Pulse

by Angel Payne

But my demand is drowned by Sawyer’s slam of the lift’s roll-top door. While rising, he tacks on a subtle chuckle. Damn if the guy isn’t the epitome of adorkable right now, still dressed in his suit from last night’s event—which looks shockingly great, considering the evening wound up with Reece managing to spatter Tyce’s blood everywhere but the historic building’s walls. That was a good thing, since that was where fate chose to splatter its writing for us.

  We hadn’t wasted time reading the message twice. And got the hell out of there while we could.

  But that had only handled the physical shambles of the night. The emotional loose ends are a new tangle—a mess that would make even LA’s best shrink ponder early retirement. Setting aside the weirdness of Reece’s dad having invited Reece’s estranged brothers, Chase and Tyce, as last-minute party guests, we’re trying to sort out why Tyce was willing to let Reece think he’d made naughty moves on me, just for the chance to relay a message through me. Then there’s the crazier twist: the message contained the words Alpha Three, possibly linking Tyce to Reece’s imprisonment with the Consortium. And yes, the most bizarre dig for last: we discovered an obscure online image connecting Lawson Richards to the Scorpio crime cartel, who are likely priming the Consortium’s pumps from a financial angle.

  But now I’m really standing here, just as obsessed with yet another plot twist to all these “fun” events, courtesy of the intimation my fiancé’s smirking friend has casually plunked into the conversation. Not that Reece’s responding scowl is going to get him an inch of mercy from me.

  “Hey.” I backhand his shoulder, trying not to linger my touch on the luxurious feel of his suit. I swear to God, nobody fills out D&G as perfectly as this man. “Question: me. Answer: you.”

  He captures my hand, flattens it to his chest, and shoots me a look that infuses me with the scared-meets-aroused mix that only he can bring. My heart gallops faster as he adds a cocked brow and murmurs, “Sorry, lady. All out of answers. Gave all my verifiable statements back in the war zone.”

  Without a single argument against that truth, I have to settle for a resigned fume as we ride the rest of the way down. But as soon as the elevator bumps at ground level, I take advantage of having to grip his lapel in order to keep upright in my new Balmain boots. With my chest pressed to his, I reinforce the enticement of my pout. “You’re seriously not going to fill me in?” Okay, so at this point, I’m not past going for feminine wiles, as well as celebrating what they do to the heat in his gaze and the jerk of his hips. Serves the man right, since I’ve spent the last hour being dazzled by him, marveling at his sorcery over the press corps even after they ambushed us in the foyer. His sincerity and wit—and that grin—had every one of them chopped into bite-size pieces all over again, perfect for the palm of his hand.

  Which is where I long to be right now, as well.

  Resting in the center of his touch.

  Moaning from the sizzle of his fingertips.

  Bowing to the Zod of his magnificence…

  Silver shards ignite in the depths of his eyes, telling me he’s read every one of those thoughts straight from my brain. Damn the man. How does he do that? And why do I love and hate him for the ability?

  “Let’s just say we’re not really going to Krypton,” he finally offers, quirking one side of his mouth.

  I answer with my own version of the look as we stride off the lift. “Very good news,” I murmur, sidling back against him with a sultry upsweep of my gaze. “Because I think there are a couple of pillows in a bed upstairs that miss our heads—and a few other body parts.”

  He tugs me a little closer, his irises turning the shade of gleaming pewter. “Well…” And just as everything between my thighs starts to pulse because of it… “They’ll have to wait.”

  I almost jerk to a stop—until he pulls me through the double doors leading to the hotel’s VIP porte cochere, where Zalkon, in all his grinning Armenian glory, waits with the back door open to the black BMW L7 Reece prefers for weaving through the crush of LA traffic. In most cases, Reece prefers being the guy behind the wheel himself, but he’s obviously, and wisely, determined that being awake for thirty hours straight doesn’t make him a responsible driver right now.

  I let a wider smile take over my lips before stepping through the doors. “I think they’ll be just fine with waiting.”

  “Meh.” Sawyer’s snide interjection stops us both beneath the awning, and we turn just in time for his next smirk. “Those pillows won’t even know you’re gone.”

