Once the sheet was down to her lap, he handed her the cup and curled his hand around her breast, his thumb lazily twirling around her nipple. Grace could barely hold on to the coffee. What he was doing made her shake, made her muscles lax, made her vagina contract so hard, even her stomach muscles clenched.
Drake was watching her closely. He understood exactly the effect he was having on her. She chanced a glance at his lap. Well, it was mutual. He was fully aroused again, his penis flat against his stomach, thick and dark, with ropy veins running up the column.
His dark eyes were hot.
“Drink the coffee,” he growled.
Coffee. Right. She had to hold the cup with both hands, otherwise she’d spill the hot coffee all over herself and all over this beautiful bed. She tipped her head back against the headboard and sipped.
God, it was delicious. Sharp, yet with a smooth smoky taste. Some outrageously expensive blend, no doubt. She took another sip. Perfect.
His hand continued stroking her breast, movements lazy. “Good?” he asked.
“Wonderful.”
“Give me a taste,” he said suddenly, stretching over to cover her mouth with his. Oh lord, she could simply sink into his kisses. This one was long, languid, the strokes of his hand on her breast echoed by his tongue in her mouth. He lifted his head for a second, then moved in more closely, tongue deeper in her mouth. He lifted his head again and smiled down at her. “It is delicious.”
“Mmm.” Grace was too shaken to talk. It was the first time she’d seen a full-fledged smile from him. She’d made a study of faces and knew by the lines in his that he rarely smiled. Perhaps it was for the best, because he became frighteningly attractive when he did. She drew in a deep breath to steady her nerves. His hand was caressing her left breast, and she was certain he could feel her heart thumping away, as if she’d been running.
Drake’s hand left her breast to run down her side. He frowned as he felt along her rib cage. “But you must eat. You are too thin. I’ll take care of that.”
He sounded like an imperious third-world dictator and she had to work to suppress a nervous laugh. “Ah, Drake, I hate to break this to you, but I am not considered too thin here. If anything, I’ve been told I could stand to lose some weight.”
The frown deepened. “Fools, such fools here in America. American men like their women with their ribs sticking out. They have never known hunger, known women whose ribs are visible because they are starving, otherwise they wouldn’t be so foolish. Healthy flesh is a blessing and relatively rare in this world. So here, open wide.”
He was perfectly right. Grace obediently opened her mouth then moaned. She closed her eyes and tipped her head back. Oh God, there was a little explosion of pastry softer than an angel’s wing, butter and sugar on her tongue. The faintest hint of vanilla and cinnamon. Heaven.
“Again.” Drake’s imperious voice.
She opened wide and the second bite was even better. She washed it down with some more of that ambrosial coffee. Drake didn’t give her any relief. The instant she swallowed a bite of the pastry, he had another piece ready for her, watching carefully. As if she were fool enough to spit out the best pastry she’d ever eaten in her life.
His mouth was on hers again, tongue licking deep in her mouth, his taste better than that of the pastry.
After that, it was two perfect soft-boiled eggs, brown-shelled, with the rich yellow yolk of very fresh eggs. Whole wheat toast with salted, freshly churned butter and homemade black-currant jam.
“Open,” Drake said, again and again. And she did.
More was opening than just her mouth. It was like being a pampered princess, sitting naked, cross-legged on a fur blanket, fed from the fingers of a man who looked like a conquering warrior from some primeval steppe.
Every time her lips closed over his fingers, he stared directly into her eyes, the gaze hot and direct. Pure, unadulterated sex. And then when she swallowed, he’d allow that small smile to crease his face.
“And now,” he announced, whipping the silver cover off a huge porcelain plate, “voilà!” Slices of cooked ham and lean grilled sausage. “Le petit dèjeuner à l’anglaise. Enjoy.”
Grace propped her chin on her fist and observed him. “How many languages do you speak, Drake?” To her ears, admittedly not expert, the short French phrase had sounded perfect.
“A few. Some better than others. My business dealings are with the world, and I’ve learned at my expense not to depend on interpreters.”
