by C. C. Gibbs
“Calamity averted, although tomorrow’s going to be hell.” Rafe squeezed Nicole’s shoulder and dropped a kiss on her cheek. “You’re welcome to join me in the war room, but you might rather read or watch some movies, or someone can take you shopping if you like. I have accounts in all the shops.” He’d not met a woman who didn’t like to shop, particularly when someone else was paying.
“First, fuck you on the shopping,” she said, gimlet-eyed and direct. “And second—what kind of espionage?”
No way he was responding to her shopping statement, but damn, that was a first. “Bad actors are always trying to upload our research. When it’s a government player, they have beaucoup resources.” He smiled. “Ganz will get it done though. He used to work for this particular group.”
“Rafe! Rafe! Darling!!”
He glanced up just in time to brace himself against the twin blondes in skimpy, pastel dresses who launched themselves at him. Absorbing the impact of their bodies with a grunt, Rafe swiftly disentangled himself from their embraces, stepped back, whispered, “Sorry,” to Nicole and reclaimed her in a one-armed hug. “We’re just leaving.” He nodded at the two models who were offering him their best camera-ready smiles. “But have yourself a good time. The band is rocking tonight.”
“Screw the band,” one of the women said, with a toss of her blond curls.
And she probably had, Rafe thought.
She’d certainly screwed Rafe, Nicole decided, although her little-girl lisp was really out of place with those humongous man-made boobs and six feet of blond goddess.
“We’ll come with you,” the other half of the matched pair said in a husky contralto that better matched her Nordic height and accent. “The more the merrier… isn’t that what you always say, Rafe?”
“Sorry, ladies, I’m with Nicole.”
“So? Our bed is big enough for everyone.” The blond beauty glanced at Nicole. “You don’t mind, do you? Rafe’s always up to it”—she gave him a lewd wink—“aren’t you, darling?”
“We’re going to pass,” Rafe said smoothly. “My girlfriend’s jealous.”
“Girlfriend!!” Their unbridled shrieks turned heads at the concierge tables as well as from guests passing by; the young doorman stifled his grin.
Nicole lifted her hand, gave a tiny wave. “That would be me. Rafe insisted, didn’t you?” She gazed up at Rafe with adoration. “He’s sooo romantic.”
Ignoring the twins’ gape-mouthed astonishment, Rafe played his part with equal aplomb. “Only for you, kitten.” And leaning down, he gave her a lingering kiss.
A blast of music flowed outward briefly as the door to the bar opened and closed.
“Hey, Nicole! I thought I saw you inside!”
Rafe lifted his head, stared, then frowned. “You know him?”
Before Nicole could answer, Andre de Barre was standing before them, his gaze resting on Nicole’s cleavage for a moment too long before he looked up and greeted everyone. “Hey, Mia and Tig, how’s it going?” Taking note of Rafe’s arm around Nicole’s shoulders, he gave his rival the briefest of nods, then turned a beaming smile on Nicole. “I had a great time last night! Or morning, by the time we got home,” he added with a wink. “Did you get my roses?”
“Morning?” Rafe’s murmur was deceptively soft.
“I did. Thank you, they were lovely.” Nicole replied, aware of Rafe’s tone, and not intimidated but still wishing she were anywhere but here. The Valkyrie twins were giving her the evil eye, wanting her gone, wanting the Rafe they knew and lusted after back in their large bed. While sweet Andre, looking even more youthful next to Rafe’s powerful masculinity, appeared oblivious to Rafe’s icy glare. Shit.
“Looks like you’re the lucky one tonight, Contini,” Andre said in grudging complaint. But a moment later, he reminded himself that Rafe had a short attention span when it came to female company, so his smile was in place again as he turned to Nicole. “Maybe we could do something tomorrow. I’ll call you in the morning.”
“She’s busy,” Rafe said brusquely.
“The next day then.”
“She’s busy then too.”
Andre’s gaze swiveled from Nicole to Rafe, puzzlement writ large on his face. “Are you relatives or something? Is the family all here on holiday?”
“Fortunately we’re not relatives,” Rafe drawled, the cadence carrying a residual warning. “Now fuck off.”
