Pulse

by Angel Payne

  “Really?” The bark becomes a snarl, and I welcome it. “Because you could’ve fooled me, mister—and your own life is the damn punchline here.”

  He jerks himself back up to full posture. “Do you think I haven’t run this on any other scenario? On a thousand others? Taking him out on the street isn’t an option unless the likelihood of civilian casualties isn’t a problem for anyone—and it’s a fucking problem for me. Sneaking into his suite at the hotel seemed a better concept, until I had Wade and Fershan attempt to dig into the Virage’s system for blueprints and security systems covering the hotel’s top floor.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Attempt to?”

  His nod is terse. “They came back with nothing. Those plans only exist in physical form and are likely locked in the vault in the hotel’s security center—which makes Fort Knox look like a sorority house.”

  “Which Sawyer and a good security team could crack.” I refuse to accept his finality about this, especially because Sawyer’s flight touched down hours ago. The man is one of the best there is, a fact Reece doesn’t even try to negate despite the continuation of his grim expression.

  “Of course they could,” he affirms to my assertion. “Given a couple of solid weeks, at the least.”

  “Two weeks?” I clarify it, incredulous tone and all, just to be sure he’s sure. When Reece doesn’t move a muscle toward retraction, I lock fingers in the space over my churning belly and start to pace. I mean, pace. As in holy-crap-he’s-really-thought-this-out pacing. As in holy-crap-he’s-really-going-to-attempt-to-kill-his-dad pacing.

  “Two weeks,” he states again, “that we don’t have.” He jams his hands into his front pockets, and I know why. The intensity of my emotions isn’t easily bouncing off him anymore. I envision his fingers, long and elegant and aglow, curled against each other inside those recesses. Just like that, my imagination fills with how they look wrapped around that body part at his center…and I have to stop, clenching my thighs to stop the fantasy from making all of me quiver.

  What the hell were we talking about again?

  Oh, God. I remember.

  And just like that, the epiphany of his penis is gone.

  And I only see the only possible outcome of his insane idea to take his father down at the Virage team dinner.

  In my mind, he’s beautiful and blue again.

  But this time because he’s dead.

  I wrap my arms all the way around my middle now. My strangled sob spills out anyway. Then words I can’t control, no matter how deep the cracks they spread across my heart.

  “I…I can’t do this.”

  And I’m twisting away, banishing his magnificence from my view. Tearing myself out of his incredible energy bubble. Unable to accept his magic anymore, if all I have to do is give it up once he returns to Lawson’s inner sanctum again. Because he’ll refuse to let the Consortium take him alive…

  “Emma. Emma.”

  As soon as his footsteps quicken and harden behind me, I hasten my pace. But damn it, I’m no match for him in these flimsy shoes. At least I anticipate his hard clap over my bare shoulder and am ready to rip free—and actually succeed at it—for a couple of exonerating seconds.

  “Let me go. Damn you, Reece, just let me—” My damn body betrays me, heaving lungs not letting me have the rest of the words. Hell, they barely allow me breath. They’ve been kidnapped by a bastard named heartache and his sidekick despair. “Let…me…go,” I seethe out between the wretched rasps, despite how he turns me and tries pulling me close again. Tries. I’m a ragdoll now, praying for limp nothingness. Being numb means I don’t have to picture him dead anymore.

  “The fuck I will.”

  Damn him, squared. And his tormenting, bone-melting grip. And his whomp of ferocious force on the air, all but puddling my knees. And the carved perfection of his face calling to every pore of my body and craving of my soul, even in the midst of his fury. God help me, especially now. He’s so dark and noble and beautiful and—

  “I can’t!” My heart swells and bursts with it this time, and I writhe in his grip from the emotional shrapnel. I’m bleeding out from desolation, but the man won’t let me get away to mourn him alone.

  To mourn him…

  Period.

  “Talk to me, Emmalina.”

  “No!”

  He clamps both hands to my shoulders. Then again, as if to drive home his point. He’s not letting me go. Not that it’ll show him what he wants. A grief I can’t confront. A loss I have no control over.

