“What am I feeling, Harper?” he presses.
I say what I feel. “Resistant.”
He goes still, utterly still, and then he’s turning me to face him, his hands shackling my waist. “Resistant to what?”
“Me. Us. This.”
He tangles his fingers in my hair and kisses me, a wicked thrust of his tongue against my tongue before he demands, “Does that taste like resistance?”
“It tastes like you claiming control, like you need it.”
His hand slides under my sweats and he squeezes my bare backside. “I seem to remember you liking me in control.”
“I do,” I dare. “I like it a lot when I shouldn’t.”
“Why shouldn’t you, Harper?”
“It’s not what I do. I don’t let other people take control. That’s not what my father taught me, but this family, the Kingston family, takes and takes that from me.”
“I’m not a Kingston.”
He’s right. For the first time since he’s denied that birthright, I let him. I understand now that it’s not about what he deserves. It’s about who he is, who he’s become. Where he came from. My hand flattens on his chest. “No. You’re a Mitchell and I like that about you.”
He stares down at me, shadows in his eyes, a storm in their depths before he’s kissing me again and it’s wild, taut with emotion, demanding. He’s demanding, and when I’ve just lost myself to the passion, his mouth is gone, and he’s turning me to face the other way again. It’s the control thing once more. He needs it. He has to have it. It runs deeper than us. It’s about who he is at his core, who life has made him. And I like it. I do. It’s like I need to let him have control. Like I need things I didn’t know I needed and it’s all about him.
He leans in and I feel him pull off his shirt before he’s pressing his naked torso against me, reaching forward to grip my thighs before dragging his hands upward over my hips to cup my breasts again, his teeth scraping my shoulder before he whispers, “You do have control, Harper. All of the control and I don’t let anyone else have control.” He kneels and drags my pants down my legs. His teeth scraping my hip now, but he doesn’t stay on his knees, he doesn’t leave me where I’m at as I expect.
He rotates me and suddenly he’s kissing me and my palms are pressed to warm, taut skin over rippled, perfect muscle. The man is hard all over and I need that hardness next to me, inside me. “Eric,” I whisper, sliding my hands under his waistband. “I need—”
“Me too, sweetheart,” he says, kissing me again, and then he’s releasing me long enough to grab his wallet and hand me a condom. “I’ll put you in charge of this,” he says, heat radiating between us, but the condom hits a hotspot in my chest that I don’t like.
He undresses, and all that perfection is now exposed, his cock jutting forward, his ink on display in all its glorious, colored perfection, but still, the condom burns a hole in my hand. Eric’s hands come down on my shoulders and he drags me to him. “What just happened?”
What just happened?
There’s the question.
The one I now have to answer.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Harper
Eric cups my face, forcing my gaze to his, while his cock is thick at my hip, all that hard perfection of his tall, muscular body pressed next to me. “What just happened?” he repeats.
“Can you just kiss me again already?” I ask, his heart thundering beneath my palm, or maybe it’s mine radiating down my arm. I don’t know.
“Talk to me, Harper,” he prods softly and I know he’s not going to let this go. I want him to let this go. I need to get out of my own head right now.
“This is what happened,” I say, pushing to my toes and pressing my lips to his at the same moment that I wrap my hand around his cock.
One of his hands cups my head, the other gripping my backside as he gives me what I want. He kisses the hell out of me, drugging me with the taste of him, and driving away anything but him and now. He maneuvers us and sits down on the couch, pulling me onto his lap, his erection in between us and a condom burning a hole in my palm. I will not think about the past. I will not think about my secret.
I open the package and roll it down the hard length of him and by the time I’m done, he’s already kissing me again, molding me close; my breasts to his chest.
“Harper,” he says roughly against my lips and then he’s tangling his fingers in my hair, using an erotic tug to force my gaze to his. “I’m no virgin, sweetheart. I’m no angel and I’ve had my share of fucks, but the condoms are all about you and me and us. I bought them for us.”
