The Love Trap (Quicksilver Book 3)

by Nicole French

  He pulled out slowly, then thrust in, just as slowly. Another pull on the chain. Another suck on my neck.

  “Eric…” My voice wheedled. Begged. “Please.”

  “Shit.” Clearly the sound of my begging wasn’t helping with that control. “Say it again. Tell me you need it.”

  Another slow pull. Another equally tortured push. Chain. Mouth. Rinse and repeat.

  “Eric!” I shouted as he sucked on my neck. “Oh my God, pleeaaassee!”

  “Fuck, yes!” And then, like he couldn’t help himself, he pounded into me, those measured movements replaced by forceful thrusts that threatened to undo us both in as much time.

  “Say it, Jane,” he ordered me. “Tell me what you need.”

  I was dying to touch him, but I wouldn’t dare go against his orders. After all, that was the fun of it. The torture of having to do what I was told for once. The gleam in Eric’s eyes as he waited for me to break.

  But this time I wouldn’t. This time I wanted to be perfect. Just for him.

  I stuck my chin out and licked my lips, closing my eyes just to feel the delicious pressure of him as he filled me, again and again.

  “You,” I cried as I took everything he wanted to give me. “I need you.”

  “Fuck!” Eric’s shout bounced off the stone surfaces, and he pulled on the chain again, this time that much harder.

  “Oh!” My eyes flew open. What the hell was happening.

  But even as he seemed to get even bigger within me, Eric slowed his movements, clearly conscious of what was happening. He started to focus on a rhythm he was setting with the chain. Short, deft tugs in time with his hips.

  “Are you…” He gasped, looking for breath. Clearly he was trying to hold back himself. “Are you close?”

  “Am I…” I barely had time to answer him before his thumb brushed over my clit.

  “Oh!” I gasped.

  Then he pulled off the clamps. The chain dropped to the counter just as sensation flooded my nipples, feeling returning to the slightly distended tips just in time with an orgasm that exploded through the rest of me.

  “Eric!” I shouted, grasping for the man since I definitely couldn’t keep myself upright.

  “Fuck!” he cried as he drove into me for the last and final time.

  And then we fell back into the mirror, heaving and driving home, home, home again. Grabbing desperately for each other as we wrung every last solitary sensation out of our bodies. Together.

  We did it again. And again. Once on the counter of the kitchen, just to test Eric’s assertion that indeed every surface had been made for us. He was, of course, infuriatingly correct.

  After the second time, we collapsed onto the plush carpet of the bedroom, staring at the lone piece of art on the wall: the Gustav Klimt lovers gifted to us from Celeste.

  Eric pulled me onto his chest, and I sighed, content to listen to his heartbeat.

  “So it’s a yes on the apartment?” he wondered as one hand lazily stroked my back. “Do you think we’ve adequately cleansed it of its ghosts?”

  Was that what we were doing? In a way, I supposed he was right. And maybe it had worked. Any trepidation I had had about living here again was long gone by now.

  “Do you think,” he wondered as he stared up at the box beam ceiling, “do you ever wish you could take it all back? Go back to that day in Chicago when I asked you to go along with this scheme? You could have had a nice life. None of this last year would have happened?”

  I set my chin on his chest so I could look up at him. “Are we feeling a mite unsure of ourselves for once, Mr. de Vries?” I won’t lie. The petty side of me was a little thrilled by my immovable husband having one of his rare human moments.

  Eric rolled onto his side, slipping me off his chest so we were facing each other, then propped his head up with one hand to look at me. “You did hate me an awful lot back then.”

  “Well, you were kind of a jerk sometimes too. It was like being in love with a brick wall. Totally impervious.”

  “Come on. I wasn’t that bad.”

  I made a big show of blowing raspberries through my lips, sticking them out like a trumpet.

  Eric just stared at me like I was growing horns. “Lefferts, what are you doing?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” I asked. “I’m the big bad wolf blowing the house down. Except I can’t because it’s made of bricks.”

