by Naima Simone
She didn’t look up from the magazine, not when he slid to the floor beside her, and not when a hard thigh pressed against hers. Looking up would require courage she didn’t have at the moment, a vulnerability she wasn’t prepared to expose to him. Well, not any more than she already had.
A gentle caress swept across her cheekbone. Her ear. Jaw.
She shivered. Closed her eyes. The scissors clattered to the table. No fair. After last night, he had to know how susceptible she was to his touch. He fought dirty.
“You’ll do a wonderful job,” Shane murmured. “But I’ve always known once you discovered something to funnel all of that amazing passion into, you would excel at whatever you set your mind to. And you’re brilliant and stubborn enough to make a go of it.” Her breath caught in her throat, trapped by the tenderness in his voice as well as the words.
She loosed a short bark of laughter, uncomfortable and teetering with this warmer, more open Shane. This Shane who willingly reached for her, comforted her.
“Well don’t congratulate me just yet. I have to survive a hit man first, testify at his trial, and then find some way to scrape up seed money to fund this dream.”
Addled from sitting so close to him and inhaling his wind and skin scent, she stood and strode over to the fully stocked bar she’d scoped out the night before. She slapped bottles of vodka and Kahlua on the polished top. Thanks to her stint as a bartender in college, she could fix a mean White Russian. And damn did she need one.
He quirked an eyebrow but refrained from uttering the Little early in the day for drinking, isn’t it? the gesture implied.
“Why don’t you ask your father? I’m sure he would loan it to you.”
“Uh, no.” She splashed vodka into a tall glass. “When I told him I didn’t need his money, I meant it. Besides, I’m not prepared to get all tangled up in the strings he would attach to the request. Or anything I came to him for.”
Shane rose, and his long strides slowly ate up the distance between them. “Fallon, you’re a talker.” He grimaced, rubbed a hand over the nape of his neck. “God, are you a talker.”
“Well, aren’t you a flatterer?” she drawled, halting midpour.
He held up his palms. “Hear me out,” he said, lowering his arms. “Everyone doesn’t know how to communicate like you. Some of us aren’t shaped to, and then some of us are too scared.” He paused, an emotion she couldn’t decipher ghosting across his face. Which one are you? She studied his face, hungry for the answer. “Your father…he loves you. I’m not making excuses for him, but—”
She snorted, capping the Kahlua. “Dr. Phil says whenever you put a ‘but’ after a statement, you’re saying ‘ignore everything I’ve just said because now I’m about to tell you what I really mean.’”
He rolled his eyes and grumbled something under his breath that sounded a lot like, “Screw Dr. Phil.” Which was just blasphemous.
“Fine,” he ground out. “Maybe I am making an excuse. Work consumes him. Your mother has her men and numerous marriages, and he has his work. Ever stop to consider that maybe the reason he places distances between you and him is out of fear? Fear of being hurt again? Fear of rejection. At the same time, he tries to keep you in his life with the one thing he values, and he damn sure knows your mother cherishes. Money.” His tone dropped to a low, husky rumble. “He doesn’t know how to talk to you. How to handle you.”
“I’m not a child who needs to be ‘handled,’ Shane. You make me sound like a bomb about to detonate and take out everyone and thing within a hundred-mile radius.”
He chuckled, but his laughter contained a serrated, rusty edge. “You’re not so far off the mark. That fire, spirit, and utter lack of fear can be daunting. Damn that. Downright scary. Especially when it stares you in the face.”
Her throat worked, but no words emerged. The last part—had he been referring to his father…or himself? Stunned, she rewound the last few years through her head like a movie reel. The coldness. The aloofness. The reserve. All this time, had his behavior been rooted in fear instead of disgust? As soon as the thought occurred, she dismissed it. Not G.I. Joe. Mr. Ultimate Soldier. This was the same man who’d fought a war on foreign soil. A man who’d returned home after being gravely wounded only to enter into business providing security, still protecting and guarding people. Imagining Shane Roarke afraid ranked right up there with unicorns and leprechauns. Or zombie apocalypses. It could happen in a realm far, far away, but not likely.