  “Huh?” I dart a confused glance between him and Reece, especially when realizing my man takes the pronouncement in complete stride. “Sawyer, what’re you…”

  But I toss aside the rest of my demand when a new arrival steps onto the gold entry carpet. With fresh curls in her blond waves and an impish glint in her bright-blue gaze, it’s clear my sister is in on the guys’ shenanigans—whatever they are.

  “Yeah, don’t worry about the pillows, Em. Chainsaw and I will make sure they don’t go lonely.”

  While watching her step over and shoulder bump Sawyer, I’m not sure whether to join her in the giggle or gulp in abject fear. Her physical security isn’t my worry. I’ve seen Sawyer stand his ground even when Reece goes all glowy-showy meanie on him—but I also know Lydia well enough to detect when she likes a guy and when she likes him. I’m getting neither of those impressions now—which means she’s way further over the cliff about Sawyer than she’s admitted to me. Or likely admitted to herself.

  “Chainsaw?” Reece drawls, meaning I only have to tilt my head to add my own emphasis. Yep, there are a lot of advantages to having one’s man on the same mental wavelength.

  “Yeah, well.” Sawyer gives a head shrug. “Representin’ with the performance review. What can I say?”

  ’Dia grins. “Emphasis on performance.”

  “Ew.” I grimace.

  “Jealous, sistah?” She slides over with shoulder bump love for me this time. “Or do you just want to compare notes on grind speed and intensity levels?”

  “Okay, you are done with the oversharing.” I toss her a glare while wrestling my hand free from Reece, joining it to the other in a dual slam over my ears.

  “Why, whatever do you mean, baby girl?” she teases back. “You testy because that roomful of reporters wanted to know about your midnight snack choices and what color underwear you sleep in? And what was that other one? The real doozy?”

  “Stop,” I growl.

  “Ohhhhh, yeah. Your safe word.”

  “Stooooop.”

  She stops snickering long enough to sneer, “Now you’re paid back for spilling about Princess Purple Pants.”

  “Which means the pillows in the suite had better be in pristine condition when we get back tomorrow.”

  ’Dia widens her shrewd smirk. “Tomorrow, hmmm?” Before I can start to unravel that meaning, she waves a hand toward Reece. “Take her away and make sure she’s Bolted, Mr. Richards. A Lot. She needs it.”

  Sawyer chuffs. “He needs it.”

  “Amen and a half,” Reece murmurs—and while I don’t doubt what all their surface meanings imply, I can’t escape the instinct that’s settled on my senses since the freight elevator ride, rising to my lips as soon as he and I climb into the car.

  “Reece.” I curl my fingers around his before he’s done pulling out the seat belt and securing it into the slot near my hip. “Where are we going?”

  For a long moment, he’s still. I’m certainly not complaining. With his gaze fixed on my hand and his presence leaned over so close, it feels good to rewrap ourselves in a bubble that’s all our own, in a stolen drop where only we exist. I almost wince when he pops the seal by lifting his head, despite keeping his face close enough to nearly go nose-to-nose.

  “Trust me?”

  His rasp curls through me with sweet roughness. The vocal brown sugar finally coats every inch of me, resulting in my slow, full smile. Once upon a time—okay, only six months ago, but it
feels like a lifetime—I’d issued the same words to him, tugging him into a golf course sand trap so we could escape the crowds and cameras in another magical bubble of our own creation. And damn, had that been a really incredible bubble…

  So maybe I’ll let the froth gods lead yet again…

  “Yes.” I affirm it to him by stroking my hand up and over his arm until wrapping my fingers across the broad plateau of his shoulder. I slide my other hand around his opposite triceps, stopping there for two reasons. One, getting to feel the coil and release of his muscles is a sublime sorcery of its own. Two, if I copy the grip of my other hand, the temptation will be too great to keep going. To circle my arms all the way around his neck. To use that grip and welcome him all the way atop me, then to position him between my open legs, and…

  God.

  So much for resisting temptation. My imagination’s already gone there and then some. Will I ever be able to be near him and not fantasize about fucking his gorgeous guts out? And do I ever really want to know that answer?