“I didn’t ask,” I say, wishing that was all that was on my mind but still appreciating what he’s trying to do. The way he wants me to see just me and him.
“You wanted to ask,” he says. “You should have. I told you. We’re together now.” He seals those words with a kiss and then lifts me, pressing inside me, stretching me, and then I’m sliding down the hard length of him. My hands go to his shoulders and our eyes lock, my sex clenching around him with the impact of this connected moment.
His eyes rake over my pebbled nipples and lift to my face, lingering on my mouth and lifting to my eyes. “You’re beautiful,” he says, his tone somehow sandpaper and silk on my nerves. I’m affected by how he looks at me, by how he touches me. By how he murmurs, “Come here,” and tangles his fingers in my hair again, dragging my mouth to his. “I don’t want to fuck anyone else but you. I don’t want you to fuck anyone else but me.”
It’s everything I want and yet it’s terrifying. I’m going down the rabbit hole where there will be no return, to a place where my secrets matter, to a place where his might as well. “I don’t want anyone else but—”
“No buts about this,” he says. “I’m not sharing you.” His voice is low, guttural in a way that says he means what he’s saying. In a way that says he’s one hundred percent invested in me. And with that, with his intensity, he undoes me. “I want things from you that I shouldn’t want.”
“Why?” I ask and I forget my secrets, my elbow softening with the need to keep him close when he seems to be trying to convince himself he should push me away. “Why shouldn’t you want them? The princess thing again?”
“You mistake the meaning behind that name. You don’t understand what it means to me.” He doesn’t give me time to ask, to demand an explanation to something I feel has been almost a weapon between us. His mouth is on my mouth, his tongue thrusting past my lips, and then doing a deep slide that has me moaning into his mouth, and digging my fingers into his shoulders.
He responds to my response, deepening the kiss, and running his hands up and down my back, his touch electric, a charge that dances along my nerve endings and heats every part of me. Everything but this man and the sensations he creates in me fades away. There is just us moving, us swaying, us kissing and every touch is one part erotic, and one part tender—a pinch of my nipple, the caress of his lips. The hard drive of his cock, the gentle stroke of his tongue. The smack of my backside and then his cheek to my cheek, followed by a squeeze as he whispers, “I should be walking away, but I can’t. You won’t let me.”
“What does that mean? I won’t let you? Do you want me to let you go?”
He rotates me as he had earlier and presses my back to the couch. “No,” he shocks me by saying. “I don’t. I’m in this now. I’m not walking away. It’s you who will walk away.”
“Are you’re telling me you’re going to make me hate you, Eric? Are you telling me there’s something I don’t know?”
“I’m telling you that you won’t like all that you’ll find out about me. You should walk away because I won’t. You should, but don’t.” His mouth slants over mine and then he’s kissing me, driving into me, and I can feel him trying to hold onto control, but there is an edge to him, a need that radiates through me and with every thrust and grind. I arch into him, I meet his need and I know the moment h
e loses that control. The moment he tastes and feels nearly desperate and it feeds that in me. I am desperate, for more of him, all of him, even that part of him he doesn’t want me to see or know. I don’t know in this space and time where I end and he begins. I only know need and passion and then finally the intense wave that comes over my body and blooms into the quake of my body, into release. Eric follows with a guttural groan and a shuddering of his body.
When our bodies calm, and he’s rolling us to our sides again, I become aware of his cellphone ringing. “Your phone,” I murmur, a remote memory coming to me. “I think it was buzzing the entire time we were busy.”
“Busy?” he laughs. “Yes, we were busy.”
My cheeks flush and he pulls us both to a sitting position before brushing his lips over mine. “Let’s get out of here. Until I can get you in my bed, I want to be in yours.”
His bed?
I’m not sure what to do with that, considering his bed is in New York City, and yes I can visit him, but then what?