“Rafe, for heaven’s sake,” Nicole muttered testily, drawing away from Rafe’s encircling arm. “Don’t be rude. I’m sorry, Andre. Perhaps—”
“Get the fuck out of my club,” Rafe growled, dragging Nicole back against his hard body. “Or I’ll kick you out.” And he waited a pulse beat, a muscle twitching over his stark cheekbone, hoping de Barre would make a move so he could beat the shit out of him.
The door to the bar abruptly opened and music poured out, along with two couples who were singing a popular song at the top of their lungs.
Reality intervened.
Everyone froze for a nanosecond, although the twins might have been wallpaper for all the notice they were given.
Rafe abruptly dropped his arm from Nicole’s shoulders and grabbed her hand. “If you’ll excuse us,” he said, with suave discourtesy, rancor in every syllable as he stared at Andre. And he stood there a fraction of a second more, willing de Barre to take him on, every muscle coiled, ready to strike.
“That’s enough, Rafe.”
Rafe turned to Nicole, his nostrils flaring gently. “You don’t want the problem, babe. Clear?”
“Just a minute, here,” Andre protested. “Show a little respect or—”
“Or what?” Rafe snarled.
“Really, Andre, I’m fine. None of this is necessary.” She squeezed Rafe’s hand. “Let’s go.”
“Protecting your little boyfriend?” Rafe said under his breath.
“Could we talk about this somewhere else?”
“Of course,” he said, softly ruthless. Wheeling to his left, he hauled Nicole away without a glance at the trio left behind, oblivious as well to the astonished glances and raised eyebrows of everyone in the entrance hall who watched him stride past them so swiftly that Nicole had to run to keep up.
“Jesus Christ, did you have to be such a major ass?” she lashed out, raging at his force majeure arrogance and also pissed at the two blondes and their ménage à trois history with Rafe.
“Don’t bitch.” He flung a hot-tempered glance over his shoulder, the image of Nicole fucking de Barre till morning burning a hole in his brain. “De Barre’s still standing and his pretty face isn’t smashed to hell.”
“So I should be grateful… that you were… only rude?” she panted, her spike heels not meant for racing.
“Like I should be grateful that de Barre doesn’t know how to fuck?” Rafe shot back, turning down a dim corridor. “I’ve seen him in action. Seriously, what were you thinking?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I didn’t screw him, okay? So cool your fucking jets.”
“Yeah, right, like I believe that,” he growled. “Miss I-Can’t-Ever-Get-Enough.” Coming to a sudden stop, he punched in a code, shoved a door open, pulled Nicole into a shadowed office, and kicked the door shut. “This won’t take long. Lift up your fucking skirt.”
“Fuck you,” she snapped, fighting to break his harsh grip.
He smiled thinly. “That’s why we’re here.” Jerking her forward, he spun her around in front of a desk. “Bend over.”
“Who the hell do you—”
“Bend the fuck over.” Planting the weight of his palm on her back, he guided her facedown on the desk, barely avoiding her kicking feet by nimbly stepping between her legs and forcing her thighs open. “Calm down, pussycat,” he drawled softly, nudging her legs even wider with his muscled thighs. “This won’t take long.”
She could hear the smile in his voice. “Goddamn you!” Slapping her hands on the desktop, she stiffened her spine and pushed hard
against the confining weight of his hand.
Holding her in place with an effortless strength, he flipped her dress up with a casual flick of his finger. “You shouldn’t have fucked de Barre, baby. Big mistake.”
“I didn’t! Everyone’s not into indiscriminate sex like you, asshole!”
“You coulda fooled me. I got the impression indiscriminate was your style.” Unlike the fiery scorn in her voice, his was tempered, cool. Although, bunching the sheer lace of her panties in his fingers, ripping the fabric, and dropping the shreds on the floor indicated a certain degree of discontent. “Nice ass—up high in those spike heels. Perfect.” He ran his palm over her smooth, silky bottom in a casually possessive gesture. “Should I tattoo my name here?” He patted one of her ass cheeks. “As a memorial to some fine fucking?”
“No. No. And fuck no!” she screamed, furious at being subject to his facile strength and arrogance and treated like one of his bimbos. “Goddamn you, you’re going to pay for this—damn indignity!”