She imagined that he spoke them perfectly. His English was nearly perfect, with only a faint accent. He looked like the kind of man who did things well or didn’t do them at all.
“I’ve always wanted to see Paris,” she said dreamily, opening her mouth for a bite of the sausage. It was delicious, with fennel seed and pepper. She waved away another bite.
“Have you now?” Drake narrowed his eyes. “Open up.” Sighing, she took in another bite of pure, lip-smacking cholesterol.
“Mm-mm. But my real dream is to see Rome. The Caravaggio, the Titians. The Sistine Chapel.” She watched his face as she recited the sights she’d always dreamed of seeing. “But you know Rome, don’t you? You’ve been there.”
“I know Rome very well, yes. Another bite, that’s a good girl. I lived in Rome very briefly some years back. But the Rome I know has nothing whatsoever to do with Titian or the Vatican. So why haven’t you been to Rome? It’s only about a six-hour flight.”
“I know.” She sighed. “It’s my fault. It never seemed to be the right time. And I only finished paying off the last of my college debts two years ago. And of course, over the past year I’ve been busy working hard for a patron who never seemed to have enough of my work and never gave me any respite.”
Drake’s hard mouth lifted in a half smile. Her heart skipped a beat. God, he was attractive when he lost that hard, harsh look.
“I had no idea I was keeping you from your dreams.”
“No, no, you don’t understand.” This was serious. Grace put her hand on his arm and dropped the teasing note. “You weren’t keeping me from anything, Drake. You were…you were saving my life. I’d tried so hard to earn my living from my art, but it wasn’t working. So I tried everything else. Waitressing, temping. None of it worked. I’d do my damndest, but somehow I always came up short. I don’t seem to be programmed for the world, only for painting. So the fact that you were buying me up meant that I could do the one thing in the world I loved.”
He dipped his head. “Delighted to be of service.”
Speaking of service…“You need to eat, too. You’ve done nothing but feed me. Now it’s my turn. In the meantime, drink your coffee.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He sipped obediently, watching her carefully out of dark eyes.
She clambered over him to get a croissant, trying to ignore the large hand that briefly cupped her bottom. The warmth of his hand jolted her. Somehow, once she was perched on the side of the bed, she was in his embrace, one long arm around her waist, a big hand resting at her hip.
The embrace brought her close to him, so close her breasts touched his chest. There was absolutely no need for the pajamas, his body emanated as much heat as a blanket. He took another sip of coffee. “Aren’t you curious?” he asked, voice low.
“Curious about what?”
“Whether the coffee tastes just as good from my mouth. Why don’t you try it?”
Curious wasn’t quite the word. Fascinated was. Everything about the man was fascinating, mysterious. Enticing.
Another long sip and he put the coffee cup on the tray, bringing her closer to him with one huge hand to the back of her head.
Grace had been on literally hundreds of dates in her lifetime. She was pretty, she got asked out on a lot of first dates. Not so many second dates. There was always something wrong. Sometimes something big, like a total inability to relate to any of the man’s interests, sometimes something small, like being made to feel she was a raging eccentric because there was
a music group she hadn’t heard of or a TV show she didn’t watch.
Most of the time, there was a great deal of physical incompatibility. The man made all the wrong moves, touched her wrong, at times hurt her. More times than she could count she wished she were a lesbian, because at least then she might be able to work up some kind of a love life. But no, darn it, she wasn’t a lesbian. She liked men. In theory anyway.
There wasn’t anything uncomfortable or awkward about touching Drake. Or kissing him. She moved her head until she was close enough to smell the coffee on his breath, and as naturally as breathing, their lips met.
His lips were warm, surprisingly soft for such a hard man. They moved together perfectly, Drake tilting his head just so to gather a deeper draft of her.
She was the one who had kissed him, but he’d taken control of it immediately, one arm holding her tightly to him, the hand at the back of her head holding her steady for his kiss. Her breasts were crushed against his chest, the wiry hairs faintly tickling. His erect penis was a warm, hard column of heat against her stomach. It pulsed every time their tongues met. Her sheath answered with a long, hard pull of her internal muscles.