“I won’t leave my mom behind. You need to know that.”
He walks to a trashcan, sheds the condom and then reaches for his pants, pulling his phone out from inside, reading a message before he pulls on his pants. “We’ll talk about it.”
“No,” I say standing up, that comment reading like another play for control. “We won’t.” I grab my tee and pull it on and as I reach for my pants he pulls me around to face him.
“We’ll make sure your mother’s safe,” he says. “We’ll protect her. I promise you.” He cups my face. “I promise. Don’t close the door on us.”
I open my mouth to respond when the word safe takes me off guard. “Safe,” I say. “Not—we’ll protect her from legal issues, but safe. What does that mean? Is she in danger?”
His jaw sets hard. “Let’s get dressed and talk.”
My heart starts to race. “Eric, damn it, is she in danger?”
“Put on your clothes, Harper.”
He releases me and grabs my pants. “Get dressed.” He turns away and grabs his T-shirt, pulling it over his head. I decide I need to be dressed, too, just like he said. Dressed equals control and right now, I feel like I have none. We sit down side by side to lace our shoes and his phone buzzes with another message that he replies to, his jaw setting hard before he sticks his cell in his pocket. I stand up and face him, my arms folding in front of me.
“Talk.”
He stands, towering over me, as his hands come down on my shoulders. “I’m working with a top-notch security company to find answers. Walker Security sports a staff that includes ex-special forces, CIA, and FBI, and the list of skills and backgrounds are long. Their skills along with mine will uncover what’s happening with Kingston Motors.”
“That’s not what you want to say right now,” I say, aware he hasn’t told me everything. I sense it. I can almost taste it in the air.
“I had Blake, my contact at Walker, get someone from his team in place at your house.”
His push for locked doors comes back to me hard and fast. “Why? Just say it.”
“Someone’s watching your house, which most likely is nothing more than my brother’s paranoia over my presence and a private eye that he’s hired to keep an eye on me or us.”
“Most likely? What are the other options?”
His fingers flex on my shoulders. “Whoever this is either wanted me to see him, or he’s really bad at his job. Either way, I’m going to talk to him.”
“Talk to him? Are you crazy? What if he has a gun?”
“I’m not without skills, sweetheart. That part of my life you missed, and I’m glad you did.” There’s a knock on the door. “Blake sent one of his men over to stay with you.”
“Stay with me? I’m not staying here. This is crazy and if you’re going to be crazy, I’m going with you.”
“I swear to God, Harper, I will tie you to the bed and keep you here. Stay here. It will take half an hour at most.”
“Do not go caveman on me,” I warn.
“You wanted my help. You wanted me.”
“I do want you, alive and well.”
“I’m right here, Harper, and I protect what matters to me. I’ll protect you. Don’t fight me on this. I need to talk to this guy before he’s gone.”
I matter to him. That brings me down about ten notches. I inhale and let my breath out. “Yes. Okay.”
“Blake’s man is going to stay at the door to be sure you’re safe. Come lock up.”
He leads me to the door and when he would leave, I catch his arm. “Please don’t get hurt.”
He cups my head and kisses me. “I’ll be right back.” He releases me and exits the room. I lock the door and lean against it, all too aware of the obvious. If Eric didn’t think there was a real threat, there wouldn’t be a guard at my door. He also didn’t promise not to get hurt.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Eric
I exit the hotel room to be greeted by a burly guy with a beard wearing a blue suit and an earpiece. He gives me a nod. “I’m Jensen,” he says.
I don’t introduce myself. He knows who I am. I’m also not letting any guy I don’t know into a room alone with my woman, even Blake’s guy, any more than I’m going to leave her exposed to danger. If this turns out to be trouble, I’m getting her the hell out of here. “Don’t let anyone in or out of that room.”
“Understood. Adam’s in town. He’s at the house.”
