by Naima Simone
“Shane,” she whispered, begging, so damn ready.
Yet she wasn’t ready.
Not for the swipe of his tongue parting her feminine lips. Not for the lazy swirl and greedy suckle to her clit. Not for the long, blunt finger thrusting inside her. She cried out, her back bowing off the table. Abandoning her grip, she reached for him, her fingertips glancing his dark strands. But when he dipped his head, licking the entrance his fingers stroked in and out of, he eluded her. She extended her arms over her head, grasping the edge once more.
“God, you’re tight. So wet and tight,” he praised, working another digit inside her, stretching her, causing a delicious burn to simmer in her pussy. And when he latched onto her clit again, the burn burst into a conflagration. The torturous suction and tug to the bundle of nerves and the steady pump of his fingers in her core, propelled her closer and closer to the edge. She couldn’t control her hips, the frantic writhing and grinding of her sex against his voracious, erotic kiss. She didn’t try to control it. The pleasure, so intense it skated the rim of sweet agony, swelled up and over her in relentless undulations again and again.
“That’s it, baby,” he murmured against her flesh, the closed fingers of his fist bumping against her folds as he finger-fucked her. “Let go. Come for me.”
As if the permission was all her quivering body needed, she stiffened, a sharp, keening scream escaping her throat and bouncing off the walls. Ecstasy sucked her down into a dark vortex, and shaking, shuddering, she willingly dove into the deep.
Chapter Twelve
Shane’s sneakered feet pounded against the sand. Sweat coated his brow, temples, and chest as he ran along the beach, his white T-shirt clinging to him in patches. A breeze blew in off the ocean, cooling his overheated skin. Too bad it didn’t do a thing for his thoughts or the relentless ache in his balls.
Slowing his punishing pace, he propped his fists on his hips and studied the seemingly endless stretch of sand. As if its many grains contained the answers to the questions whirling around his head like a leaf caught up in a spring rainstorm. Primary among them, what was he doing?
He shouldn’t have tasted her mouth last night. Shouldn’t have laid her out on the coffee table and gorged himself on the sweetest pussy he’d ever savored. Their first kiss seven year ago he could blow off as a “Fallon thing”—impulsive, harmless. But during that damn game of Truth or Dare, he’d been the instigator. He’d crossed the room and tangled his fingers in her hair. He’d commanded her to open up for him. He’d peeled her jeans away and ate her like a starving man seated at a 99-cent all-you-can-eat buffet.
And still walked away starving.
“Jesus,” he muttered, turning to stare at the vast expanse of ocean. He squinted against the faint glare courtesy of the morning sun on the water. When hitting the beach, his intention had been seeking peace and a settling of his mind on this quiet, isolated stretch of shore. Whether through the brutal pace he’d set for himself or the serenity of the view, he’d hoped solutions would come to him.
But here he stood, sweaty, tired, and just as confused as when he’d jogged down the beach steps.
For years he’d managed to keep his distance from Fallon. His attraction was never an issue. Attraction. He snorted. Such an inadequate, anemic word to describe the gut-wrenching greed that snatched him up in its teeth like a chew toy whenever they shared the same space. The intensity of this, this thing between him and Fallon had been a powerful incentive in remembering why he couldn’t touch her. Something that strong would be addictive, not satisfied by one night of sweating up the sheets and losing himself in her. She could make him forget why they were so wrong for each other. Make him long for more…
But Fallon didn’t want more.
He scrubbed his palms over his head before dragging them down his face. Stubble from the jaw he hadn’t paused to shave abraded his hands.
With one admission, she’d shattered the cuffs chaining his hands—and his will.
God only knew how long they would be forced to live under the same roof. But the day would eventually come when Jonah Michaels was caught, and she would testify against him. And when that day did arrive, their time cut off from the rest of the world would end.
Until then, why couldn’t he indulge in the ecstasy he’d tasted last night?
Heat pumped through his blood and twisted his gut before throbbing in his cock like a second heartbeat. But none of it compared to the thud of his heart against his sternum as the seed of thought took root in his mind.