It was almost too intense, too deep.
She broke the kiss to move back an inch and take a deep, shaky breath.
“So?” he asked, eyes gleaming. “How was it?”
She blinked, barely able to understand his words. How was what?
A long finger flicked her chin, the calluses scraping her skin. “The coffee, little one.” He bent forward for another kiss, a light one this time, just a light touch of his tongue. “Does it taste good from my mouth?”
The taste of him was hot and dark. It might have been the coffee. It was probably just him.
“Delicious,” she breathed.
“Relax against me,” he murmured. His long fingers massaged her scalp. “You’re so tense. You’re not frightened of me, are you?”
Grace was tense. Just the touch of his hands fired her skin, made her pulse pound. And yet being in his arms calmed her, calmed something deep inside her. It was frightening.
“Grace.” His deep voice had lost all humor. He shook her a little. “Tell me you’re not afraid of me.”
She lifted her head to look at him, at his sober dark eyes, hard face looking as if it had never smiled in his life.
“No,” she answered softly, truthfully. “I’m not afraid of you. Not in any way.”
His face didn’t clear. There was still a deep furrow between his eyebrows. She touched it, lightly, with her fingertip. A furrow of doubt. But there were also lines in his face that had been caused by pain and suffering.
Her gaze drifted to the large gauze pad taped over his shoulder. Was it hurting him? It was impossible to tell.
“How’s your shoulder?” she whispered.
“What shoulder?” he whispered back.
Right. What shoulder? The violence yesterday seemed distant, another time, another place. She could hardly think of it. Drake filled her entire vision; every inch of her skin touched either Drake or soft fur. Decadent and dangerous, but oh, so enticing.
She leaned forward, watching his eyes, closing hers only in the moment her lips touched his. Her torso lay on his. She tried to ease up on his wounded shoulder but he was having nothing of that. His arms held her tightly to him, so she felt every dip and hollow of his strong frame, unyielding flesh as hard as steel.
Their mouths met again, clung, the kiss so long she was breathing through him. Each stroke of his tongue had her heart pounding, made her hands shake, her entire lower body clench.
The hand at her back slid around her waist, drifted over her belly, touched her between her legs. An electric touch. She was supersensitive from the orgasm, but somehow he knew not to saw at her as some men did, thinking that the harder they touched, the harder the orgasm. They were often the kind of man who thought women loved having their nipples pinched.
Those men vanished from her head. Poof! As if they had never been. It seemed unthinkable to Grace that any man other than Drake could ever touch her again, this immensely strong man who only touched her gently, softly.
Like right now, finger slowly circling over her clitoris. She was still soft and wet from the orgasm. Her hips began an unstoppable rotation in time with his finger, completely involuntary.
He liked that. She could feel his lips turning up in a smile. Yeah, he liked it. Well, so did she.
His touch still light, he stroked her labia, gently, circling around her opening. His calluses were rough, lending a little bite to his touch. When he’d made a full circle she let out her breath in a little huff. He released her mouth, scooting up a little in bed, watching her eyes carefully. His finger speeded up, moving gently around her, at times in her.
He was watching her so carefully for her reactions, but her body was telling him everything he needed to know.
“I want to kiss you here.” His voice was deep and dark, as delicious as the coffee she’d drunk from his mouth. “Right here, a long kiss, over and over, my tongue in you.”
The vision blossomed in her head—she was spread-eagled on his fur blanket, legs wide open, his dark head buried between them. It was such a lascivious, erotic picture, her vagina rippled with excitement.
He felt it. He didn’t smile; if anything, his face grew harsher, the muscles along his jaw jumping as he gritted his back teeth. His hand was moving more quickly and her hips were writhing around it. He knew exactly where to touch, and how. The muscles in her thighs pulled tight and her stomach muscles knotted.
“Come for me.” That deep voice was used to command. She had to obey.