  A choice that’s already been made for me.

  With the blast of that thought, something must finally flare enough in my eyes to make him back off. By a little. Not nearly enough.

  I’m not above pushing again for the full retreat, though. “I’m not doing this,” I level at him from tight lips. “Not right here, not right now.”

  His mouth goes rigid too. And screw my life if the look doesn’t turn him into five times more of a burnished, beautiful badass. “The hell you aren’t.”

  “The hell I— Gaaaahhh!”

  If I felt like a gawky gull on stilts before, my stunned screech seals that deal—as the man dips down, reaches over, and throws me over his shoulder like a fisherman taking a trout home for dinner. The world is flipped and upended, sky, then buildings, and then grass whirring by before being consumed by a view of his ass I’d normally be enjoying the hell out of. But right now, I’m not focused on joy. At all. I’m still screaming and grabbing on to his belt for dear life. While his arm feels like a human binder clip around my thighs, I’m not taking any chances. His pace is fired by too much fury, and the concrete still looks too damn close.

  “Reece! What the hell—”

  “Hush.”

  “Are you kidding me? And for God’s sake, my skirt. Would you get my damn sk— Aahhh!”

  He’s spanking me.

  Even more than once.

  I’m so astounded, especially when he gets in a second smack even through all the fringe on my hem, that my shriek turns into a squack.

  “I said hush.”

  Holy.

  Shit.

  Is there a word that exists to describe this level of utter asshole?

  Is there another word that exists for my level of stunned stupidity? And completely turned-on compliance?

  What the hell is wrong with me? Why the hell am I not wrestling him with more than a few pointless moves, which succeed more in grinding my crotch into his shoulder, my face against his back, and my glare closer to the perfect spheres that work with caveman rigor to carry me off the bridge, down some stone steps, past a dark archway seemingly leading to under-the-bridge dungeons—oh, dear hell, no—and along a concrete walkway next to the water? What the freaking crap is going on? And why, why, why is my heart racing with a hundred kinds of rage but a hundred more kinds of arousal?

  I should not be hot and mushy for him right now. I should be riled and raging. And not just because of this, whatever the hell this is.

  Once again, the image of his lifeless form floats on the rushing blood in my brain, reminding me exactly what that reason is. But the second I let out a protesting groan and consider kidney-punching him as retaliation, he’s walked out onto a narrow gangway. The concrete I was just wary of has become water.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  “Bon soir, monsieur.” The greeting is deep and jovial, reminding me at once of Lumière from Beauty and the Beast.

  “Bon soir,” Reece responds. “Parlez-vous anglais?”

  “Oui.”

  “Excellent. Are you available tonight?”

  “For the entire night, monsieur?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, my God,” I grumble into the middle of Reece’s spine. “Damn it, Reece. What the hell— Ow!”

  Another spanking. Just one thwack this time, but it’s double the intensity of his others. “What the living hell?” I shriek.

  “Ssshhh.” Reece’s rebuke is quiet, but he cups my backside so s
olidly, it’s a full promise of another spank if I don’t chill out. For a second, giving in to the luscious mix of fear and anger he’s stirred into my arousal, I think about really challenging him. But just for a second. I’m much more interested about how the man defines “reward” than “punishment.”

  “Oui, monsieur.” There’s a hint of humor in Lumière’s tone now. For that I write a mental note to give him nothing but glares once I’m on my feet again.

  “Fan-fucking-tastic.” There’s not a shred of mirth in Reece’s voice—surprise of surprises—as he stomps forward again, eliciting my exaggerated oof the moment he stops and then takes a definite downward plunk. I’m just as amazed-not-amazed to observe he’s toted me aboard one of the fancier river limos, with an interior cabin that has an L-shaped leather couch, a side bar with a champagne bottle on ice, and a platter of assorted macarons.

  Macarons. Oh, hell.

  But Reece deposits me in an unceremonious heap on the couch, as far away from the delectable cookies as I can be. Just in case that hasn’t communicated his message already, he looms over, digs a forefinger and a thumb into the sides of my chin, and yanks my face up until our glowers are openly fighting each other.

