by Incy Black
There was no quiver to her voice. She sounded certain. But the gravelly hush with which she spoke revealed her fear.
His six-pack knotted into a twelve-pack. Cursing fit to make hell blush, he propped himself on one elbow and wished he could see her face. Read her true expression. “Do I get a say in this?”
“Only to say no. But you owe me, Ballentyne, give me this, and I promise we’ll be quits.”
She was trembling. This close, he could feel the vibrations. And her words were more a plea edged with desperation than a demand. She was sweating, the heat of her skin strengthening her scent. Light and fresh, a little wild, more herbal than floral. Delicious.
He tried not to inhale, breathing through his mouth rather than his nose. There was only so much torture a man could take. Reaching across her, stilling a nanosecond at the sudden hitch in her breathing, he flicked the switch of the small lamp on the cabinet beside her.
He wanted the advantage of light. Better that she read his message in his eyes than just hear it. She’d believe him better that way. “Then I say no. I won’t settle any debt this way.”
As he’d predicted, she was up and at the door in a lightning flash.
But he was quicker, reaching the door ahead of her to close the foot-wide gap through which she’d intended to make her escape.
Chapter Thirteen
Jack looped his free arm around Lowry’s waist and gently pulled her flush against him, her spine rigid against his chest. He waited for the skip of her pulse beneath his fingertips to calm, for the rapid rise and fall her breasts to settle to a more even pace as her panic retreated.
The delay damn near skinned him.
He dropped a lingering kiss on her exposed collarbone—so smooth, delicately sweet—felt her heart skip again and blew on the imprint to cool and soothe. He lifted his hand from the doorframe and let it join the other on the sweet curves of her body, skimming silky smoothness with a tender reverence he’d never have believed himself capable. Not with flames licking his skin and vicious need riding him into the ground.
He felt her quiver, a tiny ripple that—thank you, God—carried away some of her tautness in its wake. “I said no to the settlement of a debt,” he murmured, his mouth a whisper away from her ear. “I’d be out of my mind to refuse the rest. I’m not sure I could, even if I wanted to. Unless you want to leave.”
He pulled her closer, unashamed of his red-hot erection from hell. He wanted—needed—her to know it was for her. That no man could possibly make her any less desirable in his eyes.
Christ, he’d waited an eternity to hold her like this. A few precious moments. Of barriers down. Of exquisite intimacy. Of being the man he wished he could be. Sensitive. Tender. Gentle. Because that’s what this was going to take. It was going to take everything from him.
He moved his lips away from her ear, returning them to the oh-so-delectable curve of her shoulder, this time using the tip of his tongue to trace the outline of fine bone, filling each shallow dip along its length with the heat of his breath. God, she was soft, so sweet.
He forced his hands to still and pulled away. He owed her one last chance. “You sure this is what you want?” he asked. Jesus, when had he ever sounded that husky? When had his cock ever been this hard?
His temperature kicked up into the danger zone when she turned to face him and nodded, her gorgeous eyes wide, brave, and unrepentant. His stare drifted to the pulse throbbing dead center at the base of her throat. He wanted his lips there, and fast.
He hauled at his self-control. No ravishing. He took another step back, extended an arm, his hand palm upward in invitation. “Then after you.”
This, he swore, would be her last reprieve. If she declined and scooted out the door, he wouldn’t blame her. But if she accepted and climbed back into his bed, then she was his.
At least, for the remainder of this night.
He sucked in a breath when she moved toward his sheets. Sucked in another and damn near swallowed his tongue when she trailed the nail of her forefinger across his chest, one nipple to the other, as she passed close in front of him.
No doubt, her way of warning him that in what was to follow, she didn’t consider herself a victim. Brave woman, his Lowry.
And f-u-c-k, if she didn’t have the sexiest spine he had ever seen. Damn, if he didn’t want to fall to his knees and swear undying worship.
Swallowing an agonized groan, he followed her onto the sheets and stretched his full length beside her. Close, but not yet touching, his weight propped on his elbow. “You’ve taken my side of the bed.”
“It’s still warm—and closer to the door.”