“I’ll think about it,” she lied, sampling her drink, eager to drop the subject before she did something stupid like beg him to touch her again.
He didn’t reply, didn’t call bullshit. Instead, he plucked the glass from her hand, turned it, and raised the drink to his mouth, lips closing over the exact spot from which she’d sipped. Flames ignited in her belly, simmering like hot coals. God, that was sexy. Like they’d kissed without touching lips.
“Why were you fired from the event-planning job you had? I would think witnessing a murder would be a good excuse for missing a day.”
A sour taste flooded her tongue, erasing the sweet flavor of the mixed alcohol. “I couldn’t explain to my employer that the reason I didn’t go to work that day was because I witnessed a murder. My identity was supposed to be kept under wraps, and that barracuda would’ve sold my name to the highest bidder. So when I didn’t call in, she jumped on the chance to fire me. She’d been looking for a reason anyway. One that wouldn’t draw a sexual-harassment lawsuit anyway.” His eyebrows winged above his turquoise eyes, and she winced. God, what had been in that bottle? One sip and her lips were flapping like laundry hung on a clothesline. “Her troll son couldn’t keep his hands off my ass even though I repeatedly warned him to keep his grubby little paws to himself. The last time he did it, I just happened to have a pair of scissors…”
“You stabbed him with scissors?”
“Poked.” She shot up an admonishing finger. “Poked, not stabbed. Even though the cry baby whined like I took a butcher knife to him,” she grumbled.
“Good.”
Her head jerked up, and she gaped at him, incredulous. “Good?” she repeated.
“Yeah.” He nodded, his full mouth firmed into a grim line. “He’s lucky I wasn’t there. I would’ve broken the grabby bastard’s hand.”
She slapped her palms on the bar top, leaned forward. “Okay, please help me to understand why my stabbing the boss’s son was okay in your holy bible of decorum, but when I stink-bombed Dennis’s car, you ripped me a new one?”
“The asshole touched you.” He mimicked her pose, bending forward until their noses almost bumped. “On the other hand, you could’ve gone to jail for that stunt you pulled with Addy’s ex. Criminal mischief. Vandalism. Burglary. But you didn’t think about the consequences of your actions then, did you? You just didn’t think.”
“I did, too, think about it. I didn’t care. He cheated on Addy—he hurt her. I was the one who held her while she cried. A night in jail and a fine would’ve been worth funking up his car. If you’re expecting regret or an ‘I’m sorry,’ I hate to disappoint you again, but the devil will wear a fur coat and long johns before you hear those words from me.”
“You just don’t give a fuck, do you?”
She bared her teeth in a nasty grin. “Nope,” she said, her lips popping on the “p.”
Chapter Thirteen
A silence charged with tension and something darker—fiercer—snapped between them like a live, electrified wire. Shane’s short, hard bursts of breath bathed Fallon’s lips. His bright stare blazed, scorching her. Damn, he was pissed—
His arm snaked out. His hand snagged the back of her neck. Hauled her forward. His mouth crashed over hers. Took. Conquered. Consumed.
Just like last night.
And just like last night, she opened to him with a soft whimper, surrendered. His tongue penetrated her lips, thrust in a perfect imitation of another, deeper claiming. She moaned, and he tugged her aroun
d the bar, never once breaking contact. Teeth clacked, tongues tangled. His taste…good God his taste. The flavor of him exploded in her mouth, so strong and potent her head swam. He, the kiss, his taste—it was fierce, raw, explicit. And she loved it.
She balled her fists into his sweater. Clung to him. Demanding fingers burrowed in her hair, gripped the strands, and jerked her head back. He angled his head, opened his mouth wider, silently demanding she give him more. Moaning, she rose on the tips of her toes, offered her tongue, and he curled his around hers, licking, sucking. He devoured her as if he were a starving man with an endless feast laid out before him.
“Not enough,” he muttered, scattering hard kisses across her cheek and chin. He nipped at her jaw, easing the slight stings with tender brushes of his lips. She didn’t want to be eased—she wanted his bites, his almost bruising grip, his wild passion. So she sank her teeth into his bottom lip, suckled hard. Shane growled, and she swallowed the dark sound as if it were the sweetest wine. “Fallon,” he warned, the low rumble in his voice ominous…sexy as hell.