  “Stay,” he snarls, ripping his hand away. “And don’t touch the macarons.”

  “Or else what?” It spews out before I can stop it, earning me a sharp tick of one dark Reece Richards brow. And damn it if I don’t automatically sit up straighter and consciously compress my lips just in case any other random thoughts decide to get me in trouble.

  Trouble.

  And me.

  In the same sentence?

  What the hell is going on here?

  I’m not opposed to trouble. It’s just that I like it more when I know it’s okay to cause. So technically, that doesn’t make it trouble anymore. I’m good at pretending.

  Only this isn’t pretend anymore.

  Which is also not the only crazy thing about this.

  Not only am I not pretending…but Reece isn’t glowing.

  I mean, as in nowhere. Not his eyes, not his fingertips, not even in the veins popping against his arm muscles as he shucks his coat and rolls up his shirt sleeves, causing me to shift in place to ease the pulsing tension between my thighs. Which, of course, doesn’t work. I’m left to fume with my lust, now layered on top of my confusion and anger, which can be totally blamed on his marauding George of the Jungle act.

  But oh God, what an act.

  I watch as he converses with Lumière the skipper, though they’re speaking too low for me to hear. After Reece lets the guy run his credit card for payment, they start pointing up and down the river as if mapping out a course for our “cruise,” though I have a feeling I won’t be getting a dreamy romantic float-by of all the city’s sights tonight.

  As Reece pivots back around, pinning me all over again with his multi-daggered stare, I toggle that feeling into the category of certainty.

  And as he whirls and swings back into the cabin, all with the grace of a guy just switching out one jungle vine for the next, I battle the urge to welcome him back in with open arms and open lips.

  Though I’m not sure I have any choice about that either.

  Chapter Three

  Reece

  As the boat’s motors power to life beneath us, I slam the cabin’s little door shut behind me.

  I clear the three steps to where Emma is still braced in the curve of the couch and extend both arms, dragging the window curtains with me, sealing out the rest of the world.

  When I get to her, I bring my hands in again—and reach for her with all their cupped, taut need.

  Now, it’s only us.

  Now, she’s only mine.

  Including every damn detail of her truth.

  A moan rolls out of her as I curl my fingers in, filling my grip with the stunning sweeps of her jaw. Then the high apples of her cheeks. Then the soft planes of her temples. When my touch finally coaxes out her tender shudder and soft sigh, I jam my hands back into her hair and yank hard enough to turn her breath into a pained cry.

  Fuck. Fuck. That sound…what it does to me. I’m not out to hurt her. I only want to wake her up.

  I barely clench back from groaning myself, funneling the energy I’d have used for it back into keeping the lightning at bay from my fingers and my gaze. Emma’s noticed my abstinence. I see the bewilderment in the backs of her eyes—but my purpose now is to banish even that. I’m going to make her mindless. I’m going to strip away all the fences my bunny tried to escape through back on the bridge. In the middle of the Seine, there are no fucking fences.

  I thread my hands through her hair until my fingers meet at the back of her neck. I scratch them into that silken column until she winces another time, and my cock threatens never to let my temper do the talking for my body again. Because of my wild-hair idea to make the woman wait for her infusion of lightning love, nothing she can see betrays the blue energy now. Sexually, I’m taking us back to the night we first met—because emotionally, I have to take her so much further.

  “Stand up.” It’s not a pretty request, and nor do I mean it to be. Though Emma’s not happy about complying, since she has to lean on me or fall right back over in those crazy shoes, she obeys nonetheless.

  As soon as the boat rocks once, she’s grabbing my biceps for balance. I smirk. She glares. Then almost topples backward anyway.

  “Shit,” she spits, her lips twisting as soon as I flash a new grin. “You’re loving the hell out of this, aren’t you?”

  I let the crack fly by despite wanting to tell her how gorgeous she is, even with clumsy land legs on a river that’s no more than ten meters deep at this point. But that’s not relevant to the purpose right now. Our purpose right now.

