by Alison Kent
“Not yet.”
“I don’t know that I want him to,” she said, leaning her head on his shoulder, waiting for him to slide his hands higher. Or lower. Just to slide them. Somewhere.
But he didn’t. “Now you’re confusing me. Isn’t that why we’re doing this?”
“It was. But those…I can’t explain. They hurt.”
“That may be what you feel seeing them, but trust me,” he said, his lips at her ear, his teeth nipping the skin just beneath. “That’s not what an audience will feel.”
She swallowed, shuddered. “How do you know?”
His laugh rumbled through her, possessing, intimate. “You’ll find out at the showing.”
“What if I don’t want to wait?”
“You don’t have to. Say the word.”
“You’ll be honest?”
“That’s who I am. I thought you’d figured that out.”
“I know. And I’m trying to think of the photos as art. Erotic art, even.”
“But the erotic part is getting to you.”
“It’s crazy, isn’t it? I let people look at my body, but having them see what’s in my eyes…”
Finally—finally!—his hands moved. Slowly. Upward. Covering her breasts, his fingers twiddled the hoops in her nipples, tugging, twisting. She felt it in the pit of her stomach, in her center, deep between her legs.
“What’s in your eyes is desire. I know you were dancing for me. You know you were dancing for me. No one else ever will. For them, the performance was all about the camera.”
“Or about their own fantasies.” God, she loved the feel of his hands, his body warm behind her, the ocean breeze cooling her as it blew.
“Those men that night at Cigar Paolo. Do you think they walked out of there and never thought about you again?”
“I don’t know….”
“You stripped for me in your window, and you had no guarantee I was going to call. If I hadn’t, do you think that picture wouldn’t have visited me when I was soaped up in the shower?”
She didn’t respond. She couldn’t. His words wound her up; his touch made it so hard to breathe, as did his erection, pressed between the cheeks of her bottom.
“It’s art,” he said. “What they make of it in their own minds…That’s not up to you.”
Was it up to her to tell him what she was feeling now? That she wanted him to make love to her until the sun went down and then finish the night the same way?
She was so out of her element. She knew how to use her body, but to involve her emotions? To make love out of what had always been sex?
“Olivia?”
She loved that he used her full name. “Finn?”
“If we don’t move, you’re going to be soaked to your knees.”
Her skirt. She felt the weight as the water wicked upward. “I was just thinking I needed to get out of it.”
“Oh?” he asked and stilled.
She nodded. “The skirt, and a few other things, too.”
Twenty-nine
Until this moment, she wouldn’t have admitted she’d come here for this, but standing in Finn’s master bath, in nothing but her panties, Livia forced herself to admit she’d come for little else.
He leaned over her to turn on the water in the tub and adjust the temperature, his body clad only in his boxers and pressed tightly to hers.
“I’m not going anywhere, you know,” she told him, planting a hand on the wall tiled in aqua, white, and sea green to keep from losing her balance. “You don’t have to attach yourself to me.”
“Get used to it,” he said, pulling the knob for the shower. “As soon as we get rid of this sand, you won’t know where I start and you end.”
That sounded yummy. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d indulged in sex for hours. “Don’t forget to schedule time for the photo shoot.”
He skinned off his boxers. “I’ve been thinking about that.”
“Oh?” she answered, moving from one foot to the other as he skinned away her panties, too.
“Instead of the beach, what about a beach-house bedroom scene?”
“I hope you’re kidding,” she said, fighting hard not to drop her gaze from his mischievous grin to his cock, which she knew was going to cause her the most delicious trouble. She couldn’t wait.
Who said men were the visual creatures? She loved the look of a naked man, or at least this naked man, who wasn’t the least bit shy about drinking in his fill of her. She tightened everywhere, tingles and tickles sending shivers to the pit of her belly, the base of her spine.
“First things first,” he said, scooping her off her feet, swinging her up, and stepping into the tub. “I want to know about the rings.”
“What about them?” she asked as he lowered her slowly, and she didn’t know which of them enjoyed the friction of skin on skin more.
He kept his arms wrapped around her, his hands roaming her back, settling on her bottom, and pulling her close. He squeezed, then got back to roaming again. “Why?”
His fingers were doing that, and he wanted a coherent answer? “Why the rings?”
“Uh-huh,” he mumbled, his mouth moving over her neck.
“I like the way they feel.” She was wearing all four of them now, though she’d left the decorative chains at home.
“How do they feel?” he asked, drifting lower, far enough down her body that she had to close her eyes to the spray pulsing down and splattering off his back.
“It’s hard to explain,” she said because she couldn’t think of anything to say. She couldn’t think at all. His hands had slipped into the curve of her bottom, and his fingers had slipped even deeper.
He’d found the slit of her sex and was playing there, teasing her, pushing his fingers inside her. She wanted to cry out, but bit her tongue so he wouldn’t stop. She didn’t want him to stop.
“Try,” he said, biting down on one of her nipple rings, catching some of her flesh. “What’s that like?”
“It’s like waiting to have sex.”
He moved to her navel, slipped the tip of his tongue through the hoop piercing her skin. “And that?”
