the last time someone did something for me that wasn’t a mere side effect of me first serving them. That mental search is fruitless.
The massage continues, with both thumbs stretching palm muscles I didn’t realize I had. The unexpected relief surprises a tiny moan of pleasure from me.
“Good?”
Heat rising in my cheeks, I nod. My body shouldn’t be so easy to manipulate. Fumbling for words to exp
ress the unfamiliar emotions I’m experiencing, I stutter, give up, and change the subject, “When you arrived at the bar, I thought you intended to apprehend me.”
“You couldn’t tell I was dressed for a date? This is my best tie.” There’s a teasing lilt to his voice, and I don’t need visual confirmation to know he’s smiling.
I chuckle. “That’s the tie you wear when you want to impress people?”
“Yep. But I wanted to impress only you.”
I have the urge to tell Dalton he has always impressed me, right from the beginning. But I can’t possibly say something so…so idiotic. So sentimental.
Dalton shifts to stand in front of me. Even so, I don’t meet his eyes. One hand still holding mine, he presses the other palm over my heart.
“Well, all this touchy-feely, New Age-massage crap is not impressive in the least,” I scoff. I’m lying, and he knows it. Had I disliked what he was doing, I would have shoved him away.
The palm over my heart slides up to cup the side of my throat. His fingertips skim across the tiny hairs at the back of my neck, a bare tickle, but it sends a shudder through me, and my flesh pebbles.
I swallow the little sound of pure want struggling to escape my throat, and I’m twitching inside my jeans. Every bit of me tingling, I imagine throwing him against the wall and taking him, rough and wild, then sinking to my knees and letting him use me. I’ll do whatever he wants.
That’s the problem. Or, rather, that’s the mission. I need to ascertain what he wants.
Raising my head a little, I note the way his tongue runs along the inside of his bottom lip. If I could just capture that lip and bite it.
His expression turns almost quizzical as his hand shifts to stroke the five o’clock stubble along my jaw, and I realize this isn’t the skin texture he’s accustomed to on a lover. I wonder again if he’s ever fucked a man before—and yet he’s taking the lead.
Suddenly it’s too hot, despite the air conditioning. Shrugging out of my leather jacket, I let it fall to the rug with a muffled thud. Forced to release my hand while the jacket came off, he takes it again immediately, while his other hand resumes caressing my face.
“Cupid’s bow,” he whispers, tracing my mouth.
Capturing his forefinger, I roll my tongue around it and suck. His pupils dilate, huge and black. He rests his middle finger on the seal of my lips, waiting to see if I’ll acquiesce, and I do, sucking the two together. His nostrils flare as his breath speeds up.
Our eyes meet and hold. I imagine we’re both picturing me doing this to his cock. I certainly am. But I only know my motivations, not his. Lust is messing with my ability to read people, an ability I rely on to keep me alive. Without that, I have nothing upon which to moor myself but trust. And I do not trust.
I grab his wrist, yanking his fingers from my mouth, holding them up between us as I step closer to him. The wet skin glistens in the hall light.
“Do you want to use these on me now? Later? What do you want from me?” I snarl.
His eyes are soft as a doe’s. “Nothing you’re not prepared to give.”
The man has the patience of a saint. Releasing his wrist, I stomp a few paces away. This is just sex, remember. Meaningless. I pull my T-shirt off.
Dalton gasps behind me, neither in wonder nor excitement, but in sympathetic anguish. I’d forgotten he has never seen my skin.
“Who did that to you?”
Without answering, I ball the shirt and toss it to land on top of my jacket. It won’t do him any good to learn what happens to me when I help him out.
I make quick work of undressing; boots, gun in its holster, and the rest of my clothes. The air-conditioning is cool on my over-heated and abruptly revealed skin.
“Do you…. Do you like that sort of thing?” Dalton’s still focused on my back, apparently. Trying not to sound judgmental. Or horrified.
Concentrating on keeping my voice flat and restrained, I mutter, “No.”
Then I try to consider the question calmly. Perhaps I might like some degree of pain in a setting of mutual consent. If Dalton needed this from me, I’d give it to him. I revise my answer. “Maybe. But that,” I assume he’ll understand I mean the scars, “wasn’t consensual.”
From what I can tell, the bedrooms are upstairs, so I head for them. Dalton’s hands land on my shoulders, warm against my skin, and I flinch in surprise because I hadn’t heard him crossing the rug. His hold halts my progress, and I wait, heart hammering, his presence looming behind me. He starts to rub my arms, unhurried and gentle, like I’m a spooked horse. Perhaps I am.
I relax a little and he switches to massaging my biceps. He grunts appreciatively.
“Never realized you were quite so…muscular.” Another appreciative grunt. “Gorgeous.” He nuzzles my nape. Pleasant shivers radiate from his touch.