  “Does that make me one of the three little pigs?”

  “No,” I replied. “It makes you the brick house. Get it?”

  “Ahhh, I see.” He laid on his back again, chuckling.

  “Okay, okay. Not my best material, I know.”

  We lapsed into silence, letting my bad jokes and our chuckles filter through the room. I started daydreaming about how I wanted to decorate our mini palace. How I’d shape this room in particular to complement its crown jewel in the Klimt kiss. Our kiss.

  “Well?”

  I frowned, pulled out of my visions of upholstery and bedrooms sets. “Well, what?”

  Eric didn’t actually reply. It took me a second to realize that he did actually want me to answer his original question. That even with everything, he still had those moments of uncertainty, just like I did. The thought was incredibly endearing.

  All desire to tease abandoned me, and I was left with only the desire to make this man feel as good as he made me feel just about every damn day.

  I clasped his cheeks between my hands and brushed his skin with my thumbs.

  “Here’s the truth,” I said. “I don’t regret one single solitary fucking thing. Not any of them. Not with you.”

  Those somber gray eyes sparked with obvious relief. “Yeah?”

  I nodded, edging closer. Should I? No, I shouldn’t. Now wasn’t the time for jokes or the brazenness that tended to get me in trouble.

  But then again, it was me we were talking about. And Eric knew that better than anyone. There was no sense in holding back now.

  “Well, I might have hated that very first vow,” I said honestly as I drew him in for one more kiss. “But, Eric de Vries? I could never hate you.”

  The End

  Or is it?

  Grab an extra epilogue to Jane and Eric’s story along with a special preview of Nicole’s next book here: www.nicolefrenchromance.com/quicksilverepilogue

  You can also preorder the first book in Nina and Zola’s story (title forthcoming) here.

  Want Skylar and Brandon’s story? Start reading Legally Yours FREE here: www.nicolefrenchromance.com/spitfire

  Legally Yours

  An Excerpt

  It wasn’t until I was about halfway through the park that I heard a voice echoing behind me.

  “Wait! Miss! Fuck, I don’t know your name, but will you just stop!”

  I turned around to find Sterling bounding doggedly through the snow. He stumbled, nearly fell on a crack in the sidewalk, but rebounded with the reflexes of a trained athlete and caught up with me in a few more steps. A few more errant locks fell across his forehead, and I was faced with a smile that made my legs feel as if they were immersed in a hot tub, not the frigid New England air blowing up my skirt.

  “Do you always go wandering through the Commons after midnight?” he asked as he regained his breath. “It’s not exactly safe. Especially for someone like you.”

  I didn’t have to ask what he meant by that, considering my size and gender. Instead, I flushed, suddenly embarrassed by my idiocy. I wasn’t some hayseed from the hills. In my desperation to escape that house and the very disturbing effect that, well, this man seemed to have on me, I had done what every city dweller knows not to do: wander a public park at night.

  “You left without saying goodbye,” Sterling said with a sardonic lift of an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name. Or what you were doing in my house.”

  “God,” I said, finally finding my voice, but able to look everywhere but directly at him. Like the sun, he exuded energy so bright I couldn’
t see clearly. So instead, I rambled.

  “I’m so sorry about that. I’m a friend of Ana’s, your housekeeper. She just let me in for a minute but had to go, uh, deal with something in her room. I didn’t have any cell reception down there, so I came upstairs to find a signal. She had no idea, really, so please don’t blame her. I didn’t mean to intrude in your, space, truly, and, um...”

  I didn’t stop babbling until Sterling placed his hands on my shoulders and bent down so his chiseled features were level with mine.

  “It’s okay,” he said slowly, and I found myself rolling my eyes at his playful tone before I could stop myself.

  “Sorry,” I repeated, but the babbling stage was over.

  “Your name?” he prompted again, releasing my shoulders and standing back up straight.

  It was then I realized again just how very tall he was. A frame that must have been close to six-four filled out a charcoal-gray suit in a way that made me wonder just how much time he spent wearing a suit and how much time he spent at the gym.