Adam being an ex-SEAL, who I didn’t serve with but I know and respect, from Blake’s operation back in New York City. I give a nod and add, “I’ll be back in half an hour.”
I don’t say more. He understands. If I’m longer, there’s a problem. I head down the hallway with the scent of Harper on my skin and the taste of her on my lips, the idea that I almost left her to deal with this alone, not a good one. She needed me. I needed to be here. I needed to be here a long damn time ago and maybe she wouldn’t still be here in this mess. She’s not staying and I’m not leaving without her.
Eager to deal with this problem and get back to her, I reach the end of the hallway and don’t bother with the elevator. I take the stairs and I’m at the front of the hotel, but I don’t stop for my car. I walk toward Harper’s house and dial Blake. “Talk to me.”
“He’s still there,” he says. “And the plates are registered to one of the neighbors.”
“He pulled them off another car.”
“That’s my bet.”
“That’s not a stupid, half-assed, PI move,” I say.
“Not all PI’s are stupid,” he counters. “Quite the contrary.” He moves on. “Glock at the back door in the bush. I only had two men available and one is tracking down Isaac. Adam’s with you. He’ll find you when you need him.”
“Got it.” I disconnect as my eyes find the car still parked in the same spot, but I don’t give the driver time to see me.
I cut left down the side of one of the neighbor’s houses without any resistance. I enter the unfenced backyard and cross two more open rear yards before I’m moving through the shadows of Harper’s property and arrive at her back door. I grab the Glock and holding a weapon, any weapon, is like holding an old friend in my hand. Automatically, my training kicks in, I check the ammunition, and shove the weapon into my waistband, under my jacket before I head to the side of the house.
Once I’m there, I find the car still boldly parked across the street, almost daring me to confront him. I rest my back against the wall and Adam, dressed in all black, down to the beanie on his otherwise curly black hair, appears by my side. “He’s alone,” he says. “I think he wants to talk. You don’t announce yourself to a SEAL and expect to be ignored.”
A SEAL.
Not ex-SEAL.
Because a SEAL is always a SEAL and we both get that.
“Agreed,” I say, “and if he wants to talk, I’m not going to disappoint him.”
“I do like how
you think.” He pulls his weapon. “I’ll cover you.”
I push off the wall and start walking toward the front of the house. The minute I clear the wall and the bushes, that brings me into the open, the driver revs the engine of his car, rolls down the window and holds up a lit cigarette. He starts rolling forward and tosses it, along with something else. He floors it then and drives away. I walk toward the cigarette and stop next to it, but I’m more interested in the rolled-up piece of paper next to it. Adam pulls a pair of rubber gloves from his pocket and hands them to me.
I pull them on and squat down to grab the rolled-up paper and find a line of numbers with random letters. My brain plays with them—translating letters to numbers and the reverse—memorizing the fourteen digits before I toss the paper and the cigarette into the baggy Adam is holding open for me. “What was it?” he asks, eyeing the items in the bag. “A code? Aren’t you a numbers guru?”
“It’s not a cipher, code, or a translatable message. It’s not even a point in history. It’s an identifying number, like a name, but it’s not a VIN number or even a parts number.”
He gives me a deadpan look. “You know all of that in the sixty seconds you were looking at that number?”
“Yes,” I say. “And as you said, he wanted to talk and that’s what he did.” I motion to the bag. “That’s a message. If we find out what the identifier’s attached to, we’ll understand that message.”
“Or it’s a distraction to focus you in the wrong direction,” Adam says as we walk to the front of the house.
His pocket vibrates and he pulls his phone out and glances at a message while I consider his thoughts. It could be a distraction, but if it is, it’s someone who’s studied me. Someone who knows how damn obsessed I can get about a series of numbers. Isaac isn’t that detailed or focused. My father is another story. He knows the savant in me once struggled to spread my focus, but thanks to special training in the Navy, I’m beyond that.
The Bastard (Filthy Duet Book 1) Page 15
