Hard Rules

by Lisa Renee Jones

  It’s the exact thing I’d found concerning minutes before, but coming from him, it’s pure seduction. “I like me in your jacket because it smells like you.”

  “You can keep it as long as I’m in it.”

  “You aren’t in it now,” I point out.

  “You won’t be either in a few minutes,” he promises, turning us toward the entryway and wrapping his arm around my waist, under the jacket. “Finally, I’m going to have you to myself.”

  “Which wouldn’t be happening had I driven the Bentley and wrecked it,” I say as the double glass doors part for us and we enter a fancy lobby with a long oak registration desk to our right, and chairs and tables speckled here and there to our left.

  “You weren’t going to wreck it,” he assures me. “And you had other reasons for declining and we both know it.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say quickly, and it’s the worst lie I’ve told. I know and I’m now certain he knows that I didn’t want my lost dreams punishing me any more than they already have tonight.

  “Besides,” he says, giving me an escape, and directing us toward the elevators, “I wouldn’t have let you wreck it.”

  “All that confidence and command won’t stop me if I want to crash, fall, or spill something, I promise you.” We turn a corner and stop at what appears to be a private bank of elevators. “There’s a law of nature element to it.”

  He punches the call button. “I don’t believe in the law of nature any more than I do the power of the universe.”

  “Never. Not at all?”

  “No. To do so would infer I have no control over the outcome of a situation and if that’s the case, why keep fighting? I want control. That means I have to believe I can take it.”

  “What about how you just happened to come downstairs tonight when I was at the desk? That’s fate. Or the stars aligning, or whatever you want to call it.”

  He steps to me and shackles my hips, something he does often, and I could easily get used to it, but of course, I will never get the chance. “I chose to come after you,” he states.

  “But you wouldn’t have had the opportunity if the timing hadn’t been perfect.”

  “Semantics.”

  “That’s not even close to the definition of ‘semantics.’”

  “It is if I say it is. That’s how I win over juries. I believe what I’m saying and I make them believe it too.”

  “So you’re not just good at your job, you’re good in the courtroom.”

  “Being good means rarely going to court.”

  “And you do that how?”

  “Know what makes everyone tick, which means knowing more than your client and the people influencing their situation and life. Know the same about your opposing counsel.”

  The elevator doors open and he leads me into the empty car, keying in a code and punching the button for what I think is the top level. The next thing I know I’m in the corner, and he’s crowding me, his hands back on my waist, and the air around us thick with sexual tension.

  “Right now, I want to know you.” Right now. Those are the two words that make his attention to details sexy, not dangerous. He leans in closer and inhales. “You’re the one who smells good. Like vanilla and flowers.”

  “It’s vanilla and lilac. A special scent I have made at—” I stop myself before I place myself back in Texas, not Los Angeles. “It’s the only scent I wear.”

  “It’s addictive,” he declares, his cheek brushing mine, the newly forming shadow on his jaw rasping against my delicate skin and I have no idea how but my nipples pucker in response. “You’re addictive,” he amends. “I couldn’t stop thinking about it all day.”

  Oh how easily he can make a girl feel special. “You know just what to say. No wonder you never make it to court.”

  He inches backward, his gaze pinning mine. “Don’t do that, sweetheart.”

  The endearment does funny things to my stomach. “Do what?”

  “Don’t make what I say to you about something else or even about me.” His hand slides under my hair, around my neck. “I have nothing on my mind but you, and you have no idea how nearly impossible that is tonight. Obviously I need to work harder to make that clear.”

  “No I—”

  He drags my mouth to his, his lips gently brushing mine, his tongue a tease against mine that promises so much more. “You are all that matters tonight. Understand?” The question plays on his tongue as an erotic command, as does his hand on my neck.

  “Yes,” I reply, quaking inside with the way he manages to possess me and arouse me when everything about my history says those things shouldn’t make me respond. But it is him I respond to, the way he somehow makes right what was always wrong for me.