“It’s like relief is so close. Like I’ve been waiting too long.” She almost added, “For you,” but managed to bite back the words, because she wasn’t sure either one of them was ready for her to make that admission.
He nipped at the skin of her belly. She sucked in a sharp breath but didn’t complain, threading her fingers into his hair and telling him with her hands that it wasn’t close to being enough.
She loved what he was doing, soothing the spot with soft kisses, with languorous strokes of his tongue. If he bit harder, she was certain she would love it even more.
He gave her belly another kiss, then brought his hands to the front of her thighs, spreading his fingers wide and using his thumbs to capture her clit. He didn’t press or pinch or rub.
He just held her there, nuzzling her, mumbling against her, and asking her, “And this one? It feels like…?”
That one was easy. And the longer he toyed with the ring piercing her there, the easier it got. “Like I really don’t want to wait anymore.”
He sucked her into his mouth, holding her with his lips while he tongued her, flicking the tip at the underside of her clitoris, pulling on the ring until the knot of nerves there tightened unbearably.
She could come so easily, but she wanted him with her, wanted him inside her. She tugged at his hair and urged him to his feet.
He rose, blocking the water, and she opened her eyes and looked her fill. His shoulders were wide, the muscles there nicely rounded. She reached for him, laid her palms there, slid them down his arms, pressing her thumbs into his biceps, smoothing his resilient skin.
He cupped a hand to her face and smiled. “I thought you didn’t want to wait.”
“I don’t. But there is so much more here to see and do than I’d thought.” She sputtered water, grinned. “I mean, who knew wielding a camer
a would result in arms like this?”
“These arms are the result of swinging a baseball bat.” He flexed his muscles beneath her hands, then popped his pecs. “These, too, plus a few weights.”
“Nice.” She leaned forward, ran her tongue over one of his nipples, then the other, sucked on both until he squirmed away. “What else you got?”
He groaned as she kissed her way down his midsection. “Abs worthy of a Men’s Health cover.”
She played the ripples like piano keys, and this time he yelped when he squirmed. “Mmm. Somebody’s ticklish.”
“Somebody’s also got bigger muscles than you, so don’t be dishin’ out what you can’t take.”
“Oh, I can take anything,” she told him, opening her mouth and sliding her lips to the base of his cock.
He groaned, widened his stance, let loose a string of colorful words that told her quite eloquently he liked the way she dished and was done with his threats.
She enjoyed herself there, learning his texture and his taste, what made his legs shake, his muscles tighten, his cock twitch against her tongue.
But then it was his turn to urge her to her feet, having had enough of a pleasure that didn’t offer legs tangled with legs and arms holding, fingers digging in, and chests pressed tight. Like her, he wanted the slip and slide of her belly against his, and oh yes, the slip and slide of his cock into her pussy’s tight sheath.
She groaned, caught a breath, and held it as he moved inside of her, then out, repeating the slow, sliding thrust until he was buried completely. She tightened the leg she’d wrapped around his hips, pulling him as close as she could, wishing she was on her back and his weight was pressing her down.
They stood that way for several long moments, just breathing, their heartbeats synced, their blood pulsing in a shared rhythm. Water sluiced over them. Steam clouded the enclosure. The scent of wet skin washed around them.
It was all too much. She couldn’t take it. She couldn’t wait. She arched against him, her arms looped around his neck, shaking as she tried to hold on.
He planted one hand on the wall, kept his other arm hooked behind her, and followed, grunting, grinding, losing himself in her as she lost herself in him.
Thirty
Thanks to Monday starting off like shit on a shingle, the rest of the week stunk like holy hell. Roman knew from the moment he hit the boutique’s door fifteen minutes late, he’d been a bear to work with. Things hadn’t gotten any better since.
Carmen wasn’t speaking to him; Penny ignored him except when she had no choice. Even the customers gave him wide berth—an occurrence Livia fortunately missed, being in and out as she was.
The only bright spot to the last few days had been going home to Jodi’s place instead of his own. He’d told her she had nothing to worry about from the threat, but that he’d still feel better taking the precaution and hanging around. Since Tomás had kept his distance the last two weeks, the lie had played well enough as the truth.
Besides, Roman was doing enough worrying for them both, starting with having fucked up his cover story and ending with spilling to Jodi about his past. And somewhere in the middle was Tomás’s very real threat to Jodi, hanging like Damocles’ sword over Roman’s head.
How the hell could he explain to her that Tomás had meant every word about packaging her up and delivering her in small, shrink-wrapped bricks?
Last Friday, after ordering her to lock up her apartment and hauling ass back to Splash & Flambé, he’d found Tomás leaning on the front of his van, waiting, his temper rising with his impatience.
Carmen had tried to get her boyfriend to let her or one of the floor clerks check his delivery against the manifest, but the ongoing feud between the two men gave Tomás a legitimate reason to refuse. Livia could have insisted, but Livia hadn’t been around.
It had been hard to play the part of Roland Green when he’d wanted more than anything to go Roman Greyle on the drug dealer’s ass. But he’d held his tongue, kept his hot head cool, and let Tomás remind him that he was in charge.