He steps away and, for a second, I’m bereft at the loss of contact.
Then he kisses the scars on my back. My lungs seize. I can’t talk. I can’t breathe. I can’t move. My entire being is focused on his mouth on me.
He runs his tongue along the lash scars, following as they intersect, switching from one to the next when they cross over. At certain points, he stops where the old burn scars are, and the hot, wet press of his tongue makes ever-so-tender circles.
“What is all this?” he mumbles against the damaged skin. His tone is sympathetic, concerned.
Forcing myself to breathe, I swallow, almost choke on my saliva, and then attempt to regain some measure of dignity with an indifferent attitude. “Ancient history.”
He snorts, apparently finding my cool demeanor less than convincing. Maybe we should have stuck to hitting each other.
“What?” I grumble.
“Dmitri, the more I learn about you, the more I find it remarkable you’re morally sane at all.”
I laugh. That might be the truest compliment I’ve ever received. “I wouldn’t mind if you called me Dima. It’s the familiar form of Dmitri, like Tom for Thomas.”
Wrapping his arms around me, he pulls my back against his front. I allow this, expecting him to fondle or grope me, but he doesn’t. He just holds me, his breath warm as it puffs into the hair on the back of my head. I relax while running through three different methods by which I can break his hold and escape. Planning my escape routes reassures me.
“I want to do this right for you, Dima,” he murmurs. “Make this the best night you’ve ever had. Ambitious for a first-timer, I know.”
My heartbeat skips. His words confirm he’s never done this before, not with a man. I’ve done it on orders with people I hated. Normally they do what they want to me and I take it. But, I’m not certain how to go about this with…with someone I care about pleasing. And I’ve certainly never asked for pleasure for myself. This is getting confusing…complicated. I consider simply offering myself to him and inviting him to do with me as he will.
Releasing me, he moves so we’re facing each other. He gazes into my eyes, not challenging, but assessing. “Hey,” he whispers. “Don’t do that. Don’t…go away.”
Am I going away?
“Yes, you’re shutting down.”
I hadn’t realized I’d spoken aloud, so for a second I’m stunned at the accuracy of his response. Passivity allows for distance. Distance protects me, too. Mentally, at least.
When he touches my face, I jerk my head away instinctively. But when he tries again, I let him. He cups my jaw and strokes my cheek with a thumb. Still making uninterrupted eye contact, I lean a little into the caress.
“Be here. In the moment. With me. I won’t hurt you. Not ever.” Dalton leans forward and kisses my forehead, almost reverently, like I’m some icon formed from brittle glass.
Ridiculous. Stupid sentimentality.
And yet I feel…. I feel. And it’s marvelous. Like when I’ve dropped an impossible target right to plan. Or delivered some information of particular interest to Dalton via our dead-letter box and am witnessing his enthusiastic res
ponse—through binoculars, but that’s still valid.
“Much better.” He grins. He has the most adorable grin.
As I’ve not spoken, I believe he’s based this opinion of my mental state on the fact my eyes are a bit wetter than normal, but that’s…pollen or something. Cactus pollen.
“I’m here. And I trust you,” I manage in a whispery growl. I don’t tell him just how much that costs me.
“That’s all I ask.” His adorable smile brightens even more.
Taking me by the hand, he leads me up the stairs and into the first bedroom, glancing back several times as if to make sure I’m still willing. I may not be much more experienced than he is at “making love” to another man but this impossibly fantastic moment is real and I’m here, present, ready to try.
Chapter Three
THOMAS
The heart wants what the heart wants.
That’s all I have to explain my actions. It’s not an excuse. I make no excuses. No apologies either.
No, that’s not quite true. Perhaps I should apologize to myself for how long it took me to recognize…to accept my true nature. I admit, at first I did not want to face what my dark attraction to him meant, so I was glad we only communicated in violence.
When I did deep research on Dmitri, I was convinced my interest in his past was purely professional, part of my profiling work. When the chance of intercepting him made my nerves sing with excitement, I reassured myself it was simply the thrill that comes with the prospect of a righteous arrest. Later, when he opened a one-sided line of communication, gifting me with tips—and even evidence—in private dead drops, helping me convict monsters, I tried to believe his assistance did not change what he was.
Killer. Assassin. Bad guy.
Simple as that. Not someone I could ever be friends with, let alone anything else. And yet, the first time I saw him, he saved my life.
Back then, although I’d done a bit of case work, I was still at my first office and green as Dmitri’s eyes. I was excited just to be part of this strike team on a drug bust. Too excited. Our main targets had been arrested and I was on mop-up duty in an old warehouse—a veritable maze with stacked debris. I strode through a section I’d assumed had been cleared. It hadn’t.
Desert Tryst (1Night Stand) Page 2