by Naima Simone
“Am I making you uncomfortable, Camille?” he asked, his head cocking to the side. His eyes narrowed on her, as if searching out the answer for himself.
She should say yes. Should order him to keep his straight-no-chaser compliments and need-stirring comments to himself.
Instead, she matched his head tilt. “And if I said you were?”
“Then I’d go out there in that kitchen and drag one of those chefs in here so you wouldn’t be. Is that what you want?”
She shook her head, the denial almost immediate. “No,” she said, although wisdom argued she should have him invite the whole crew into this small room. Protect her from herself. The self that couldn’t help wondering if those stark angles softened with pleasure. Wondering if that hard-looking mouth became more pliable.
Wondering if that icy shield of control shattered under desire’s flame?
A shiver danced over her skin. Waltzed along her nerve endings.
She was the moth dancing too close to those flames.
“What do you want?” he pressed, the deep timbre of his voice dipping lower.
He didn’t move, didn’t inch closer to her on the couch. But God, all that intensity crowded her, rubbed over her, slipped inside her. He wasn’t a coy or playful man; he grasped the wealth of possibilities that question carried. And he offered her the choice of not addressing them...or taking all of them.
A lifetime of playing by the rules slowly unraveled beneath his heated stare. His question vibrated between them, a gauntlet thrown down. A red flag waved.
“Too many things to possibly number in the space of a blackout,” she finally replied. Truth. And evasion. “But I’m fine with you here with me.” She paused, and with her heart tapping an unsteady rhythm against her chest, added, “Only you.”
A fierce approval and satisfaction flashed like diamonds in his eyes. “Good,” he said, those same emotions reflected in the one word. “Because now we don’t have to share this with anyone else.” Reaching down, he picked up a plate and set it on the cushion between them. A grin curved her lips at the sight of the braised lamb, roasted vegetable medley and risotto piled on the fine china.
“Now, that’s lovely,” he murmured, his gaze not on the dinner but on her face.
She ducked her head, wishing the strands of the wig weren’t tied back in a bun so they could hide the red stain creeping up her neck and flooding her face.
“You’re certainly resourceful,” she said, reaching for an asparagus tip. “Or sneaky.”
His soft snort echoed between them. “I’ve been accused of both before. And both are just words. Whatever works to achieve my goal.”
“Yes, I clearly remember your goal for this evening. You didn’t mince words out there earlier. I guess you’ve achieved your aim. Spending the night with me.”
Why had she brought up that conversation? What had possessed her to remind him of his claim to be with her—inside her? To see that glint of hunger again? To tempt him? God, she was flirting with danger. And doing so with a rashness that bordered on recklessness.
“Do you really want to dive into that discussion right now, Camille?” The question—a tease, a taunt—set her pulse off on a rapid tattoo.
Yes.
No.
“Not on an empty stomach,” she whispered, retreating. From the faint quirk of his lips—the first hint of a smile she’d glimpsed on his austere face—he caught her withdrawal. “And you wouldn’t happen to be hiding a bottle of wine over there, would you?”
The quirk deepened, and her heart stuttered. Actually skipped a couple beats at the beauty of that half smile. Jesus, he would be absolutely devastating if he ever truly let go. Her fingertips itched with the urge to trace those sensual lips. To curb the need, she brought her hands to her pants, intent on rubbing them down her thighs. But stopped herself, recalling they were damp from the food she’d just eaten.
“Take this.” He reached inside his jacket and offered her a small white handkerchief.
Startled, she accepted it, again struck with how perceptive he seemed to be.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
For the next half hour, they dined on the pilfered food, and as stellar and flavorful as the cuisine was, it didn’t steal her attention like the man across from her. He...fascinated her. And after they finished, when he asked her if she would be fine with him turning off the phone’s light to conserve the battery, she okayed it without hesitation.
Though he was basically a stranger to her, he emanated safety. Comfort. As if he would release all that barely leashed mercilessness on her behalf instead of against her. Maybe that made her fanciful, too. But in the dark, she could afford it.