He laughed. “Indignity? That’s cute. Is Victoria still queen?” He ran his hand over the curve of her ass, spread his fingers wide over the soft fullness, and gently squeezed. “That is one perfect ass,” he whispered. “Maybe we should give it a try.”
She sucked in a breath as a streak of pure lust spiked through her senses. But her no-nonsense voice of reason quickly leaped in and barked, “Are you fucking kidding me?” Once again back in control of her traitorous libido, remembering where she was and the bloody injustice of it all, she snapped, “Don’t you dare even think about it!”
He went still; nothing moved. “Probably not a good idea to use the word dare right now.” His voice was velvety soft. “The mood I’m in.” Then he lightened the pressure of his fingers and gently ran his palm over her ass. “Let’s keep the beast in the cage, okay?”
A shiver ran up her spine, but she forced herself to speak calmly. “Look, why don’t you let me up.” But even as she spoke, she felt a finely drawn pleasure course through her body from the point of skin-on-skin contact, the warmth of his palm stroking her bottom disastrously undermining issues of personal autonomy. “Seriously, let me up.” But her voice caught at the last as his hand slipped between her legs.
He heard that small suffocated sound, sullenly wondered whether de Barre had heard it too, or how often he’d heard it. And it took enormous self-control to ask in a tone of relative mildness, “Are you sure?” He slid two fingers up her sleek cleft, slipped them inside briefly in a quick vetting, and ignored her quick shuddering gasp. “You have a real friendly pussy, babe. Hot and slippery, nice and wet—see.” He slid his damp fingertips down the bridge of her nose. “So I’m thinking maybe you want to be fucked after all.”
“No.”
But her voice was barely audible, and a tiny sheen of fresh moisture gleamed on her pouty sex. “Liar,” he whispered. And suddenly, the image of de Barre tapping that sweetness relooped through his brain, obliterating all but a need for revenge. “Did you bend over for de Barre last night?” he drawled, a nasty edge to his voice as he reached for his zipper. “Am I getting seconds?”
“Jesus, let it go.” Her temper instantly reignited at his bloody double standard, jealous too of the Nordic twins when stupid didn’t even begin to explain the folly of that feeling, she fought against his casual control and the unwanted frisson of hot desire making her even wetter, and damn it, aching now. “Go fuck your twin bimbos,” she muttered, pissed for reasons of her own, for stupid jealous reasons that didn’t bear close scrutiny. “I’m not interested.”
Splaying his fingers wider, he exerted more pressure on her back. “Calm down, babe. You’re always interested, we both know that.” Then, pulling out his throbbing dick past the well-designed zipper placket that kept his tender skin safe, without preliminaries, without so much as a hint of foreplay, he plunged into her sex and buried himself to the hilt in a single, hard, powerful thrust. “See, smooth as silk. You like to fuck, pussycat. I could tell the first time I saw you. There’s one hot chick, I thought. Ready for anything. Like this.” He drove in deeper, in a hard, deliberate stroke. “Feel that?” he unnecessarily murmured at her quivering moan. “And this?” he grunted, cursing her seductive allure and his insatiable hunger, wanting her to pay for what the gift of roses meant, for her goddamned availability, for her lush, welcoming warmth that Andre probably slid into all night long just like that. “Fuuuck.”
She groaned, the stunning jolt registering as pleasure when it shouldn’t, her body liquefying with longing when it shouldn’t, the feel of him dragging back in a slow, lingering withdrawal making her whimper when it shouldn’t. And desperate to keep him close, she squirmed, contracted her muscles, and tried to shift backward to maintain the acute, rapturous sensation.
He spanked her ass. “Don’t move! This isn’t for you. It’s for me. And don’t you dare come,” he growled.
“Like you can stop me,” she sneered.
“Damn right I can. And you will not be fucking de Barre again.” He drove in with all his strength, as if he could dominate her with sheer physical force, make her submit to him alone. Another irrepressible thrust of his hips touched her deep in her core and left her whimpering, panting, pulsing up and down his entire hard length. “I need an answer!”
“Yes, yes,” she whispered, defenseless against her need, a slave to her passions, to him, to the extravagant soul-stirring pleasure he dispensed with such ease.