As soon as he said the words, her body tipped over the edge and with a cry she started convulsing.
“Now,” Drake said, his voice guttural. In a second he was sheathed in a condom. He opened her completely with two fingers, holding her open for him as he thrust inside, the movement slow, strong. He thrust to the hilt, so embedded in her she could feel his pubic hairs against the soft tissue of her sheath.
Oh God, she was clenching now around the strong, thick column, tight clenches of her muscles in sharp electric pulses. They watched each other, deep grooves bracketing his mouth, his breath coming fast. Just as the contractions were dying down, Drake started moving, slowly at first. A gentle circling with his hips, as if stretching her, then sharp little thrusts upward.
Oh God, he managed to reach some spot in her she’d never known about, because each thrust set off sparks of sensation—sharp, almost painful. His movements prolonged her contractions.
“That’s right,” he grunted, “keep going. Don’t stop.”
She couldn’t. With each passing second, the sensations intensified until her heart was hammering, her entire body throbbing. Drake’s strokes were sharp and hard, big hands holding her hips still for him.
It went on and on until the contractions were almost painful in their intensity. Grace cried out, shaking. It was simply too intense to bear.
Drake stopped under her abruptly, and she fell forward onto him, exhausted and sweaty, wrung out. Who knew her body contained all that erotic energy? She was totally spent with the force of her orgasms, her mind a complete blank.
It took long minutes before she could take stock, her senses firing up once more, like a spent machine sputtering back to life.
Sensations came back slowly. The feel of him under her, hard muscles tense as steel. His breaths so deep her legs were stretched as far as they could go to accommodate his chest.
His penis inside her, still hot and hard.
Oh God, she couldn’t. There was nothing more in her.
She shifted slightly, feeling him surge inside her.
“You haven’t, um…”
His mouth was against her shoulder and she could feel his lips moving in a smile.
“No,” he said, his voice so deep she could feel the vibrations in his chest against her breasts. “But I will, count on it.”
Eleven
Rutskoi looked up at the skyscraper right across the street from Drake’s building.
Most of the building was made up of offices for everything ranging from import-export to dental studios. There were a few apartments, scattered here and there throughout the building. Most of the apartments were rented by companies on short-term leases. Two he suspected were used by high-class sex professionals for by-appointment-only sex.
Rutskoi was tempted…but no. Not until the job was finished. But afterward, hell. He’d have 10 million dollars. There wasn’t a woman in the world he couldn’t buy, for the rest of his life, or at least until his dick gave out. And even then, there was always Viagra.
Bless the Americans and their inventions.
By a fluke, there were two apartments on the thirtieth floor facing Drake’s quarters, both in the middle, across from where Drake’s living room was. A corner apartment or office wouldn’t do any good, because Rutskoi needed a straight shot from the center of the building into the room at the center of the building across the street.
Drake’s windows were treated with polycarbonate, probably lots of it, knowing Drake. His windows would be as bullet-resistant as you could get. Bulletproof didn’t really exist—not even armored cars were entirely bulletproof—but Drake’s would come close. Even a bullet fired from the most powerful weapon—and Rutskoi had the best, a Barrett 95—wouldn’t penetrate the treated glass at a sharp angle with any degree of accuracy. If it did penetrate, he couldn’t be sure of a kill shot.
He had to be sure. Absolutely positive.
So he needed to be in a place with a direct line of sight straight into Drake’s living room. It was the only room Rutskoi had been in and he’d counted the doors. Fifth from the south end.
The plans of Drake’s building were nowhere to be found, not even in the municipal zoning offices. Rutskoi had found the name of the architect’s studio that had designed the building and there, too, the plans were gone. Disappeared, like a puff of smoke.
Well, Drake was smart but he wasn’t God, all-knowing and almighty. The plans of the building across from his were right there where they should be, both in the city zoning office and the architect’s offices, and Rutskoi studied them carefully. Then he hacked into the building administrator’s office.
The Dangerous Boxed Set Page 45
