by L. Steele
Still he doesn't move.
My eyes fly open, and the breath catches in my throat. Those silvery-green pools shimmer with hunger. But his expression is calm, his features almost relaxed.
He's still waiting.
Waiting for me to show him. That I'm ready for him.
Ready for 'this,' whatever it is.
There's also a warning in his gaze. He's holding himself back. If he lets go this time, nothing can stop him.
I hesitate, only a millisecond. But his eyes widen, and then the silver-green turns opaque, as if all the emotions have leached out from it. His jaw hardens and tension vibrates from him.
I can't take it.
Can't take this indecision that's crawling through me, making my head whirl with repressed feelings. I'm afraid. And excited. And shocked at my arousal. At how turned on I am by this man's presence.
Leaning on tip toe, I brush my lips across his. Once. Twice.
No response.
I deepen the kiss, thrust my tongue through his lips, forcing his mouth open.
He takes a step back to rest his hips against the window ledge. I move with him.
Hands by his side, he's still not kissing me back.
I pull away and his gaze narrows, bringing back that hunter's look to his face. The skin stretched over his cheeks makes them look even more prominent. Feral.
He's daring me. Challenging me to seduce him.
And when I lean in this time, those silvery-green are unbearably close. It makes me want to blink under the full onslaught of his emotions. Anger. Betrayal...Lust.
An explosive combination.
Scratching my nails up his arm, over his jacket, I bite down on his lips, sliding my tongue over them, slowly.
Our eyes war. Mine angry, his stormy.
But he doesn't make a single move.
Fuck.
In a last-ditch attempt, I close the remaining space between us, so we're touching from chest to groin to thigh. Sliding my hands around his neck, I plunge my fingers through his hair, gripping the strands and bringing his head down to mine.
I let my emotions come to the fore. Let the part of me I've closed off well up―the confusion of moving to this country, the pain of my adoptive father's death, the need to protect my mother and sister, the thrill of finally being independent. I let myself show.
Me.
I pour myself into the kiss, the way I've never done before. Not to anyone else.
And then I'm spent.
The rush of adrenaline drains away, leaving me shivering and disappointed. I'd been trying to get through to him, to get him to see me on my own terms … and failed.
I need to leave while I can. My hands drop to my side. I turn my head to move away, only to have his arms snake down around my waist.
He hauls me to him. Heaves me up, so my feet spring off the floor to wrap around him.
All thoughts escape, as his lips crush mine, arms encircling, holding me to his chest. He devours me with his mouth and I'm dimly aware of him moving.
I don't want to close my eyes. Can't stop drinking in the flush of desire racing a blush across his cheeks and evident in his arousal that throbs against me. Wanting me.
The world tilts as he lowers me to the bed. His body covers mine, his weight pushing me down into the bed.
Drawing my hands over my head, he shackles them with his fingers around both my wrists. His other hand runs over my breast, down my waist, and across my hips, squeezing in a possessive gesture.
I gasp aloud, the sound swallowed by his mouth.
Liquid heat shoots through me, slamming my heart against my ribs.
As if in response, he releases my hands and raises himself on his arms, biceps bulging, and leans forward, my legs still wrapped around him. Taking hold of the gaping ends of my shirt above my breast, he rips it open so the buttons go flying. I gasp in shock. A ripple of excitement coils deep in my belly, making me arch up toward him. I moan a little as the sheer unexpectedness of my desire makes me tremble.
The next thing, he's shrugging off his shirt, and I can't stop staring. I know he's in good shape... but this.
Oh, God.
He's beautiful.
Sculpted chest, a flat stomach that slopes down to his pants. His erection hard and pushing against the material. The heat pulsing off him is so tangible, my throat goes dry.
I raise my eyes back to the tattoo I had seen peeking above the collar of his shirt.
I run my hands over his muscles, over lines of black script in Hindi flowing over his upper arm, and shudder.
It's the last place I'd expected to find a connection to my birthplace, the one I'd left behind and sworn never to look back at.
Now, finding it on the skin of this man who had, for all purposes, come forward to help me, makes me feel I'm caught in a strange web that's tightening its hold around me.
Goose bumps spring up on my back, and I shiver, pressing myself closer to him.
If I lose myself in him, can I forget where I come from? Forget my responsibilities to my company, to my family, even if it's for a little while?
I press my palm flat against his skin, feeling the contours, the shape of those muscles, the curves, dips, and hollows. The heat from his skin bleeds into my fingertips, down my arm, and arrows in straight for that sweet spot in the groin.
I swallow, and his eyes dart to my throat, then my lips. Then he leans down and kisses me again, his hand running up my thigh, sliding around to press between them.
Fire bursts through my veins.
He runs a finger over my core through the borrowed pants I'm still wearing. Then, unbuttons the pants, yanking them down my thighs. I slide my legs from around him, only long enough for him to fling them off.
I kick off my panties, and before I've drawn a breath, or thought about how I look through his eyes, he bends down again and kisses my lips, drawing from me so deeply, my head spins.