  “Yes.” I underlined it by dragging my lips from his chin to his Adam’s apple. “I trust you.” Then speaking that oath against the corded ridge in his neck, savoring how it bobs beneath my nipping lips and tongue.

  After he follows the gulp with a dark panther’s rumble, he dips his mouth into my hair. Another growl later, he dictates, “Say it again.”

  His tone, quiet yet commanding, curls into me at once. Reaches to a part of me that opens for him alone. That succumbs solely to him. From the depths of that spiritual space, I utter, “I trust you, Reece. Completely. With my own life, if that’s what you need.”

  “Damn.” His hot breath flows through my hair. “How I love those words on your lips, Miss Emmalina Crist.”

  I suckle higher up his neck. “How I love you, Mr. Reece Richards.”

  No more growls from him now. Instead, he vibrates with a fierce, feral groan as he twists his head in and down, clearly bound for one destination. When he reaches my mouth, he captures my lips with a single, brutal sweep. I’m conquered and subjugated and opened, left with no choice but to spread for his thorough, perfect invasion. For that minute and at least the twenty after that, I’m lost to his devouring heat, his passionate mastery, his thorough desire, his urgent caresses—until the car rolls to a stop once more.

  And the divider to the front seat slides down.

  Reece chuckles as I push him away, catching a fast glimpse in the descending glass of my kiss-stung lips, mussed hair, and wide eyes. In short, I look exactly like a girl caught sucking face with her boyfriend in the back seat of a limo.

  As we pull up to the curb in front of the VIP terminal at LAX.

  “Oh, my God,” I mumble.

  “You rang?”

  I shove him harder as he caps the crack with an extended snicker. “Don’t push it, buddy.” I fumble for a frown, but the task is impossible in the wake of my mounting excitement—and damn it, how the man can already feel it. How he’s probably predicted that as soon as I caught sight of the tarmac and inhaled a good long breath of my insatiable wanderlust, I’d be up for any adventure he has in mind for us today. And after all the wrenching twists of our yesterday, maybe this is exactly what we need.

  The door swings open, revealing Z’s dark fingers on the handle of my rolling overnight bag. After a second, his cheesy grin pops into view as well. “Ready to go, Jackie O?” he quips while Reece completes the trip around to this side of the car.

  I refine my responding giggle, paying homage to the icon Z has just invoked. “Why yahss, my dee-ah friend,” I answer, butchering the elegant accent but at least getting things right with how I slide on my sunglasses. “Let us go and go propahly.”

  The snorts we share are abbreviated as Reece helps me out of the car with princely regality. At once, Z is all professionalism again too. Not that the guy is ever a slovenly jerk, but there’s something nice about having him around as a fellow LA native to help with funny things like making sense of a New York country club accent.

  “The flight is running on time, sir,” he ensures Reece. “So you’ll have an hour to relax here before they drive you across to the tarmac.”

  “Thanks, Z.” He pivots to me and kisses my knuckles, a chunk of his dark hair finally breaking free from the pomade and tumbling into his eyes. “I couldn’t book us a private charter on such short notice,” he murmurs with apology in his voice. “So we’ll have to settle for first class.”

  I’m not sure whether to swoon or laugh again, so I try to funnel both into the smile I beam up at him before popping onto my tiptoes, circling my arms around his neck, and laying one hell of a lingering kiss on his full, strong lips. “I think I can deal with first class.”

  Only once we’ve been driven out to and boarded the plane—a giant jet plastered with the familiar logo of a larger world airline brand—does my comprehension get blown to pieces.

  In the middle of the aisle, I whirl back toward Reece and blurt slowly, “First…class.”

  “Yyyessss…” His reply is drawn out with curiosity. He glances from bulkhead to bulkhead. “Are you disappointed?”

  “Disappointed?” My stare is bugged out.

  “What’s wrong?” His is narrow and dark as asphalt.

  “This is first class.” I spin around.

  “I think we’ve established that part, baby.”

  “This is all of first class.”

  He tilts his head. More hair gets loose, colliding with his jaw. “So…you’re not disappointed?”

