by Naima Simone
“I can’t believe that,” he snapped, banging his glass on the table and surging to his feet. Tunneling his fingers through his hair, he paced away from her. He couldn’t. Because then what did that say about the past, about what he’d believed?
What would it say about the family he idolized?
“It’s not that you can’t believe it. You won’t,” she contradicted, her voice low, laced with an unmistakable thread of resignation. As if she hadn’t expected much from him. Certainly not for him to accept her truth. “And you never will. You won’t allow yourself to even consider that the brave man who saved you from a burning building, the honorable man who became your brother when you lost your parents could’ve changed. Or at the very least, had one side with you and another with his wife, who he grew to resent almost from the moment he said ‘I do.’”
“No,” Darius rasped, stalking closer and eliminating the small space between them. “He went against his family’s wishes to have you, risking everything for you...”
“And he came to hate me for it,” she whispered, tilting her head back to meet his gaze. “Just like you eventually will. You said you’re going through with this engagement and marriage for Baron, Helena and Gabriella. What happens when they force you to choose between your pretend wife and them? Because it’ll happen. They’ve earned your love, your loyalty, but you’ve given your word to me. Oh, yes.” She nodded, shadows swirling in her lovely, haunted eyes. “In the end, you’ll resent me, too.”
He squeezed his eyes closed, his jaw so hardened, so tense, the muscles along it twinged. Emotion. So much emotion howled and whistled inside him, he feared one misstep, one wrong-placed touch, and he would shred under the power of it.
“I already resent you, Isobel,” he ground out, forcing himself to meet her gaze. Her scent—delicate like newly opened rose petals and intoxicating like the bourbon he’d been drinking—wrapped around him with phantom arms. Heat emanated from her petite body, and he wanted to curl against it. “And it has nothing to do with tonight or a future emotional tug-of-war. I hate that I can’t get you out of my head. Can’t stop replaying a night that should’ve never happened. I can still feel you. Your lips parting for mine. Your skin under my hands. Your tight, soaking-wet flesh gripping my fingers so hard, it almost bruised me. You just won’t get out of my goddamn head.”
Lust churned his voice to the consistency of gravel. “I hate that I know who you are, and I still want to fuck you. I hate that I can’t tell if you’re the sweet, giving woman from that dark hallway or the conniving one who was married to my best friend.” He shifted that scant inch forward and brought his chest to hers, his thighs to hers. His breath to hers. “I hate that I want to find out.”
Her labored pants broke across his mouth, and he slicked his tongue across his lips, seeking to taste that hard puff of breath. Her scrutiny followed the movement, and like clouds moving in over a blue sky, lust darkened her gaze. God, why didn’t she close those beautiful eyes? Shield both of them from the knowledge that she craved him as he did her? He placed the responsibility on her, because he was the weaker one. She had to be the strong one and save them both.
“Turn around and walk out of here, Isobel,” he warned her, his voice so guttural, he almost winced. “I’ll break your condition. I’ll put my hands and mouth on you. I’ll finish what we started in the dark if you don’t.”
A small, muted whimper escaped her. Almost as if she’d tried to trap the needy sound but hadn’t been fast enough.
“You’re not running, sweetheart.” He lifted his hand, let it hover over her cheek for a weighty moment, granting her time to evade it. But she remained still, and he swept the pad of his thumb over her cheekbone, then lower, across the lush curve of her bottom lip.
“No,” she whispered. “I’m not.”
“Your rule,” he whispered back.
“Break it... Break me.”
The request, uttered on a trembling breath, snapped the already tattered ropes on his control, and with a groan, he crushed his mouth to hers. When her heady taste hit his tongue, that groan morphed into a growl. Delicious. Addictive. He drove his fingers into her hair, tipping her head back so he could gorge on her. Yeah, he was committing the sin of gluttony, and resigned himself to hell for it.