He smiled. It amused the hell out of him that her little paranoid idiosyncrasies embarrassed her not a bit. “Light on or off?”
She took a moment to consider. “Off.”
He reached back and clicked off the light. He didn’t mind not seeing her. She could give up her secrets to his fingers, his mouth, his tongue.
He found her in the darkness, trailed a lazy finger from the pulse at her throat that beat so enticingly, to her sternum, then lower still to her navel. Her skin was baby soft, cool, and smooth. He needed to feel more and flattened his palm, fingers splayed wide across the level plane of her belly. He sought her lips, nipped gently, and encouraged them to open with a gentle press of his tongue. Christ, he’d have to take this slow, resist with every fiber of his being the maddening need to ravish and slake.
He was careful to hold his weight from her, staying on his side beside her, his shoulders angled toward her, his lips gentle, caressing. He kept it slow, let her trust unfurl. He’d give her no excuse to panic.
But when she touched her tongue shyly to his, inviting him in for a deeper taste and her hand lifting to his bicep, her fingers curling so her nails scored his skin, he nearly lost his mind and unleashed the hunger raring inside him.
He deepened the kiss, his fingers smoothing the contour of her breast, a perfect handful, firm but at the same time soft, as only women’s bodies could be, and gently squeezed, his senses on heightened alert for any sudden recoil.
She didn’t retreat, just dug those nails a little deeper, one arm slinking round his neck to bring him closer.
He prayed there was enough blood left to keep his brain functioning, that it hadn’t all rushed south. Who would have thought that picking a way though a minefield where one false move might spell game over could be so damned sexy? And such agony.
He left the pleasures of her mouth, needing to taste more, skimmed his lips across her breasts, before fastening firmly on a peak, hard and defiant. Pure unadulterated bliss. As close to heaven as he had ever been. As close to heaven as he deserved to get.
…
On a gasp, Lowry arched, shocked and at the same time empowered by Jack’s need to feast, the thrill that he wanted to savor, and not just slake his greedy appetite, set her senses aflame. And he was hungry. She could feel that against her thigh. Rock hard and impatient. Hand sliding lower, pausing to explore knots of tight muscle and intriguing dips, she smiled when she reached her goal and swiped her thumb across the tip of his head, the telltale pre-cum assuring her this was no imagined, out-of-body experience.
She swallowed a moan as his fingers grew bolder, more urgent, tickling, teasing, tracing. Advancing, retreating, tuning into her. She bit her lip. She wouldn’t beg. He couldn’t make her.
“Please, Jack…” Not her voice, not that feverish cry. She lowered her eyelids, saw stars, lost her grip on reality, too desperate to sense him nudge her thighs apart, too lost in white-hot need to be aware he’d covered her, his weight hot and heavy.
Hot and heavy. Over her. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. Those stars, just moments earlier brilliant and mesmerizing, exploded into red hot sparks. Her eyes flew open; she lost the battle against the rising terror and widened her mouth to scream.
He swore, then fastening his mouth over hers, his hand firm behind her head. He carried her with him, t
wisting so that he lay flat on his back and she sprawled on top of him.
He set her free, lifting his hands from her to tighten in a death grip round the cool brass bars of the antique bedstead.
…
Through gritted teeth, he gave her his promise. “I’m all yours; take what you want. I swear on all that’s…” Hell, he wished his mind would clear. Urgency had numbed it, almost shut it down. What could he swear on that would soothe and convince? “I swear on all that’s England, I won’t touch, I won’t move, without your permission.”
A lesser man, less confident, might have been alarmed at her sudden fit of giggles. Not him. He found them sexy as all hell, the sound electrifying, tantalizing. He tightened his grip on the bars.
Damn, he’d actually exorcised her fear. Succeeded—finally—in making her laugh, taste exhilaration. He wanted to throw back his head and roar while beating his fists on his chest.
Now to gain her trust. He’d given his word not to touch, not to move. Somehow he’d endure the flames, the fire coursing through his veins, suffer the torture of her lips on his chest. The lead was hers to take. For once, he’d relinquish that role and follow instead.