  “Doesn’t feel good, does it?” I state instead. “Being caught off guard. Not knowing what’s coming next. Thinking you’re going to have support for your steps but not getting it.”

  Her gaze flares with blue fury. “That’s low, Mr. Richards—even for the ass-clot you used to be.”

  I restrain my flinch. Barely. The bald truth is, she’s probably right. All of this is painted in shades of old-school Reece, except that dick would’ve likely princess-carried her down to the boat so he could fuck her like anything but a princess. Now, I’ve handled the most important woman of my existence like a sack of potatoes in order to properly worship her and reset the sanctity of us. So yeah, if that means being an ass-clot again, so be it. No matter how thoroughly I hate the bastard.

  During my rumination, she’s clearly done some processing of her own, but the results aren’t auspicious. “Damn it, Reece,” she grates with the same acute hurt crunching her beautiful face. “I support you. Damn it, I love you. Don’t you know that by now?”

  The deck surges from a larger swell, meaning we must be cruising in the middle of the river now. I grip tighter into the curve of her waist, wishing I could be as clear about a course as Tristan, the vessel’s captain, but right now I’m in the middle of a goddamned ocean without a compass or sextant. These waters are dark and strange. Ass-clots never have to worry about shit like emotional transparency and truthful communication.

  So yeah, perhaps I have relied on some of my old tricks.

  And maybe, if my smoldering cock and thundering senses can be believed, I’m not done with the loan. Right now, I’m not above it. A little direction goes a long way in a dark sea.

  “Of course I do, baby.” As I respond to her, I lower my forehead against hers. “And every morning, I thank the fuck out of God for your love. For your passion. For your trust.” I angle my head so my lips can roam across the perfect curves of her face. The graceful sweeps of her eyebrows, the soft slope of her nose, even the feisty jut of her chin. “But I also need your honesty. All of it.”

  As I rise up, going for direct contact with her mouth, she yanks away—just as the boat hits a bigger swell, giving her the perfect opportunity to twist around. With her balance off, she grapples
at the bar for purchase. Fine by me. Even better, in fact. At once, I’m pressed up against her, barely stifling a moan as the bulge of my cock mashes the firm curve of her ass.

  “Damn it.” She attempts the spitfire angle again, but the oath is caught short by her gasp as the boat sways again. I prevent her from face-planting in the champagne bucket by hooking an arm around her waist and planting my free hand against the bulkhead. “Damn it. Reece—”

  “Hmmm?” It emerges from low in my throat, matching all the fresh wickedness in my senses—inspired just from the sight of her one exposed shoulder. But now, planning how I’m going to get the other one bare, as well as the things I’m going to do to her after that, brings Bad Boy Richards roaring back with a vengeance. If the woman wants him gone, she’ll have to stop trembling so perfectly when he slides his mouth down the slope of her shoulder. And then rocking against him as he rolls his hips forward, pinning the apex of her body between his crotch and the bar. And then emitting a gorgeous little keen when he grazes back up to her nape, biting into the flesh there like a starving man.

  “Oh…God.”

  “What a coincidence. I was just thanking him again.” Though it’s a certainty I’m going to hell, mentioning the Almighty with my mind consumed by such filthy intent for this woman and her irresistible curves. Maybe the big guy upstairs will be more lenient when observing I’ve seen the light in at least one way. If this is the way to navigate the waters to open, honest communication, who am I to slash the sails? “Damn, Emma. Damn, you taste so good.”

  Her breaths come on fast, sexy little pants as I stroke the spot I just bit with the flat of my tongue. I linger there, inhaling deep, savoring this new version of her scent in every pore of my being. Paris and this woman are a fucking intoxicating mix. There’s the familiar essence of her citrus shampoo, though it’s now tinged with cherry blossoms, old books, fresh crepes, even a little smoke. And fuck…the musk of her lust now too…

  Fuuuuuck.

  “Reece.” More of her sweet, shallow gasps. “Reece.”

  “Hmmmm?”