Her palms slid over his sides and up his back, curling into the backs of his shoulders. The bite of her nails sent pleasure sizzling through him like an electrical charge, arrowing straight for his cock. He shifted, pressing harder against her, giving her full, undeniable disclosure to what she did to him.
Abandoning her hair, he dropped his arms, molding his hands to her ass, cupping the curves. He bent his knees, then abruptly straightened, hiking her into his arms. A bolt of carnal satisfaction struck him when her legs wrapped around his waist and her arms encircled his neck, holding on to him. Her mouth clung to his, that wicked tongue twisting and tangling, dancing and dueling. Damn, he wanted that talented mouth on his skin, on every part of him.
After quickly striding back to the couch, he sank down to the cushions, arranging her so she straddled his thighs. He broke their kiss long enough to fist the hem of her shirt and yank it over her head. All that hair tumbled down around her shoulders, back and chest, transforming her into a seductive siren. He wanted to crash himself against her and drown in pleasure.
“You’re going to take me under, aren’t you?” he murmured, voicing his thoughts.
“Are you afraid?” she asked.
He shifted his enraptured gaze from her hair to her eyes.
Yes.
The reply erupted inside him, ringing with certainty, but he didn’t vocalize it. Instead he cradled the nape of her neck and drew her forward until their lips brushed, pressed, mated.
Impatient, he stroked a caress over her shoulders, down her chest and finally reacquainted himself with the flesh he’d dreamed about before waking up, hard and hurting. He cupped her, squeezed...and it wasn’t enough. Ripping his mouth free of hers, he bent his head, trailed his lips over the soft swell of her breast, then circled his tongue around the taut, dusky peak.
Her cry rebounded off the walls and windows, and her arms clasped him to her. Her scent, rich and deep, filled his nostrils, and he licked it off her skin. In response, her hips rolled, rocking her lace-covered folds over him. The pressure against his erection had him hauling in a breath and bracing himself against the stunning pleasure barreling through him. He shifted beneath her, sliding down a fraction so his length notched firmly against her. He dropped a hand to her hip, encouraging her to continue riding him. Continue stoking the fire between them until it consumed them.
“You’re so sweet.” He lapped at her nipple, then drew it into his mouth, suckling on her, tormenting her as she was doing to him. “Dangerous,” he admitted.
Her only response was to buck those slim hips. It was the only response he needed. Switching to her neglected breast, he worshipped it, losing himself in the taste, texture and wonder of her.
“Let me,” she panted, gripping his hair and tugging his head up. He resisted, but spying her flushed cheeks, swollen lips and glazed eyes, he relented. “I want to...need to...”
She didn’t finish the thought, but with trembling fingers, plucked at his shirt buttons. Too impatient, he replaced her attempt with a hard yank. The buttons flew, scattered, and he tore off the offensive material.
“God,” she breathed, flattening her palms to his chest. He shuddered, the sensation of being skin to skin almost too sharp. “You’re beautiful. So...beautiful.”
Another shiver rippled through him, just as intense, but it was the result of her words rather than her touch. Or rather the stark truth in her words. When they were clothed, minds and bodies not warped by passion, he didn’t trust her. But here...with their bodies stripped...honesty existed between them. The honesty of lust and pleasure. She couldn’t hide from him, couldn’t lie t
o him. Not when the evidence of her desire soaked her underwear and his pants.
He loosened a hand from the soft ropes of her hair and slid it down her back, over her hip and between her legs. She stiffened a second, and he paused, imprisoning a groan as her wet heat singed him. But only when she melted against him, her whispered, “Please” granting him permission to continue, did he slip underneath the plain but sexy-as-hell underwear to the soft, plush flesh beneath.
She jerked, whimpered as he glided through the path created by her folds, ending his journey with a firm circle over her clit. The little bundle of nerves contracted and pulsed under his fingertip, and he teased it. She straightened, her hands clutching at his shoulders, her back arched, surrendering to his touch.