Yeah, in charge of bringing down a lot of folks smarter than he was who would see that Carmen never got the happily ever after he’d promised her. A pretty damn hilarious scenario, come to think of it, since it was Carmen who’d brought her man to the attention of the feds.
She had been stopped for speeding and had been so hysterically nervous that her tears had raised all sorts of red flags. The officers had run her plates, her driver’s license, her name, address, and Social, only to come up blank. Not so much as too many calories eaten or a missed weekday mass.
Her explanation for speeding? Tomás, her boyfriend, was waiting. He got mad when she wasn’t on time because he had so many deliveries to make. All of that and the script necklace she wore, which spelled out Bebé, had the patrol officers taking copious notes.
Even they knew the name Tomás Bebé, and the idea of the small-time dealer involved in deliveries—even if they turned out to be legitimate—was worth checking out. They’d handed off the information, and when the department in charge realized the far-reaching arms of what they’d been given, they’d brought in the DEA.
That was how Roman Greyle had ended up as Roland Green and at Splash & Flambé. He wasn’t involved in the tricky back end of the boutique’s previous manager being wooed away, or even in the tricky front end of Livia hiring him in the interim—a favor to a friend with political aspirations who wanted him taken care of discreetly and well.
He left all of that to the people who had fun tangling everyone else in red tape. His job was about bad guys, getting them off the street, and about the innocents, keeping them safe. Jodi was an innocent, and he was doing a piss-poor job of everything where she was concerned.
He stood with his hands on his hips, staring out the front window, watching the shoppers outside amble by. It was Friday, and Tomás would be here soon with deliveries Livia was expecting. Legitimate deliveries of supplies and stock, and a display rack to replace the one that didn’t fit a new designer’s vision for best showing his wares.
Fucking prima donna.
“Hey, Ro?”
He calmed himself, not at all sure he’d succeeded, then turned at Carmen’s approach. “I’m here.”
“Tomás is having trouble with his van,” she said, keeping a display of colored head forms wearing outrageous feathered headbands between them. “Livia asked if you could make a run to pick up the racks so we can get Freeman Stone’s ties ready for tomorrow.”
“Tomás isn’t coming?” And after last week’s promise that today he’d be giving Roland specifics on the next run of heroin he wanted him to store?
Roman didn’t like it. Something wasn’t right. Bebé wouldn’t blow his timetable because of car problems.
“He’ll be here later,” Carmen explained, straightening one of the heads, which seemed to be scowling at its neighbor. “But Livia doesn’t want to wait on the racks.”
“What’s wrong with his van?”
“I don’t know. Does it matter?”
“It might.” Roman pretended to consider Carmen’s placement of the foam heads. “He could be exaggerating the problem, claiming a mechanical malfunction so he doesn’t have to discount his bill.”
“Why do you have to make everything a conspiracy?” Carmen rolled her eyes. “He said it’s something about his two back tires and his license plates.”
Roman froze. License plates? Tomás wasn’t coming because he was messing with Roman’s head about Jodi. “License plates? He can’t make the run for the racks because of his license plates?”
“Don’t ask me, Roland. I told you everything I know. Now, can you make the run for Livia or not?”
“Certainly. Of course. I’ll go now.” He said that to get Carmen out of his way. He wasn’t going anywhere until he called the gallery to check on Jodi. No. He’d go there first, see for himself that she was safe.
“The paperwork’s on the kiosk,” Carmen said, backing away as i
f she couldn’t wait to get out of his sight. “I’m headed upstairs, so I’ll tell her you’ll be back in, what? A couple of hours?”
“Yes. That’s fine. I’ll just get back to my own job later,” he said as she turned away, muttering.
He found the paperwork, cursing that he had to dig through crap Carmen had left on top, then head down, made his way through the store to the delivery entrance. No eye contact meant no being delayed by customers wanting to know when the next shipment of whatever would be in.
The drive to Downtown Blue gave him too much time to worry, too much time to think, but he kept to his original plan. He wanted to check on Jodi in person rather than give her a call, and yeah, that would meaning explaining the visit. But since he wasn’t leaving the gallery without her, that was okay.
He wasn’t putting up with the head games. Not anymore. He’d move Jodi to a safe house until Bebé found himself busted. The other man wasn’t stupid. He’d know Roland was involved in her checking out of town—another explanation he’d have to make, but one that was simple.
He was looking out for a friend.
Once Jodi was out of harm’s way, it would be time to look out for himself. For days now, he’d been wondering what it would be like to live something other than a lie. This operation had proved how close he was to burnout. He’d fucked up in ways he would never have thought to fuck up in the past.
He wouldn’t have let a woman get to him. He wouldn’t have gone out of his way to see that she did. He was going to have to deal with this thing he had for Jodi, or he’d never be any use as an agent again.
Being an agent was everything to him, and the promises he’d made to his dying brother were worth more to him than a fine piece of ass. This obsession had ruined enough of his life already. He couldn’t keep this up. He had to get back to where he’d been before Jodi Fontaine.
Rather than park in the visitors’ lot, he pulled around to the back of the gallery and into a space directly behind her Saab. Her new plates were on the car where they should be. He saw no obvious signs of foul play.