For however long they had locked away here, he could have her as much as he wanted, any way he wanted. Every fantasy that ever caused him to wake up with his hand wrapped around his erection could be realized. Pivoting, he studied the house at the top of the hill. The house where Fallon waited. The house that could become his heaven or hell. Or both.
No strings attached, she’d claimed.
Just sex.
It would be their secret. They could take their pleasure with no guilt, no commitment, no hearts involved. And when they left the safe house, they would return to their regular lives. The perfect arrangement. At least it would be if she agreed to it.
Clenching his jaw, he started jogging toward the beach stairs. She had to agree. Because after last night, no way he could keep his hands off her. Or his dick from inside her.
As he cleared the top of the steps, his cell vibrated against his hip. That could be Ciaran with the information about Tristan’s financials. Or Rafe himself calling. He removed the phone from the pocket of his running shorts and glanced down at the screen. His jaw clenched, anger liberally doused with grief and guilt, curled in his chest.
Tristan.
His fingers tightened around the phone. A part of himself writhed with guilt over suspecting and investigating his friend—his best friend. The boy who’d fearlessly faced down any bully and later became the man who protected the city of Boston from deadlier bullies shouldn’t be capable of the cold-blooded actions of the last couple of days. Wasn’t capable, his heart argued. But his mind warned him that sentiment could blind him. Worse. Possibly get Fallon killed.
Locking his emotions behind an icy vault door, he swiped his thumb across the answer bar and pressed the phone to his ear.
“Are you okay?” Tristan barked. No “hello” or “Where are you?” but concern.
“Yes,” Shane replied. “Both Fallon and I are fine.”
“Thank God.” Relief colored Tristan’s voice. “I called Ciaran, but he didn’t give me much information.” A beat of silence passed over the line. “What the hell happened, Shane? When I got the call about shots fired at your address, I almost lost it. And then by the time I arrived you’d disappeared. No sign of you or Fallon. Why did you leave the scene?”
“Because the three assholes who’d just shot up my house to hell and back had escaped. I didn’t know how long it would be before they, or some of their boys, would return to finish the job. And I chose not to wait around and find out.”
“Where are you? I need to get statements from both you and Fallon. Ciaran said you were at a safe house. I can come to you—”
“No.”
“Damn it, Shane,” Tristan snarled. “This is the third attempt on her life in as many days. A bomb on a public street and then an assault in the clear of day. That house looks like a war zone. No one has been hurt—yet. But with the utter disregard they’ve shown, it’s only a matter of time. Now I need a statement, need you two to come in and look at pictures to try and identify the perps at your place. I need something. The media has the city in an uproar over this. I can’t protect you from this end if you don’t help me.”
Propping a fist on his hip, Shane tilted his head back to stare at the rear of the beach house. Where Fallon was tucked inside. Safe. No way. He shook his head. No way in hell.
“I’m not bringing Fallon to meet you. But,” he continued, raising his voice above Tristan’s immediate objection, “I’ll come to Boston. Fallon did
n’t see anything that could help you, anyway. I saw the faces of the bastards the night at her apartment and yesterday morning. So tomorrow. Eleven o’clock.” Providing statements and perusing mug shots would only bolster the case against Jonah Michaels and the Lords of War. But more than that, he needed to stare into Tristan’s eyes and discern for himself if his friend was betraying him.
A thunderous quiet vibrated down the connection, reverberating in his ear.
“Where?” Tristan finally asked. Fury pulsed in the word, the tone.
Quickly, Shane scanned through locations that would provide privacy, protection, and sufficient cover for the team he planned on having at the ready. A grin curved his mouth as the perfect idea bloomed in his head.
“The police department parking lot.”
…
Midmorning sunshine streamed in the floor-to-ceiling living room windows, hitting the glossy pages of the magazine Fallon flipped through. A tall floral arrangement of calla lilies and long strings of teardrop crystals set in a fluted glass vase caught her eye. Instantly in love, she picked up the scissors from the low glass table she’d stationed herself at and cut the picture from the page. The image joined the other growing stack next to her elbow.