“Don’t handle me,” she rasped, repeating her earlier admonishment. “I want to be fucked, not fondled.”
His precious, much-lauded control snapped. She saw the instant it cracked like a twig. Heat like dry lightning crackled in his bright gaze, and the skin across his sharp cheekbones tautened. In contrast, the erotic curves of his mouth, damp from their kiss, seemed more lush, more sensual. Before she could draw her next breath, he gripped the hem of her sweater and ripped it over her head, leaving her standing half-naked in a silk-and-lace bra and jeans.
A hard, demanding hand tangled in her hair, dragging her head back until the tendons protested with a faint throb. “I’ll fuck you, baby. I’ll give you everything you need and want. But just for however long we’re here. No strings, no regrets. You understand?” He crushed his mouth to hers. “Tell me you understand, baby. Say yes.”
“Yes.” Anything he wanted. Just as long as he didn’t stop touching her. She reached for him, but he knocked her hands aside, and lowering his head, latched onto her nipple over light blue silk.
“Oh God, Shane.” She panted. So much pleasure. So much. She sucked in another tight breath, grabbed his head, and cradled him to her. Or tried to push him away. Damn, she wasn’t sure. His tongue swirled around her nipple, stroked, sucked, even as he plucked at the other rigid tip. Every pinch resonated in her clit, leaving the tiny bundle of nerves quivering and spasming. Liquid heat pooled in her sex, dampened the swollen folds and her panties. Her core contracted, desperate to have any part of him—fingers, tongue, cock—fill her, to ease the empty ache. With one last delicious lick, he switched his attention to her neglected breast. He yanked her bra strap down her shoulder and tugged the cup under her sensitive flesh. Warm air washed over her skin seconds before he cupped the underside of the heavy mound and raked his teeth over the nipple before drawing her into his hot, wicked mouth. She whispered his name again, digging her nails into scalp.
His mouth seared her, right past skin, tissue, and bone to her soul. Each lash of his tongue, each hard suckle of his lips tugged on her heart, reopening a door she’d sealed shut long ago. His touch—God, if she were smart, she’d end this now. Push him away before one more caress, one more moan embedded themselves so deep in her psyche, she would never be able to remove him.
Now. Do it now before it’s too late, the last vestiges of sanity hissed. But as he released her nipple with a soft pop and skimmed down over her belly, licking a path above the waistband of her jeans, she ignored the warning. Yeah, she might—would most likely—be hurt and nursing a beaten-to-hell-and-back heart after this, but to have him for whatever amount of time they had available? The pain would be worth the memories she’d create in the here and now. To hell with the consequences. She’d deal with them later.
She smoothed her palms over his short, surprisingly soft hair, down his lean cheeks, and over his strong jaw. Bristles heralding the beginning of a five o’clock shadow scraped her skin, and she shivered, tucking the detail away in the growing sensory file she’d pore over later when remembering this moment. She started to sink to the floor, needing to join him, but he surged upward, took her mouth in a burning kiss. God, the man knew how to make love with his lips and tongue. And still she longed for—craved—more.
As if he’d overheard her silent plea, he cupped her ass and hiked her in his arms. Not needing instructions, she wrapped her thighs around his hips, locking her ankles at the small of his back. The position opened her wide, pressed his cock against her clit. Unable to help herself, she circled her hips, grinding her pussy over his erection. Pleasure blasted through her, a blistering backlash. Whimpering, she did it again. And again. More moisture spilled from between her feminine lips. At this rate, when he got around to removing her jeans, her panties would be soaking wet.
“Fuck, baby,” he swore, tightening his grip on her bottom. “I’m trying to walk here, and you’re not helping.” But he lifted her ass and rotated her sex over his dick in a tight, small circle. Her head dropped back on her shoulders, and he set his teeth over the tendon in her neck, and rolled her over his rigid length once, twice, three more times. Wait.
Did she say that aloud? Because if he didn’t stop, if he didn’t wait… Oh God.