  “Yum,” I whispered before I could stop to think.

  “Your name is Yum?”

  “Oh, no,” I said, flushing an even deeper red. “Christ. Sorry. It’s Skylar.”

  “Skylar Crosby?” he asked quickly.

  I frowned at him. I wasn’t cold like Bostonians, but as a New Yorker, I had a deep suspicious streak. A stranger knowing my name definitely qualified as suspect.

  “Yes…” I said, taking a few steps backward. “How did you know that?”

  “I make it a point to know all of my employees’ names,” Sterling said with a brief, white smile. “Even the interns. Skylar’s a memorable one.”

  Even though it was snowing outside, that was when I truly froze. The dots connected, and I suddenly realized who this was: Brandon Sterling, the elusive name partner at the firm he also founded. He was a legend in the office, but hadn’t been seen once by any interns. That in and of itself wasn’t unusual—we were disposable labor, so most of the partners were unlikely to take much interest. But even most of the junior associates who oversaw our work had never met him personally. He was a phantom.

  “Oh, Jesus,” I breathed. “Jesus Christ.”

  “No, just me, I’m afraid,” Sterling replied with another bright smile. “Although it’s a nice comparison.”

  “I’m so sorry, sir,” I spluttered. “Oh my God, oh God, I was intruding on your home, and I really shouldn’t have. A friend of a friend invited me to wait for a car inside because of the weather, but it was completely inappropriate. I only went upstairs to find cell reception, I swear, and then you walked in…”

  Shut up, shut up, he already knows this, shut up! My inner dialogue went crazy trying to censor the blather again pouring out of my mouth. When I looked back at Sterling, I was mortified to see him trying unsuccessfully not to laugh.

  “Ms. Crosby,” he interrupted gently with yet another knee-weakening smile. “Really. Don’t worry about it.”

  “I’m just…very sorry for intruding,” I said lamely. “And for babbling. It’s something I do when I’m…”

  “When you’re what?”

  “Um, nervous,” I admitted.

  “You’ll have to fix that if you want to be a litigator,” he joked, causing me to turn bright red all over again. Fuck, could things get any worse? Although I wasn’t sure I wanted the job at Sterling Grove, it would have given me a springboard to any other I wanted. I could kiss that opportunity goodbye.

  “It’s all right,” Sterling said yet again, patting me gently on the arm.

  In the cold, his touch seared through the heavy wool of my jacket. He shivered, and for the first time, I realized he had chased me into the snow in just his suit and very expensive-looking leather shoes, which were already getting watermarks from the snow around the tips. I looked down at my feet. My Manolos were also as good as ruined.

  “I’m going to head back inside,” he said, tossing back toward his house. “Care to join me?”

  “Oh no, sir, I’m really fine,” I said. “The T is just down this path, and it goes right back to Cambridge.”

  Sterling glanced at his watch, which also looked very shiny and very expensive, but not flashy like that fool’s from the bar. Subtle. Tasteful.

  “It’s almost one,” he said. “You probably already missed the last train, if you don’t get robbed in the park on your way there. Come on. My driver’s out of town, but I can call you a car while you wait.” When I hesitated, he reached out and squeezed my hand before letting it go, an intimate gesture that seemed to surprise him a bit too. “What kind of boss would I be if I made my interns stay until after midnight and didn’t give them a ride home?”

  “Um…” For some reason, I couldn’t quite tell him that his office wasn’t the reason I was out so late.

  “Let’s go,” he said again in a tone that brooked no argument and started to make his way back through the snow.

  Someone (most likely Ana) had wised up to Sterling’s arrival. A large fire was alive in the fireplace when we reentered the house through the double-door entrance. There was no sign of his three companions. The house appeared to be empty but for him and me.

  Sterling slipped off his shoes and carried them over to the fireplace. He set them down on the hearth while I loitered awkwardly in the foyer.