Perhaps the blackness affected him in a similar fashion, because he opened up to her—well, as much as someone as controlled as Gideon Knight probably did. They spoke of mundane things. Hobbies. Worst dates. The best way to spend a perfect, lazy afternoon. All so simple, but she hung on every word. Enjoyed it. Enjoyed him.
Enjoyed the lack of sight that peeled away barriers.
Reveled in the desire that thrummed just below the surface like a drum keeping time, marching them forward to...what? She didn’t know. And for the first time in longer than she could remember, she didn’t weigh the effect of every word, the consequence of every action on the Neal family name.
Here, with him, she was just...Camille.
“We’ll never see each other again once the lights come back on,” she said. And it was true. They’d never see each other as Camille and Gideon, even if they happened to cross paths in the future. Because then, she would once more be Shay Neal of the Chicago Neals. “That almost makes me...sad,” she confessed, then scoffed, shaking her head, though he couldn’t see the gesture. “Ridiculous, right?”
“Why?” he asked. “Honesty is never silly. It’s too rare to be ridiculous.”
A twinge of guilt pinged inside her chest. She was being dishonest about the most basic thing—her identity. “Because fantasies are for teenage girls, not for grown women who know better.”
“And what do you believe you know, Camille?”
She turned toward him, toward the temptation of his voice. “That if not for a citywide blackout, a man like you wouldn’t be with me...” She paused. “Talking.”
“I don’t know if I should be more offended that you’re belittling me or yourself with that statement.” A whisper of sound and then fingers—questing, gentle, but so damn sure—stroked across her jaw, her temple, the strangely callused tips abrading her skin. What did a man like him do to earn that hardened skin that spoke of hard labor, not crunching numbers? “Yes, I do. It annoys me more that you would demean yourself. A woman like you,” he murmured. “Beautiful. Intelligent. Bold. Confident. What man wouldn’t want to spend time with you? Only one too blind or stupid to see who stands right before his eyes. Read any financial blog or journal, Camille. I’m not a stupid man.”
She snorted, trying to mask the flame licking at her from the inside out. Cover the yearning his words caused deep within her. “How did you manage to compliment yourself and reprimand me at the same time?”
But he ignored her attempt to inject levity into the thick, pulsing atmosphere. No, instead, he swept another caress over her skin. This time, brushing a barely there touch to the curve of her bottom lip. She trembled. And God, he had to sense it, to feel it. Because he repeated it.
“I don’t date,” he informed her, and the frankness of the statement caught her off guard. Almost made her forget the long fingers still cradling her jaw.
Almost.
“Excuse me?” she breathed.
“I don’t date,” he repeated. “I know something, too, Camille. Relationships, commitments—they’re lies we tell ourselves so we can justify using each other. Sex. Need. Passion—they’re honest. The body can’t lie. Lust is the great equaliz
er regardless of social status, race or tax bracket. So no, I rescind my earlier statement. If not for this blackout, it’s very possible we wouldn’t have passed these last couple of hours talking. But I don’t care if we were in a ballroom or a boardroom, I would’ve noticed you. I would’ve wanted you. I would’ve done everything in my power to convince you to trust me with your body, your pleasure.”
Oh damn.
She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Suspended by the hunger swamping her.
“Your turn, moonbeam,” he said, his hand falling away from her face. And she immediately missed his touch, that firm grasp. Because he couldn’t see her, she lifted her fingers to the skin that continued to tingle. “Tell me again what you know.”
Moonbeam. The endearment reminded her of their conversation in the ballroom. Her brain argued that the word had nothing to do with love or sweetness and everything to do with hunger and darkness, and yet she jolted at the coiling in her lower belly.
“I know you’re telling me you haven’t changed your mind about wanting to spend the night with me. Inside me,” she added, on a soft, almost hushed rush of breath.
“And have you changed yours?”