During Shane’s tour of the residence the day before, she’d noticed several home decorating periodicals in the guestrooms and en suite bathrooms. After a sleepless night, she’d waited until she’d heard Shane leave the house for a run before climbing out of bed, showering, and gathering up the magazines. From the school of asking forgiveness rather than permission, she’d scooped them up, carried them to the living room, and settled on the floor to peruse the pages for ideas.
When the trial finally commenced and she testified and reclaimed her life, everything in the stack of clippings—the flowers, bows, tomato bruschetta hors d’oeuvres, glazed salmon—would be hers. If the past month, especially the last couple of days, had taught her anything, it was time—and life—had no guarantees attached. And the event-planning company she’d dreamed about, had slaved under an ungrateful barracuda for, would no longer be a nebulous “one day.” She would have it. Sooner rather than later.
She turned another page and studied the photo of a smiling groom dipping his laughing bride over his arm. The male model, with his closely cropped black hair, strong jaw, and tall frame, reminded her of Shane. Well, except for the smile. If Shane had ever worn such a carefree, relaxed, joyful grin, she hadn’t glimpsed it. Even when they’d been younger, he’d been mature for his age—too mature.
Trudy, God love her, was one of the warmest and friendliest women Fallon had ever met, but as a provider, protector, comforter, and disciplinarian? Not so much. Those titles had fallen on Shane’s wide, but too young, shoulders. He’d picked Addy up from the acting classes he’d paid for by working two jobs even while attending school. He ensured his little sister completed her homework, was fed when Trudy’s friends had consumed all the food in the house, and had a roof over her head when their mother spent her paychecks on something other than rent. While Trudy had been more loving and affectionate than Fallon’s parents, their neglect was just opposite sides of the same coin.
She frowned down at the glossy magazine page. That protectiveness, it defined Shane. All his life he’d overcompensated for Trudy’s lax parenting style with Addy. And it probably contributed to his refusal to become involved with Fallon. He wouldn’t risk ruining his sister’s friendship with Fallon—wouldn’t hurt Addy by jeopardizing the relationship with the person she considered family. No, Shane wouldn’t take the chance. Not even for a fling that would inevitably fall apart.
Maybe it’d been his steadfastness, stability, and strength that had initially drawn Fallon to him. He’d represented everything that had been missing in her life. But as she’d grown, the admiration had darkened and deepened to something hungrier, needier. Something that had less to do with his dependability and more to do with the masculine beauty of his turquoise eyes, Celtic marauder cheekbones, and sexy, full lips. And those lips. Whoa, boy.
She exhaled a shuddering breath. If she closed her eyes, she could feel the wicked press and suction of his diabolical mouth on her sex. Her core clenched and quivered as if anticipating the thrust of his fingers again. Or his cock. Jesus Christ, if his tongue and hand could blow her away like they did, actually having him inside her would probably send her into an ecstasy-induced coma. Or at least it would if he ever touched her again. Which, from the silent way he’d redressed her and then helped her from the floor before disappearing up the stairs, might be never. She heaved a sigh and sliced a path around a beautiful bouquet of jeweled brooches. With Shane, for every step they took forward, he ran a 5k backward.
“What are you doing?”
The rumble of his voice rolled down her spine and tripped over her skin before swan-diving between her legs. Turned on by his freaking voice, for God’s sake. Pathetic, thy name is Fallon.
“Hey,” she said, pumping a mental fist when her voice remained steady and nonchalant. “I didn’t hear you come in from your run.” Lie. She’d not only heard the back door open on his return but his bedroom door shut. Then her mind had gone on a skip through the tulips as she imagined him standing under the showerhead, water pouring down over his gorgeous body, drops just glistening… Focus, damn it! “Have you heard back from Rafe yet?” She might’ve heard his cell ring in his room earlier as she passed his bedroom. And she miiiight’ve slowed her pace to catch a snippet of his conversation. Might.
“Yes,” he said. “He should have a report for me by this evening.”