She exploded. Orgasm rocked over her, through her, and she shook in his arms.
“Damn, that was hot.” His hoarse praise barely reached her past the dull roar in her ears, the cataclysmic wakes in her body. Hard fingers bit into her ass, aided her in maintaining a steady ride when the erotic quakes turned her movements jerky, desperate. “Again. I want that again around my fingers, my tongue, my dick. You’re going to give it to me, Fallon.”
She nodded…maybe. Jesus, the release had left her muscles as loose as overcooked noodles. He stalked across the room, and when the wide couch cushion hit her back she heaved a sigh of relief. Oh thank God he wasn’t going to try and He-Man it up the stairs. Even though she’d just come, already the boneless lassitude slowly dissipated, and the encroaching hunger returned, more demanding, more insistent. She raised her arms above her head, hooked her fingers onto the couch arm. His hooded gaze dropped to her chest, brightening with lust.
He rested his hands on her belly, then slid them over her torso, pausing at her breasts to pinch and twist her nipples before continuing up, up, up until his fingers tangled with hers, and his body covered hers like a living, breathing blanket.
Oh. He felt so…good.
His weight crushed her, and it was delicious. She closed her eyes, savored his heaviness, how every contour and ridge molded to her curves. Curves she’d always cursed until this moment when they counterbalanced his angles so perfectly. As if they were fashioned for this moment, this purpose. She arched her back, rubbing her nipples back and forth over the soft nub of his sweater.
“Shane,” she murmured.
He reared back, freed the button at her waistband. “Shut up, Fallon. No talking unless it’s to say ‘fuck me’ or ‘fuck me harder.’”
“Oh.” She blinked. “Well in that case,” she smiled, “fuck me.”
He grunted, tugging her zipper. “I should’ve known shutting up was off the table,” he growled, but a grin twitched the corner of his mouth. Within moments, he had her jeans off, her underwear following seconds later. His big palms widened her thighs, and air brushed over her exposed sex—her exposed, soaking sex. He had a front-seat view of her desire for him while he remained fully clothed, his erection hidden behind his jeans. She wanted him to be as vulnerable as she, place them on equal sexual—and emotional—footing.
She sat up, reaching for the bottom of his sweater. But once again he evaded her.
“You’re so wet, baby,” he murmured, slipping off the couch and kneeling on the floor. “So damn wet. For me.”
Reverence laced his voice as he bent one knee, setting her foot on the cushion, and lifting the other leg over his shoulder. He spread her wide open, trailed a
finger through her folds. She flinched as pleasure whipped through her.
“Shh, I got you,” he soothed. “I just had you last night, but I’m still hungry.”
He dipped his head, retraced the path his finger had forged with his tongue. A broken cry escaped her, and she grappled for and clutched his head, seeking purchase in this chaotic, erotic sea he’d tossed her into without a life jacket. Electrical currents raced up and down her spine, sizzled in the base as he swept over and around her clit, lapping and sucking the engorged button of flesh. She writhed beneath him, trying to buck him off but alternately clasping his head tight to her pussy. With a hungry rumble, he spread her legs open farther and devoured her, his tongue swirling between her feminine lips before diving into her clasping core. She surrendered to his wicked mouth, the tender but thorough thrusting that shoved her closer and closer to the precipice.
“Christ,” he snarled against her entrance. “I can’t get enough of you.” He plunged into her pussy once more, then returned to her clit, drawing the stiff nub between his lips and applying a strong, relentless suck.
She cried out, hips rolling, body shaking under the lash of pure rapture. “I can’t,” she begged, head shaking from side to side. “I can’t…” Couldn’t what? Survive this sensual torture? Take any more of his touch, this devastating pleasure?
Apparently she could, because she cracked right down the middle, ecstasy imploding and scattering her into dozens of pieces.
“Come back to me, baby. We’re not through.” The rustle of clothes and the muted thump of something hitting the table coaxed her eyes open. She noted the brown leather wallet on the glass top, and shifted her attention to Shane. Blue-green fire lit his gaze as he ripped open a condom and quickly sheathed his cock.