From the moment you called me your moon.
The truth reverberated against her skull, but she clenched her jaw, preventing it from escaping. Her defenses had started crumbling long before he’d come looking for her.
Did this make her a cliché? He wasn’t the first man to profess he wanted her, but he was the first she longed to touch with a need that unnerved her. She’d never yearned for a man’s hands on her body as much as she longed for Gideon Knight’s big, elegant, long-fingered ones stroking over her breasts. Or gripping her hips, holding her steady for a deep, hot possession that had her sex spasming in anticipation...in preparation.
She exhaled a breath. Right, he still waited for her answer, and she suspected he wouldn’t make a move, wouldn’t feather another of those caresses over her until she gave it to him.
“Yes,” she confessed, her heart thudding heavily against her rib cage.
“About what, Camille?” he pressed, relentless. “What have you decided? What do you want?”
He wasn’t granting her a reprieve; he was making her say it. Making her lay herself bare.
Her sense of self-preservation launched a last-ditch effort to save her from who she’d become in the dark. Who she’d become in that ballroom. But desire crushed it, and she willingly surrendered to the irresistible lure of freedom...of him.
“You,” she whispered. “I’ve decided on you.”
She slid across the small space separating them and located his face. A soft groan rolled up her throat, and she didn’t even try and trap it. Not when she curved her hand around the strong jut of his jaw, the faintest bristles of what would become a five o’clock shadow abrading her palm. Unable to stop, she stroked the pad of her thumb over the mouth she had been craving since she first noticed him.
Strong teeth sank into the flesh of her thumb, not hurting her but exerting enough pressure that she gasped. Then whimpered.
How had she gone twenty-five years without being aware that spot connected to her sex? That it would make her thighs clench on an ache so sweet, it maddened her?
Another gasp broke free of her, this one of surprise, as his fingers closed around her arms and abruptly dragged her to her feet. She swayed, but he didn’t release her until she steadied. Then the sudden flare of light from his cell phone startled her again. After the dark, the pale glow seemed almost too bright. She blinked, glancing from the screen to the shadows it cast over Gideon’s face.
“Why...” She waved toward the phone. “What about saving the battery?”
He shook his head, his features sharper, appearing to be hewn from flint. Except for those glittering, almost fevered eyes. Oh wow... Such intensity and...and greed there. It stirred her own hunger, stoking the fire inside her until she burned with it.
“I don’t give a damn. I need to see you,” he growled, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it to the floor. Still controlled, but the movement carried an edge. And it thrilled her. “Take off your shirt, Camille. Show me what you’ve decided I can have.”
With trembling fingers, she reached for the buttons of her white shirt. It required several attempts, but she managed to open it, and with his black gaze fixed on her, slipped it off. Warm air kissed her bared shoulders, the tops of her breasts and stomach.
A part of her argued that she should feel at least a modicum of modesty, and maybe Shay would. But not Camille.
As crazy as it seemed, here, with Gideon, she had become a different person. The flip side of the same coin. Normally reserved, bound by expectations and family. But now... uninhibited, free to indulge in her own selfish desires.
“Gorgeous,” he rasped. “So fucking gorgeous. Come here.” He beckoned.
His almost growled compliment stole more of her breath.
“Your turn,” she ordered, remaining in place, although her fingers already prickled to stroke the skin and muscle hidden beneath the thin veneer of civility presented by his tuxedo. “Show me what you promised me I can take.”
His fingers tightened around the edges of his shirt, and for a moment, she feared—hoped—he would just rip it off. But once more, that control reemerged, and he removed his cuff links, tossing them carelessly on top of his jacket. Then, button by button, he revealed himself to her.
She stared at the male animal before her. Miles and miles of smooth flesh stretched taut over tight muscle and tendon. Wide shoulders, a deep chest. Narrowed waist. A corrugated ladder of abs. A thin, silky line of hair started just above a shadowed navel and traveled below, disappearing into the waistband of his suit pants. And darker swirls and shapes she couldn’t make out spread over the left side of his ribs, emphasizing the hint of wildness, of fierceness he couldn’t quite conceal.