He lowered his eyelids, tried to concentrate. He knew his knuckles must be glowing white. Hot damn, was that her tongue circulating his nipple, her teeth that were nipping, her fingers that had fastened tight around him? Stroking. Squeezing.
His eyes crossed. Much more of her hand to his cock and he’d come. Bugger not moving. He raised his knees, widened his legs and flattened himself to the bed to stop his hips…lifting, seeking, gyrating. Fuck.
She added a naughty twist to her wrist action.
He groaned. Pin-pricks of moisture broke across his upper lip.
He heard sheets rustle, felt her slide. Down. Down. The heat of her breath against him, pulling his balls tight.
Oh, God, no licking. Please, no licking.
Her lips closed around him. Her tongue pressed.
Lights, white and searing, fired behind his closed eyelids. No sucking, definitely no sucking. Holy, sweet fucking torture.
She shifted, he felt the burn of her slow kiss-climb up and across his stomach as she positioned to straddle him, her knees tight against his hips. He growled when she took him in, inch by agonizing inch, deeper and deeper, tighter and tighter. Fiery hot. Sweetly wet—bliss. Heaven. Hell. Paradise. Everything.
Agony. Exquisite. Need to be in charge. Right Goddamn now.
Muscles straining, he tightened his grip. The bedstead groaned, one bar buckled.
Her breasts brushed his chest, and she whispered in his ear, “Now, Jack, I release you from your promise. I give you my permission.”
On a shout, he thrust upward, his hands falling to her hips to grip tight. His eyes shot down to where they joined. His balls tightening at the excruciating thrill of watching her take his heavy length deep, again and again. He refused to release, not without her leaping from the cliff with him. Releasing one hip, his fingers delved, found, strummed.
With speed and wild fury, they rode each other, each daring the other to surrender first. He recaptured her mouth at the last moment, his arm supporting her arched back as she fell first with him in fevered pursuit, thrusting hard, thrusting deep.
That he was able to give his little firebrand five sweet orgasms, with his mouth and his body, through the quiet of the night was a pleasure-privilege he’d hold in his soul for the rest of his life.
Though that might not be too long.
…
Lowry awoke to find herself in a ridiculously comfortable sprawl. On her stomach. And alone. Spread almost diagonally across Jack’s bed, the sheet rumpled around her hips.
She did not want to move. Wasn’t sure she could.
A heavy languor held her leaden and replete.
But where was Jack? And why hadn’t he woken her?
Sunlight streamed through the window, the shadows of the separated frames repeating in the gleam of the wide, polished oak floorboards. The sun’s gentle heat, magnified by the glass, warmed her naked back.
She opened up her mind and poked at it cautiously. Wasn’t embarrassment supposed to consume her? Shame? Guilt? The tiniest flicker of remorse? She felt none of those, not even a tickle. Instead, she felt weightless, elevated, liberated.
In-bloody-vincible.
Hauling the sheet around her, she thrust upright in glee, draping its folds toga-fashion. Her knees gave slightly as she wobbled, the mattress undulating beneath her feet. She’d done it. Actually done it. With Jack Ballentyne. Man-god and gorgeous, once tormentor of her dreams. No more recoiling. No more revulsion. No more shakes and shudders of the bad kind. Sex was good—no, sex was terrific. Bye-bye fear…hello, liberation.
She bent her knees, sprung upwards, one fist punching the air. She landed, bounced, her laughter bubbled forth. Lifting her knees in turn, the sheet clasped tight between her arms and sides, she gyrated a victory dance, turning round and round. She was free. Free. Free. Free.
A stifled cough, more a swallowed laugh, interrupted her jubilant, and very private, celebration. A fierce heat immediately slapped her face. She locked her legs against the rebound of the too-well-sprung mattress, staggering ungainly when it threatened to catapult her onto the floor.
Jack, his shoulder propped against the doorframe, a neatly folded bundle of clothing held against his chest, shook his head slowly. “And to think I once accused you of not being a morning person.”
The heat consuming her from top to toe flared to a white-hot intensity. “Oh,” she croaked. That was as much as she could manage, her stupid tongue having turned to stone.