He lets go, only to kiss my shoulder. He bites down until I gasp. His hand cups my breast, squeeze the nipple and goose bumps erupt all over me. I lower my arms only to have them captured and pushed back.
He shackles them with strong fingers, holding me captive, trailing his other hand down my belly. Lower still.
Writhing under his touch, I gasp, "Let me touch you."
In reply he thrusts his finger inside me.
Mercy.
I jerk, crying out, raising my hips off the mattress, but he doesn't give. Not even a little. Just follows it up with another finger, filling me. In and out again. Thrusting in so deeply my eyes roll back in my head with the sheer heat that crashes through me.
I can barely feel myself, or him, or what his fingers are doing to me.
What is he doing to me?
I swear at him, straining against his hold, my bare legs trapped under his. Skin rasping against the cloth of his pants.
My helplessness only adds to his arousal.
And that only makes me strain against him more even as I come against his hand. The intensity of the sensation smothers me, firing my nerve endings so every pore in my body is crying out with pleasure.
By the time I recover from the sexual haze, he's pulling off me. He withdraws from me mentally and emotionally, his body rolling off me as he slides to his feet, still wearing his formal trousers. His face is an unreadable mask.
He brings his fingers to his lips, licks.
And that moves me even more than having his mouth on me. It feels curiously intimate, as if he's wearing my essence, tasting it.
Feeling myself go wet, I sit up and reach for him, but he steps away.
The heat pulls back from over me, as if being sucked right back into his body. I shiver, aware for the first time that I am not wearing clothes.
Some of the desire fades. His breathing is normal too. The predatory look is gone from his eyes, leaving them more silver than green.
He reaches for his discarded shirt, slipping it on. Leaving it unbuttoned he walks away from me.
"Wait," I call out. "Why?"
He doesn’t even look back.
"Why?" I repeat, louder.
He stops at the door of the bedroom, says over his shoulder, "We're even now."
"So this was what? A revenge jerk-me-off?" I feel that familiar anger from earlier, the one he seems to keep sparking in me, roar back to life.
"No." He smiles, then holds up his fingers, the ones he'd plunged inside of me only a few minutes ago. "Just a taste of how it could have been between us."
He turns to go. Stops. "I moved my things earlier. I'm taking the other room."
This time he doesn't look back when he leaves.
20
Sienna
* * *
When I wake up the next morning, the first thing I do is walk across to the other bedroom and knock on the door. When there's no answer I slide the door open, peer in.
Empty.
The bed ruthlessly made, suitcase neatly placed on the platform provided for it near the cupboard.
A pair of shoes next to the chair by the window.
I'd got what I wanted. Jace had moved to another bedroom.
But after last night, when I'd bared my soul to him, and then exploded in his arms...it feels like it's already too late. He already knows me better than anyone else.
Turning, I walk to the kitchen, grabbing a cup of coffee from the percolator. In a few minutes, I'm dressed in my running clothes and heading out.
By the time I clear the grounds and run into the open fields behind the hotel, the sun is already overhead.
I breathe in the smell of hay, the scent of the morning rain that lingers in the moist soil, leaves crunching underneath. So different from the images that often overwhelm me.
Of being surrounded by warmth. The heat in the air, sinking into my perspiration drenched skin.
A woman's laughter.
Tinkling of anklets.
Images of my birth country.
I have retrograde amnesia: the psychological impact of a tumultuous event. My adoptive parents had found me wandering in a dazed state on the streets of Bombay, half starved, drugged. Thankfully, there were no signs of abuse.
I had no identification on me. Even the clothes I'd been wearing had not been my own, so there had been no way of tracing where I came from. The Murphys had advertised locally in Bombay, even made TV appearances asking for my family to come forward, but none could conclusively prove I was theirs. And so, they adopted me.
Ma told me it was very much a case of love at first sight for her. That when she'd seen me wandering lost, chased by a group of kids, she'd stepped in and shooed them off. I'd clung to her and cried and not let go. There was no way she was leaving me behind in India.
In the months it took to process my paperwork, I settled in with them, not looking back.
I didn't miss that life.
My amnesia had wiped out all memories. My initial years in the US had been tough as I tried to fit into my new life. But I'd persevered and finally slipped into the role of an American teenager.
Had almost forgotten my earlier life.
Until five years ago.
My adoptive mother took me to an Indian temple for a wedding.
The verses were in a language which shouldn't have made sense to me, except they did. I knew then there was no escape. I could never hide from my past.
One day they'd come back and claim me.
I don't want them to. An irrational fear of losing those who I now considered my real parents made me turn my back on my Indian heritage.
That's when the dreams began. Something inside was unlocked by those chants, and now the images filtered out. Seeping into my dreams, only to disappear when I awoke.
Yet I often wake with the scent of dust and spices stuck to my skin. As if I'd walked off the crowded streets of Bombay, as if I'd been wandering through a temple. The smell of home.
A sense of belonging. Of feeling so right.
In Jace's arms last night, for a second, it had felt perilously close to that.