“Yes?” He went still inside her, jealousy licking a fiery path of destruction through his brain.
She heard the thin-skinned resentment, the wild intemperance in the single word. “No, no,” she cried, instantly aware of her mistake. “I mean, no I didn’t, I won’t!” she quickly added at his low, savage growl.
“Good. We understand each other.” Having been given the required answer, there was satisfaction now in the undercurrent of his voice, the savagery restrained. “And if you like roses,” he murmured, gently moving inside her so he touched all her sweet spots, “I’ll get you roses. Okay?” Recognizing acquiescence in her soft little breathy sigh, he slowly slid his strong fingers over her hips, held her firmly in place, flexed his quads, and swung his lower body forward with a practiced, delicate, indulgent precision.
“Oh, God, oh God, oh God…” She exhaled a soft, languorous moan, shifted faintly against his gentle grip, the world momentarily eclipsed by the most exquisite, inexpressible bliss.
The familiar sound of her pleasure thrilled him, made him wildly jealous of any man who’d ever heard it, made him grateful as well for his unaccountable luck in having her walk into his life. She was spectacularly sensual, easily aroused, quick to climax, and, in a purely selfish, carpe diem way, he wanted to keep her for himself alone. He didn’t question his need for control, nor his capacity for managing his anachronistic feelings. He only said, this man without limits, “From now on, babe, consider me your personal cock-block. No one gets into your pussy but me. Clear?”
Shuddering with peaking desire, his huge erection filling her entirely, a dizzying, taut friction obliterating all but blinding need, she only half heard the rough query in his voice. “Yes, yes, whatever you say,” she stammered, not sure what he’d said, but understanding an answer was required. “Rafe, please… hurry,” she whispered, wiggling her hips in frenzied need, softly panting, impatient, seething. “Please… I’m so close… please, please. Oh God…”
She had no right, he thought, to be so provocative.
And so faithless. Did she even know who was cramming her full, making her tremble? Would any dick would do when she was this wild?
He struggled for a moment with his aberrant feelings, with her bewitching sensuality, with a degree of outrage he’d never felt before. He was no different from all the other men who wanted her, he resentfully thought; not disengaged as was his custom, or, at best, marginally involved, but like a dog after a bitch in heat.
And for a man who’d known only female adulation, who vie
wed women as interchangeable amusements, who’d always been the object of pursuit, never the pursuer, it was a radical change.
A hugely objectionable change.
Suddenly, he had zero interest in anything but climaxing hard and fast. He had no interest in making it last or making it good for her. Ripping away her skirt, which was in his way, and tightening his grip on her hips, the heat of her body under his hands taunting him with its lush opulence, he started fucking her like there was no tomorrow, like the finish line was in sight, like coming without her would somehow right the inequities of the world. Or at least the world of de Barre, his bloody roses, and all the other men she’d known.
He felt her muscles quiver up and down his dick, heard her scream begin, and, swearing under his breath, powered up a straight path to nirvana, like he hadn’t had a fuck in a decade. Like he might never get another. Like he owned her body and soul.
With his pulse thundering in his ears, with his dick rock hard, with only a tenuous thread of reason reining him in, he didn’t stop his hard-driving, wildly explosive rhythm through one, two, three of her orgasms. By then, he was no longer sure if he was pleasing her or himself, whether her past even mattered, whether he’d ever understand the clusterfuck in his brain.
Whether he even fucking cared.
Just as he decided no, Nicole started whimpering. He recognized that familiar, mewling sound, knew what it meant, and with an impromptu combination of cynicism and awesomeness, he thought, Bottom line, good times, and whispered, “Ready to cap it off, tiger?” Then he smiled because there was no way she heard him and, with a sigh, realistic about the price he would pay in precedent for the pleasure she gave him, he deftly took her over the orgasmic edge.
But a moment later, as he was about to give her a small encore while he climaxed, she cried, “No, no—no more! I can’t!”
His hesitation was brief; there was a certain principle of fairness. “Feel free to wait this one out then,” he murmured, and like a well-oiled piston, he kept pumping and pounding, flat-out racing for the checkered flag.