  “Oh, my God.” I smack a palm into my face, remove it, and flip it around to tap at his. “I’m not disappointed.” Then I grab him by the neck and slobber a bunch of kisses across my impact area. “I’m just…”

  The worshipful wonder in his eyes contrasting with the masculinity of his stubble and ruggedness of his cheeks sucks the words out of my throat. Probably a good thing, since a flight attendant looking like a hummingbird with feet appears, giving us a warm but impatient smile.

  “Monsieur Richards, Mademoiselle Crist. Bonjour and welcome to the flight. My name is Cosette, and I will be your in-flight assistant to Paris today. Can we ask you to take a seat, s’il vous plaît? Truly, any seat is fine.”

  And that’s the moment my words are truly, officially, gone.

  REECE

  “Velvet?”

  It’s the third time I’ve repeated her name, and we’ve only just turned onto the runway to get airborne. Now I’m vacillating between pressing her for a fourth time or just demanding that the plane be turned around so I can seek some medical attention for her.

  “Emma. Talk to me, damn it.”

  More dumbfounded blinks from her side of the second-row seats we’ve finally decided to occupy. But nothing else. Not a sound. Not a gasp.

  “All right, that’s it. Cosette?”

  “Oui, monsieur?” The diminutive blonde appears like our own genie in a flying bottle.

  “Can you please inform the pilot that we need—”

  “A couple of glasses of champagne.” Emma’s interruption is like a game show contestant getting an answer in under the buzzer. She underlines the comparison by reaching her arm across me to pound a hand on the elbow rest. All she needs now is a TV studio buzzer. “Yes. Champagne,” she repeats. “If you please, Cosette.”

  “But of course.” The attendant beams. “Un moment.”

  As Cosette walks away toward the galley, I take instant notice of the slender arm still draped over my midsection. Now here’s an opportunity I’m not going to fuck around with…

  And at once, prove as much to the creature to whom the gorgeous appendage belongs. With a wolfish hum, I trail my fingertips up and down the area between her wrist and elbow, repeating the circuit several times over. At the same time, I allow myself a long, rapt stare at the fine blond hairs along her skin, turned into white gold in the light from the overhead lamps. So many times, touching her is like unwrapping a piece of gold filigree. I’m afraid to open it
but unable to stop myself.

  Finally I venture, “Well.”

  Emma moves her hand up to the middle of my chest. Flows her fingers down the back seam of my tie. “Well.”

  I feel my smile warm, though I keep my voice formal. “Miss Crist.”

  “Mr. Richards.” An equally professional line, though her tug at my tie turns playful.

  “Does this mean you’re okay with my version of Krypton?”

  Her face is overcome by a wave of emotion I’m not sure how to interpret. It seems part confusion, part adoration, but completely Emma. I focus on the latter as she pulls her thoughts together and declares, “I’m not sure if ‘okay’ scrapes the surface of my reaction. But hold on, Sparky.” She turns her hand over, thumping the middle of my chest. “Before you turn that into scissors and run with it, let me clarify. That’s a good okay, even if I’m a little weirded out by it.”

  “Weirded out?” I let my scowl add the why? onto it.

  “Because I’ve always known you had a damn good strategic mind.” She shakes her head and furrows her brow as if being asked to spell “appoggiatura” in the final round of a spelling bee. “I just didn’t know how good.”

  “Thanks.” I don’t try to put away the frown yet. “I…think.”

  “I mean, I see it all now,” she goes on. “The urgency of the press conference, though purposely not inviting any of your family—because now it’s their turn to respond to you. And if they’re going to respond, why not make it in the city where you need to reestablish that common ground with them? Now, you’re the one setting the stage—and controlling the curtain, the lights, and the sound at the same time.”

  I press a hand atop hers and use my other one to cup the side of her face. Her incredible aqua eyes are sparkling. “And the woman calls me brilliant,” I utter before leaning over to take her lips, using the kiss to convey my awestruck tenderness.

  When we drag apart, her gaze is glimmering with deeper shades of blue. Her soft smile adds new angles to her stunning beauty. “I’m just grateful to be along for the adventure.”

  “To a point,” I clarify. “Because adventures are for fiction, baby—and when this one turns into danger, you can’t just be along for the ride.” I push my forehead against hers. “If anything ever happened to you because of some bullshit Bolt has to walk into…”