And that makes me stumble. I almost fall face down. Only to be hauled back and against a hard, male chest. I look up to find Eric holding me. I clutch at his sweaty T-shirt to steady myself.
He's out running too.
"I need to stop daydreaming and notice what's right in front of me sometimes." I chuckle, making to step away.
Eric's hold tightens.
I look up, into his face. His features are intense, brow furrowed, and his dark eyes sparkle down at me. They are dark enough that I can see myself reflected in them. He's still breathing hard, his chest rising and falling. But it's no longer from only the physical exertion. He's aroused. He likes me. Even as that thought dawns on me, I flush, and move away.
This time he loosens his grip on me, but still doesn't let go of my wrist.
"Eric … " I am trying to form the words in a way that doesn't hurt him too much. He saves me from speaking.
"You don't have to do this. You don't have to sleep with him for the money."
The anger in his eyes makes me pull back from him.
Eric's trying to look out for me perhaps, though I don't know why. After all, his loyalty lies with Jace.
"He's not forcing me to do anything I don't want," I rasp.
It's true.
This may have started out as a business arrangement but it's become something else for me.
"Besides, after the stunt I pulled last night Jace is not going to hold up his end of the bargain." I laugh a little.
"You don't have to explain yourself." His voice is gentle.
This time I look beyond the brown of his eyes to see understanding, and that only makes it worse. It would have been so much easier if I had fallen for Eric.
"Well, perhaps you know something I don't, then?" I say.
"I know you did it because you wanted to get back at Jace. He took advantage of your helplessness. You saw the opportunity to hurt him and took it. Human nature is unpredictable, isn't it?" He smiles.
"Doesn't negate what I did to him. I hurt him, Eric."
I bite down on my lower lip, wondering why we are even having this conversation.
"Let me help you, Sienna." Eric lets the words hang in the air.
I know then that he'd help me pay off my debts and his proposal would be more straightforward. Nothing like the manipulative deal Jace had proposed. Eric is kindhearted, good-looking; he likes me.
He's not the man I want.
Damn.
I am well and truly sunk. I want Jace, will not settle for anyone other than him. And yet I'd gone and done the one thing that ensures there's no future together, for us.
Some of my churning emotions must have shown, for Eric opens his mouth to speak, but I cut in. "Shall we head back?"
21
Jace
Jace jogs into the hotel lobby. Grabbing a bottle of water from the reception desk, he runs up the wide staircase, pausing at the top to open the bottle and tilt it back, drinking from it.
A familiar laugh floats toward him.
He peers down to see Sienna walking into the lobby, followed by Eric. Both in running shorts—muddy and grass stained. They've been running through the fields.
What else have they been up to? As if what she'd done the last night wasn't enough to blow their cover, now Sienna's making sure to be seen with his friend and business partner.
As he watches, Eric leans close enough for his shoulder to brush against Sienna's.
The bottle tilts in Jace's hand, water spilling unseen, as Eric pulls at her hair. His gesture familiar.
Sienna smiles at him.
Eric puts his arm around her, and they disappear into the breakfast room.
What the—?
Jace grits his teeth and marches toward the suite.
This will not do. At all.
Sienna had committed to their arrangement and now he must make it clear t
hat she must see the bargain through.
She doesn't have a choice.
He's going to send out a clear message to her and Eric and to the whole goddamn world that she belongs to him.
For the duration of their stay.
By the time Sienna returns, Jace has shaved, showered, and had another cup of coffee. He stands by the open window, smoking.
He doesn't look up even when she walks in and drops herself onto the large sofa, groaning a little.
"Chocolate croissants. Couldn't resist." She yawns hugely.
Pretending for all the world that she hadn't stripped last night in front of the guests and then gone off with Asher. That she hadn't spent the morning rolling in the fields with Eric.
Stubbing out the cigarette with more violence than is needed, he turns. His features are smooth, composed. No sign of the jealousy lurking inside.
His mouth goes dry.
Sienna's stretched out on the couch. Her T-shirt rides up to show a strip of skin at her waist. Smooth, soft skin. Skin that invites him to touch.
Fuck.
He can't stop following the length of her body. Over the flare of her breasts, the curve of her waist, the honeyed skin between her thighs. She crosses her legs, muscles clenching.
She too is on edge. Aroused.
When his eyes swivel to her face, it is to see her watching him with wary eyes. She's scared.
Good.
She should be.
Her tongue flicks out to lick her lips, and a curl of desire leaps to life in his belly. He plunges his hands into his jeans pockets to keep them from reaching for her.
"Seducing my friends again?" Jace snaps.
"What are you talking about?" Her cheeks flush.
"Eric," He replies, eyes still riveted by those gleaming lips, "I saw the two of you. Don't tell me you didn't come onto him. Did you ask him to help you with money too?"
She stays silent and that only maddens him further. Jealousy twists inside again, consuming him.
"And Tom." He bites out the name like it's an oath. "What's the story with him?"
"Careful, Jace, you're beginning to sound like a possessive boyfriend."