She was the most goddamn beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
“I love how wet you get for me,” he rasped, stroking her hair away from her face, studying her pleasure-stricken expression. Dipping his hand lower, he rimmed her tiny, fluttering entrance. “You have more for me, sweetheart?”
He didn’t wait for a reply but drove a finger inside her. Her cry caressed his ears even as her silken sex clutched at him, convulsed around him. He growled, loving her response to him. Hungry for more. Withdrawing, he slid in another finger, stretching her, preparing her to take him so he wouldn’t inadvertently hurt her. And the selfish side of him reveled in the tight clasp of her body, in the soft undulations of her flesh that relayed her pleasure and impatience. Impatience for him, for what he was giving her. For what he was promising her.
“Can you take another?” he murmured, pulling free again.
“Yes.” Her fingernails denting his skin. “Please, yes.”
Leaning forward, he opened his mouth over the pulse throbbing like a snare drum at the base of her throat as he slowly buried three fingers inside her. She bucked her hips, twisting like a wild thing on his lap. Jesus, she was gorgeous in passion—sexy, uninhibited and burning like a blue flame. Her desire scorched him.
Grinding out a curse, he lifted her off his thighs and set her beside him. Ignoring her disappointed cry, he shed her of the underwear, leaving her bare before him. With his gaze fixed on her lovely nakedness, he removed his wallet from his pants. Then he snatched out a condom and shoved his pants down his legs, too desperate to be inside her to completely strip them off.
With hands he prayed were gentler than the maelstrom of greed tearing at him, he repositioned her over him. He couldn’t prevent the shiver that worked its way through him as he fisted the base of his cock, notching the tip at the entrance to her body. Perspiration trickled down his skin as he slowly—so damn slowly—lowered her over him.
God. Every muscle in his body tightened, with the control it required not to plunge himself inside exacting its toll.
Hot.
Tight.
Ecstasy.
Fire raced up and down his spine, snapping and crackling. It rolled and thundered through his veins, transforming his blood to pure, undiluted pleasure. Already she consumed him, and he hadn’t even seated himself fully inside her. And though razor-sharp need sliced at him, he didn’t rush it. He’d rather suffer before hurting Isobel. Even now those tiny muscles rippled and fluttered over his flesh, adjusting to his penetration. Tremors quaked through her petite frame, and whimpers slipped past her lips.
“Shh,” he soothed, pausing. Keeping one hand braced on her hip, he cupped her cheek with the other, tipping her head down. “Your pace, sweetheart. Tell me what you need, and it’s yours,” he said against her lips.
“Kiss me.”
She tilted her head, opening for him, and he twisted his tongue with hers, sucking on it. She joined in the duel, thrusting and parrying. Pursuing and eluding. It turned wild, raw.
Before the kiss ended, she sat fully and firmly on his cock.
With a snarl, he tore away from her, tipping his head back against the couch. She was...perfect.
“Isobel,” he growled, raising his head again, unable to not see what she did to him. How she took him.
Cradling her hips, he lifted her, stared in rapt fascination as she unsheathed him, leaving his length glistening with the evidence of her desire. Then when just the head remained inside her, he eased her back down, still watching as she parted for him, claiming him.
Branding him.
“After that night in the hallway,” he gritted out, pulling free again. “I regretted not taking you. Not knowing how it felt to bury myself inside you. But now,” he rasped, lowering her. “Now I’m glad I didn’t. Because then I would’ve missing seeing how you so sweetly spread for me. And that, sweetheart...that would’ve been a crime.”
“Darius,” she whispered, and the sound of his name on her lips tattered the remnants of his control.
He drove inside her, snatching her down to him. Not that he needed to. She rode him, fierce and powerful, and in that moment, she was the one doing the claiming. And he surrendered, letting her incinerate him. And he held on, thrusting, giving, willingly being rendered to ash.
“Please,” she begged, her body quaking. She clung to him even as she surged and writhed against him. “Please, Darius.”