  The elevator dings behind us and he links our fingers, an act that, more and more, feels intimate, leading me out of the car, and it hits me then that he holds on to me like he is afraid of losing me, like I matter. And he looks at me like he really wants to see and know me, when earlier today, I was certain that I was invisible in every way.

  “This way,” Shane instructs, leading me left down the hallway, and the butterflies that erupt in my belly are almost too much to handle. Each step I take is laden; adrenaline pours through me like buckets of his triple-shot lattes. Too soon, we are at his door and he’s turning a lock. He opens the door and he motions me forward, when he’s all but led me everywhere else.

  I stare at the entryway and I see it as the question mark intended, but more so, I instinctively understand he’s offered me a choice. A moment of fairly profound introspection follows in which I think of all the controlling, powerful men who have come into my life by my choice, or otherwise, all with fairly devastating results, not one of whom gave me a choice. But Shane has, and not only that, he speaks of my pleasure, not his, which actually makes me want his pleasure, not mine. He is the contradiction and I like it. Suddenly the nerves I’ve been battling shift and change, still existing, still alive, but not fed by fear or self-doubt. I’m not here because I’m repeating the past. I’m here because Shane might have money, power, and good looks, but he is a rare person who is not defined by those things.

  I let the walls fall away between us, letting him see the decision in my eyes, answering his silent question, even before I say, “Yes. The answer to me wanting to be here, is an absolute ‘yes.’” And with that declaration, I know that at least for now, I am choosing to let tonight exist without my secret, without the fears and danger it creates, and I enter a magnificent apartment with a towering flat ceiling, and striking dark wood floors streaked with a paler bamboo color.

  I stop several feet inside, my gaze reaching beyond the open living room with tan leather furnishings to the floor-to-ceiling windows wrapping the entire apartment, a dark city spotted with lights beyond. The door shuts behind me and I feel Shane’s approach, his energy a potent force wafting over me, but I can’t seem to make myself turn and face him. His hands come down on my shoulders.

  “I’ll take this,” he says, dragging the jacket from my shoulders, leaving me feeling oddly naked; my hand grips my purse I’d all but forgotten was trapped beneath. Once again, adrenaline rushes through me, fuel for my nerves that I can’t escape, and I whirl around to find Shane hanging the jacket on a coatrack. My gaze falls on his hands, which will soon be touching my naked body, and it hits me that this man makes me feel naked in ways beyond the idea of taking my clothes off.

  It’s a disarming thought, and needing to catch my breath, I face forward, and start walking. I pass a kitchen that is stainless steel and more bamboo, continuing on through the living area, and I drop my purse on a leather chair, on my way to stand at the window. I grip the railing splitting the glass, staring out at a strange city I barely know as my own, the sky’s inky canvas waiting to be painted with what I make of this new life, starting with this night. Shane appears to my right. I turn to find him standing at a bamboo minibar, the air thick with our awareness of one anot
her.

  “Drink?” he asks, lifting the topper to a crystal decanter.

  “Most definitely, yes,” I say, walking to stand beside the minibar, close to him. “Please.”

  At my eagerness, he gives me an assessing look, too damn smart not to know that I’m a ball of anxiety and not because of my secret. Because he’s amazing and I want this and him in a way I am not sure I’ve ever wanted anyone before him. He pours a golden brown liquid into one glass only and replaces the stopper, clearly having no intention of filling another. “It’s cognac,” he says, picking up the glass and closing the two steps between us. “Expensive, strong, and smooth.”

  I take the glass and start drinking, warm spices exploding in my mouth. Three swallows in, he grabs it and stops me. “Easy, sweetheart. I said I want you to remember me.”

  “I want to remember you, Shane.”

  “But it’s not me you’re trying to forget.”

  “Something like that.”

  He downs the rest of the cognac, setting the glass on the table, and before I know his intentions, his hand is under my hair again, cupping the back of my neck, and he’s aligned our bodies, his powerful legs pressed to mine. “What are you running from, Emily?”