Cautious joy for him leaped in her chest. “Well no news is good news, right?” She glanced over her shoulder. “That means he’s having to really dig deep to see if Tristan is receiving payoffs. There’s nothing obvious.”
“Yes,” he agreed, but something in his voice caused her to frown.
“What? For someone who just found out there’s a good chance his friend isn’t stabbing him in the back, you sound markedly lackluster.”
“I am…hopeful. But money isn’t the only currency,” he murmured. “I’m meeting up with him tomorrow morning. He needs a statement from us, and I’m going to look through some photos.”
Shock rocketed through her. Setting the scissors on the table, she twisted around, gaped at him. Fear, worry, anger—the emotions coalesced inside her like a supernova set to explode.
“What? What are you talking about? Why can’t you email or call in a statement? You can’t leave…” What if it was a trap? A way to lure Shane out so Jonah Michaels and his gang could kill him?
“Wait.” He held up a hand. “I’m not leaving you alone. My business partner, Khalil, is going to drive up and cover me here while I’m in Boston.”
“I don’t give a damn about me,” she snapped. “You, Shane. Jonah Michaels knows who you are, too. Exhibit A, the new air-conditioning job on your house. You suspect Tristan might be working for him, and yet you’re going to see him? Why don’t you just air a public service announcement informing Michaels where you are?”
“One, we don’t know for certain Tristan is on the take. But I intend to find out tomorrow.”
“How?” she sniped. “Jedi mind trick? Do you really expect him to admit it if it’s true?” She scrutinized his carefully blank expression, then released a sharp bark of disbelieving laughter. “You do, don’t you?”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Give me some credit, Fallon. Star Wars references aside, I’ve known him since we were kids. I know his tells like no one else.” He frowned, glanced away. “I need to see him.” Then, as if shaking the thought off, he narrowed his eyes on the stack of magazines on the table. “What are you doing?”
For a second, she debated whether to go along with the subtle—not—topic shift. But peering at the determined, stern lines of his face, she conceded and refocused on her cutting. “I’m scouring magazines for ideas.”
“Ideas?” He lowered to the couch, his long legs sprawled o
ut in front of him. A scant wedge of space separated her arm from his knee. “For what?”
She risked a glance at him, over her shoulder, and answered because she spied genuine interest in his gaze instead of polite indifference. “For future weddings.”
“Excuse me?” he asked, voice suddenly tight. Huh. Interesting.
“For the future fairy-tale weddings I’ll get to plan for other people once I have my life back and my company up and running.”
“Oh.” A heartbeat of silence. “Addisyn told me you were working for an event planner before the murder. I didn’t know you wanted a career in the field.”
She shot him a sideways look from under her lashes. “Right. You thought it was another dead-end job while I ‘found myself.’” She gave the scissors a vicious snap, decapitating a bridesmaid in the process.
“Actually, I was proud of you for supporting yourself and forging your own path.”
Well…damn. Didn’t that just suck all the righteous wind out of her sails? At this point she should say something polite and conciliatory like Thank you or I really appreciate that. But then the image of his expression before walking away from her last night popped into her mind. Aloof. Cold. And she remained stubbornly silent.
Aaww. He said he was proud. It was sweet.
Ah shaddup.
Yeah, she was arguing with herself. Ticket for one to Cray-cray-ville, please.
“What made you decide to go into this field? Especially…”
“Especially since I have firsthand knowledge that marriage rarely outlasts the time it takes the ice sculpture to melt? Why would I, of all people, want to go into a business surrounding weddings?” She shook her head and flipped another page, picking up the scissors again. “While I don’t buy into the happily-ever-after-forever line, I do believe in happy for now. And isn’t that what any of us have? This current moment, the ‘now’? Why not celebrate it, and help others to do the same? Besides, it’s not just weddings. It’s anniversaries. Birthdays. Or it’s-Thursday-we-should-celebrate parties. To me, there’s no better job in the world than bringing people joy and laughter. Or in creating precious memories they’ll look back on years later, smile and reminisce about,” she continued, voice thickening. She cleared her throat. “In a way, it’s kind of like immortality because I leave a stamp on their lives.”