Perfection.
He was utter perfection.
This time, he didn’t need to demand she come to him. Shay covered the distance on her own, arms already extended. With a hum of pleasure, she settled her palms on him, smoothed them up to his shoulders, pushing the shirt down his arms. Then she returned to her exploration. Scraping her nails over small, flat nipples, mapping the thin network of veins under his skin, following the path of hair that started midchest. Dragging her fingertips down the delineated ridge of muscles covering his stomach. Tracing the black lines of his tattoo, wishing she could aim more light on it so she could decipher its shape.
He stood still, letting her tour him without interference, though he fairly hummed with intensity, with barely leashed power.
“Are you finished yet?” he growled, and she tilted her head back to meet his hooded gaze, her fingers settling on the band of his pants.
“Not even close,” she breathed. “Kiss me.”
Someone with his extraordinary sense of restraint most likely didn’t take or obey orders from anyone. But with a flash in those eyes, he gripped the bun at the back of her head and tugged. She gave only a brief thought to the security of the wig before her neck arched. The next breath she took was his.
Her groan was ragged and so needy it should’ve embarrassed her. Maybe it would tomorrow in the harsh light of day. But tonight, with his tongue twisting and tangling with hers, she couldn’t care. Not when he tasted like everything delicious but forbidden—chocolate-flavored wine, New York cheesecake, impropriety and wickedness. Not when he nipped at her bottom lip, then sucked it, soothing and enhancing the sting before returning to devour her mouth. As if she, too, was something he knew he shouldn’t have but couldn’t resist.
He lifted his head, taking that lovely mouth with him, and she cried out in disappointment. But he shushed her with hard, stinging kisses to the corner of her lips, along the line of her jaw, down her chin and neck...over the tops of her breasts. In seconds, he strip
ped her of her bra, baring her to him. His big hands lifted, cupping her, molding her to him. To his pleasure. And hers.
She grasped his shoulders, clung to him, her ability to think, to move, to breathe a thing of the past as he lowered his head to her flesh. All she could do was stand there with increasingly wobbly knees and receive each lick, suckle and draw of those sensual lips and tongue. And enjoy them.
Unable not to touch the lure of his hair, she swept her fingers over his head, tunneling them under the knot containing the midnight strands. Eager to see him undone, she briefly wrestled with the thick locks, freeing the tie restraining them. The rough silk fell over her wrists, cool and dense, sliding through her fingers.
“Oh,” she whispered, at a loss for words as the strands tumbled around his sharp cheekbones and strong jaw. They should’ve softened his features—should have. Instead, they only emphasized the stark planes of his face and his visceral sexuality.
“God, you’re beautiful.” The praise exited her mouth without her permission, but she couldn’t regret the words. Not when they were the truth.
Pulling his mouth away from her breasts, he dragged a hot, wet path up her chest, her throat, until he recaptured her mouth. This kiss was hotter, wilder, as if the tether on his control had frayed, and suddenly, her one purpose was to see it snap completely.
With a small whimper, she trailed her hand over his shoulder, chest and torso, not stopping until she cupped his rigid length through his pants.
Damn. She shivered, both need and feminine anxiety tumbling in her belly and lower. He more than filled her palm. Reflexively, she squeezed his erection. God, he was so thick, hard...big.
A rumble emanated from his chest, and his larger hand covered hers, pressing her closer, clasping him tighter. His hips bucked against her palm in demand, and she gladly obeyed. Even as his mouth ravaged hers, she stroked him, loving the growl that rolled out of him. Wanting more.
Impatient, Shay attacked the clasp of his pants, jerking them open and tugging down the zipper in a haste that would later strike her as unseemly. But right now, she didn’t give a damn. Nothing mattered but his bare, pulsing flesh in her hand. Touching him.