  I’m taken less off guard by the question that forces me back to my secret, than I am by my desire to tell him what I can’t. “Everything or nothing,” I say. “And I chose to tell you nothing.”

  “So you don’t deny you’re running?”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  “I’m not or I wouldn’t be in Denver.”

  “Ironically,” I say, daring to tell a piece of the truth because it is only one night, “the opposite is true of me.”

  “I already knew that.”

  “Of course you did. You see too much.”

  His fingers flex at my neck, and he lowers his head, his lips a breath from mine. “I haven’t even begun to see enough of you,” he declares, and then his mouth is on mine, his tongue a soft caress, a tease that promises that even if I will give him nothing, he will give me everything.

  I am breathless when his mouth leaves mine, my tongue flicking over my lips. “You taste like cognac.”

  “I’m going to taste like you,” he says, and after hours of wanting this man, my sex clenches with this certainty that very soon he will make good on that promise. “Come,” he orders, once again leading where he wants me to follow. This time it’s the door opposite the minibar that I hadn’t noticed before now. He opens it and motions me forward into a dark outdoor abyss that’s a bit spooky. I step outside, and not only is Shane quickly by my side, motion detectors trigger lights, and we are instantly cast in a warm, intimate glow.

  I glance around a balcony hugged by tall concrete privacy walls that successfully block the wind and cold, finding a couch and chair, and dangling teardrop lanterns that might actually be heaters. “This is spectacular,” I murmur.

  “The view is the best part of the apartment,” he says, twining my fingers with his, and damn it, there is a hot spot in my chest that isn’t about sex, but about how he makes me feel with him. Together, we walk toward the steel railing that sits atop a glass half wall, allowing it to feel as if we are almost standing in the middle of the sky.

  I grab hold of the railing, staring out at the city, while he does the same beside me. “How high are we?”

  “Fifteen floors.”

  “Low enough that we can see every street and building.”

  “But high enough to be on top of our new home,” he murmurs. “It even looks worth staying from here.”

  I glance over at him to find he is already looking at me. “You’ve been back here a year,” I remind him. “And you’re from here.”

  “I didn’t decide to stay until today.”

  “Why today?”

  “It should have been sooner.”

  It’s not a real answer, and he doesn’t give me time to decide if I want to press for more. He steps behind me, his hips framing my backside, his hands at my sides. “And thanks to you,” he murmurs, his lips near my ear, “I’m not thinking about what I left behind. I’m thinking about what I have right here.”

  The words infer more than a night, or maybe they don’t, but it doesn’t matter right now. He is caressing up and down my sides, his fingers grazing my breasts, and I can no longer think. My nipples are tight, aching nubs, and my sex is clenched tight. I bite my lip and tighten my grip on the railing, sucking in air as his exploration moves to my hips and then my backside. And suddenly, or not so suddenly, I want to touch him and see him. I try to turn, but he is quick to step to my side, holding me steady. “Stay facing forward,” he orders, his fingers splaying on my belly where they’ve settled, that other hand, still branding my backside, gliding upward until his fingers find the zipper to my skirt, deftly dragging it down.

  “Shane,” I say, not sure why, and when I turn my head to look at him, he kisses me, a sultry, sexy slide of tongue against tongue that leaves me breathless, and wanting more.

  “I like it when you say my name like it’s a pleasure.”

  He steps behind me again, a light breeze lifting my hair and reminding me we’re outside. I think I should care, but he caresses my skirt over my hips, and I can’t find a reason why anymore. Material pools at my feet, and he lifts me, kicking it aside, and leaving me in nothing but a thong, thigh-highs, and heels from the waist down. He sets me back down, his hands cupping my now naked backside, his fingers intimately exploring the crevice between my cheeks, promising much more to follow.

  He moves back to my side, one hand squeezing my cheek while the other cups my sex. My lashes lower and I pant, only to gasp as he grips the lace and yanks. I am shocked, and somehow much more vulnerable without that tiny stitch of lace. “Shane, damn it, we’re outside.” I try to turn again, not sure why this moment sets me off.