  “Have a seat,” he said, nodding at one of the overstuffed couches I had been eyeing earlier. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  He disappeared upstairs while I sat down. When he returned, he carried a newspaper and a small box covered in scratches and paint splotches. He had removed his jacket, vest, and tie, and was decidedly more informal, with his white shirt unbuttoned at the throat and rolled up to his elbows. Though it was practically identical to the outfits of just about every other man I’d seen that night, there was something about the way the tendons in his forearms tested the limits of his rolled-up sleeves that made my mouth water, as if his casual regalia were trying to tame an animalism that was literally splitting seams to escape. Padding silently across the thick carpet, he reminded me of a lion tracking its prey.

  “May I?” he asked, kneeling in front of me and taking the heel of my shoe in his hand.

  Wordlessly, I watched as he slid my pumps off each foot, then carefully set my stockinged feet back onto the sheepskin. When he looked up, our eyes caught as they had when I had first seen him. The moment quickly passed. He cleared his throat and stood up.

  “Manolos,” he said, holding up one of my prized pumps. “The lady has expensive taste.”

  “The lady has only one pair,” I responded sadly. “So I hope you’re not going to throw them in the fire.”

  “Hardly,” he said, the “r” of the word flattening with a surprisingly thick Boston accent. He set both pairs of our shoes down on the hearth and proceeded to stuff them with crumpled newspaper.

  “They’re not too wet,” he said. “I don’t think the fire will damage them at all, just help them dry. I’ll put some oil on them, though, if you’re all right with that.”

  He opened up the box, which contained a rudimentary shoe shining kit.

  “Where did you get that?” I asked. “It looks like an antique.”

  “It was my father’s,” Sterling replied absently as he rummaged around and finally located a container of clear balm. He proceeded to dip a stained brush into the jar and rub it onto his shoes, one at a time.

  “Oh, are you close?”

  The question came out before I could help it. Sterling glanced up sharply for a half second before returning to his work, now brushing the polish into my shoes with vigor.

  “He’s not around anymore,” he said quietly.

  “Oh,” I said. “I’m so sorry to hear that. I shouldn’t intrude. Again.”

  He looked up again, this time kindly.

  “Skylar,” he said, and it was then I realized how much more I liked hearing my given name roll off his tongue. Much like before, the ‘r’ at the end wasn’
t fully pronounced, rolling open with a subtle New England cadence that betrayed a working-class background he hadn’t quite erased.

  “Yes?”

  “You apologize too much.”

  “I’m so—” I started before catching myself. Sterling gave me a cheeky half smile, and I couldn’t help but grin back. “Right,” I amended. “Okay.”

  “Exactly,” he said with a wink before turning back to our shoes.

  Ana entered the room with a tray bearing a teapot and a cup. When she noticed my presence on the couch, her expression briefly morphed into surprise before sliding back into easy affability.

  “I believe you know Ms. Crosby, Ana,” Sterling said from his seat by the fire.

  “Ah, yes, sir, a bit. I, um…”

  “It’s all right, Ana,” Sterling said, echoing his words from before. I wondered if he tired of constantly having to reassure all the women he met. Clearly, he was disruptive to many of us. “You’re done for the night.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ana said before leaving. “Good night.” With a quick, unreadable glance at me, she was gone, no doubt to gossip with Eric, if he was even still here, about what I was doing upstairs.

  “Please,” Sterling said, indicating the tea. “You look frozen, so help yourself. I’ll call for a car and get another cup.”

  He lifted himself easily from the hearth, and I couldn’t help but watch his finely shaped form as he strode out of the room. No wonder he kept himself such a secret at the office. With an ass like that, he’d have associates camped outside his door.

  He returned shortly with his cell phone held to his ear and another teacup, which he set down on the tray. A woman’s voice said clearly that she would call him back shortly about the car.

  “Cab companies call you back now?” I asked after he hung up.

  “No, but personal assistants do,” he said with another impish half smile. My gut clenched. “How’s the tea?”

  I took a sip. It was delicious, a sweet jasmine that I’d never had before. “Wonderful.”