He didn’t need her to complete the thought; he already knew what she wanted. Reaching between them, he stroked a path down her belly and between her legs. Murmuring, he rubbed the pad of his thumb over her swollen clit. Once. Twice...
Before he could reach three, her sex clamped down on him, a strangling, muscular vise that dragged a grunt out of him. She exploded, seizing his cock, spasming and pulsing around him as she flew apart in his arms.
He rode her through it, thrusting hard and quick, ensuring she received every measure of the release that gripped her. Only when the quakes eased into shivering did he let go.
Pleasure—powerful, intense and brutal—plowed into him. His brain shorted, his vision grayed as he threw himself into an orgasm like a willing sacrifice, wanting to be consumed, obliterated, reshaped.
But into what? The unknown terrified him.
Then, as the darkness submerged and swamped him, he didn’t think.
Couldn’t think.
Could only feel.
And then, not even that.
Nine
Isobel released a weary sigh as she pulled into an empty spot in the four-car garage.
Darius had moved one of his luxury vehicles so she could have a parking space, and had invited her to drive one of them. But she had yet to take him up on the offer. She’d already invaded his house, and she and Aiden were living off his money. Taking one of the cars as if she owned it edged her one step closer to being the gold-digging creature she’d been called. So no, she’d continued driving her beat-up but trusty Honda Civic. Even if parking it next to his Bugatti Chiron seemed like blasphemy.
Climbing out of her car, she inhaled the early evening air. Though she’d left work at the grocery store without wearing her jacket, she now drew it around her, the black collared shirt and khakis of her uniform not fighting off the nippy breeze.
Glancing down at her watch, she picked up her pace and strode toward the front door of Darius’s home. It was just nearing five o’clock, and like the previous days, she was hoping she’d beat him home from work. Since she no longer had to work a second shift with her mother to make ends meet, she’d switched her hours at the store. Four days a week, she left the house at eight to arrive for her nine-to-four shift. Isobel liked the nanny, Ms. Jacobs, just fine. She was grateful for her, because her presence allowed Isobel to continue working even when she couldn’t ask her mom to watch Aiden. Still, she missed her son fiercely when she left.
And yet over the last few days, she’d been thankful for her job. Concentrating on customers, price checks and sales prevented her from obsessively dwelling on...other things.
Other things being the cataclysmic event of sex with Darius.
A flush rushed up from her chest and throat, pouring into her face. She loosened her collar as the memories surged forth, as if they’d been hovering on the edges of her subconscious, waiting for the opportunity to flood her.
Her step faltered, and she stumbled. “Damn,” she muttered.
No matter how many times those mental images flashed across her brain, they never failed to trip her up—literally and figuratively. She vacillated between cringing and combusting. Cringing at the thought of her completely abandoned and wild reaction to him.
Combusting as she easily—too easily—recalled how his mouth and hands had pleasured her, marked her. How he’d triggered a need in her that eclipsed any previous sexual experience, rendering all other men inconsequential and mediocre.
He’d spoiled her for anyone else.
And she’d committed a fatal error in letting him know just how much she craved him.
So yes, she’d been avoiding him, trying to reinforce her emotional battlements. And surprisingly he’d allowed her to evade him. The few times they’d been in the same room since That Night, he’d treated her with a distant politeness that both relieved and irritated her. Pretending as if they’d never shook in each other’s arms, him buried inside her to the hilt.
Pinching the bridge of her nose as she entered the house, she deliberately slammed the door on those memories, and not just locked it but threw three dead bolts just for good measure.
“Where have you been?”
She skidded to a halt in the foyer at the furious demand, her head jerking up. Shock doused her in a frigid wave, and she stared at Darius. Anger glittered in his amber gaze, tightened the skin over his sharp cheekbones and firmed the full curve of his mouth into a flat line.
“Hello to you, too, Darius,” she drawled with acid sweetness.
“Where. Have. You. Been?” he ground out, his big body vibrating with emotion. It flared so bright in his eyes, they appeared like molten gold.