  He holds me, his hands bracing me front and back. “Easy, sweetheart.” His teeth scrape my shoulder, my eyes squeezing shut with the tightening of my nipples beneath the silk of my bra. “No one can see us and we’re on top of our city, the day we both reluctantly decided to call it home.”

  “Home?” I rasp out, that word only one of the nerves he’s hit. And I say it. I don’t know why but I do. “I hate that word and I’m not like you. I had no choice.”

  He turns me, pressing me against the railing, his big body in front of mine, his legs pinning my legs. “Why am I different? Because I have family? Because you don’t?”

  “I do. I have an asshole brother just like you.”

  “Then you know that having family that doesn’t give a shit about you is being alone.”

  Damn it, my eyes prickle, and I look skyward. “Yes,” I whisper, turning my head, and wishing I’d kept my mouth shut.

  He cups my face, forcing me to look at him, his thumb wiping away a stupid tear that makes me weak. “I don’t cry,” I say. “This is your fault. I don’t know how you made me feel this. I don’t even know what ‘this’ is and I don’t know you. We’re strangers.”

  “Not anymore we aren’t.”

  “Yes. We are.”

  “You always have a choice,” he says, sideswiping me with the change of topic. I am shaking from yet more stupid adrenaline and whatever “this” is that I still don’t understand.

  “No,” I all but hiss. “I don’t have a choice.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “Everything or nothing, Shane. I said nothing. Stop trying to get into my head when I want out for just one night.”

  His eyes glint, a mix of hard steel and more of that blue fire. “You want to forget everything else?”

  “That was the whole point in this.”

  He reaches down and grabs the top of my shirt and before I have any clue what he intends, he yanks, and the buttons fly here and there. I gasp, my hands flattening on his shoulders. “What are you doing?”

  “Making you forget.” He reaches around me and unhooks my bra, dragging it from my shoulders, and tossing it
aside. I am left all but naked, when he is not. This realization shakes me. He shakes me and exposes pieces of me I don’t want exposed. I try to hug myself but he gently catches my wrists.

  “Emily,” he says softly, and again he’s made it sin and seduction.

  “Shane,” I whisper, and somehow the rest of the world fades, and he’s grounded me in the moment. All of my old demons fade into the darkness of my past.

  He seems to know when it happens. Maybe it shows in my face. Maybe he feels it in my energy, but then, and only then, does his gaze lower, raking over my breasts, a touch that isn’t a touch. My body reacts, nipples tightening, breasts heavy, and the dampness that was on my panties is now slick on my thighs.

  “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, more gravel to his tone, and when he looks at me, I see the gray steel of demand and dominance, but there is also enough blue fire to burn me inside out. “And so damn sweet,” he adds. “It’s sexy as hell.”

  “Sweet is not what I want to be,” I say, translating it as being called the pushover that got me into this mess I’m in. “It’s not what I am.”

  He leans in close and inhales deeply. “You smell sweet.” He cups my face, and he caresses his lips over mine, once. Twice. His tongue flickers past my teeth, a quick tease that has me wanting more before he adds, “You taste sweet.” He presses my hands to the railing behind me, holding them there, his cheek settling against mine. “I want you, Emily. And I’m going to have you. On my lips. On my tongue.” He nips my earlobe, sending a shiver down my spine as he adds, “On my cock, riding me and thinking of nothing else but me.”

  His words, his promises, ripple through me like a whisper, my fingers curling under his touch, around the bar. I am wet. I am aching in every place he is not and I want him to be, and I reach for him, only to have him catch my hands and hold them over the railing.

  “Don’t move your hands from that railing unless I tell you to or I will stop whatever I’m doing no matter how good it feels. Understand?”

  “Yes,” I whisper, and just like that, I’ve given him what I swore I’d never give a man again: control. But it’s unexplainable when I have been conditioned to believe my control is what protects me, and my lack of control is responsible for every one of the many mistakes in my life. It’s not just what he wants. It’s what I want too.