“Bathroom’s through there.” He gestured with his head. “Breakfast will be on the table within forty minutes. My mother rustled you up some clothes. She’s about your size, so they should fit.”
Something wasn’t right. Jack’s voice scratched like gravel caught between panes of glass. Lines of tension thinned his lips. The blue depths of his eyes flickered silver splinters.
The fire licking her bone-deep extinguished as abruptly as it had flared, a brittle mantle of frost shrink-wrapping her skin.
Instinct screamed for her to run. Jump through the window with only the sheet for a parachute. Her lungs straining, she locked it down.
He moved to the bed. She took a shaky step back. He dropped the pile of garments at her feet.
He regained the threshold of the door before turning to pin her with an arrow-direct stare. “Last night was a one off, Lowry, never to be repeated. You got what you wanted. You’ve exorcised Patient Peter—what he did to you. Take that. Move on.”
She locked her knees. No way would she fold. Her mind incredulous, begging as to how the hell she was supposed to just move on from the most incredible, exhilarating, experience of her life, she asked, “And what about you, Ballentyne? What did you get out of last night’s little escapade?’
His smile was strained, more a grimace. “I finally got to scratch an itch that’s been irritating me for the longest time.” Then he closed the door quietly against her.
…
Discordant white noise deafening her ears, Lowry allowed her knees to fold, then scooted to the floor when she realized she was kneeling on the bed where they’d…where she’d…where Jack had…
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. She had no business feeling hurt. Mortified maybe, by her own shamelessly brazen behavior, but not hurt by Jack’s body-slam of a rejection.
She should have known. Known that Jack would never stick. Not with her. Christ, he’d ditched his own family for damn near a decade to avoid feeling…anything. What the bloody hell had she expected?
It had just been sex. Admittedly hot, definitely raw. Indescribably sublime. But that’s all it had been—sex. She’d used him to exorcise a small part of her past, and he’d used her, “to scratch an itch.” They were both consenting adults. No big deal.
So why, damn it, did her heart feel like he’d plucked it from her chest, tossed
it high, and shot it full of bullets? And why did she suddenly feel…?
Swinging on her heel, she scrambled to the bathroom.
Fifteen minutes later, an icy sweat still coating her skin and her stomach muscles on fire from the dry retching convulsions she’d feared would never stop, she yanked on the borrowed jeans and a pretty, jade-colored cashmere V-neck. Knees still not quite steady, she turned to face herself in the freestanding, full-length antique mirror standing in the corner of Jack’s childhood bedroom.
Her breasts were fuller than his mother’s. The hem of the jersey fell shy of the hip-hugging jeans, leaving an inch of her lower midriff exposed. Bloody marvelous. It was bad enough she could still feel the mild scratch of the beard rash he’d left behind, without having the evidence of the full and thorough exploration to which he’d subjected every inch of her body on open display.
Heaving free a resigned sigh, she lifted both hands and ruffled her hair, still damp from the shower she’d snatched. Hacked short, bangs uneven, nightmare black. Though the pink steaks were fading. Christ, small wonder Jack had beaten a hasty retreat. She looked ragged, oddly unfinished, damaged even. She hardly resembled one of the gorgeous, urbane sophisticates usually favored by Jack. Funny how, for the first time in her life, she actually gave a damn. Who knew that one little slip into vanity could possible hurt so much?
She threw her arms wide then let them flop to her sides. What the hell did it matter what she looked like? The bastard had made his indifference more than clear. Still hurt though, like a sharp blow to the sternum with the claw end of a hammer.
Suspecting any further delay would result in someone coming to find her, she cast a longing look at the window. She’d have climbed out on the sill and down the façade if the sheer distance of the flagstones far below hadn’t unnerved her.
Returning her gaze to the mirror, she schooled her face into a nonchalant mask and prayed she’d be able to hold the mask in place. Jack wasn’t going to enjoy hearing what she had to say, but then she wasn’t exactly going to have a ball facing down his family—who had to be wondering what had driven Jack to bellow so loudly during the night—six bloody times!
