by Amber Bardan
I must be dreaming.
That seductive nightmare where I wanted those arms to crush me. Where I could do all the things I longed for and be absolved of guilt for choosing to do them. Hadn’t I longed for this? To escape with him? But I couldn’t make that decision. Not without facing an ocean of guilt. So now dreams took over and let me have my fantasy.
Nicely done, imagination. In that case, I’d bloody well enjoy it.
I reached for that warm olive skin, but his roughened voice stopped me.
“Why are you still on my yacht?”
He wasn’t acting like he should be in my dreams. He wasn’t revealing the rest of that magnificent skin. Wasn’t touching me. He was acting serious—being real.
My fingers flew to my temples, where pain radiated and scattered the flood of thoughts. “I fell into the lifeboat.”
He leaned forward, rested those forearms on his knees and studied me. Studied me as if he just might open his mouth and swallow me whole.
“We departed Melbourne over twelve hours ago. You expect me to believe you only just scrambled out?”
Twelve hours...
I couldn’t have been on the boat that long. I ran my hands over my crumpled dress, and smelled the slightly sweet scent of sweat clinging to me like film. “I think I knocked my head...”
His jaw flexed, and his words took on lethal sharpness. “I’m going to give you this one chance, and I hope you are smart enough to take it...” He scanned my eyes. “Who do you work for?”
I straightened up. The absurdity of it all, of being on a yacht with armed men, of his questioning, sank in. I laughed. Laughed until the sound snorted out of my nose, and tears leaked out my eyes.
Haithem wasn’t laughing. He scowled, and that look—my god, it made me laugh harder. It was entirely too fierce for one man’s face—it probably made people piss themselves, but I could only piss myself laughing.
He stared at me until my laughter wafted into giggles.
“Who do you work for?”
I’d lost it. Maybe it was the hit to the head, the fact that I couldn’t see straight, or maybe I was drunk on his nearness. Or maybe it was the part of me that still didn’t believe this was real.
“Are you supposed to be some kind of James Bond?” I lowered my voice and put on the world’s worst English-stroke-Scottish-stroke-who-the-fuck-knows-what accent. “Who do you work for?” I laughed again at my own hilarity. Certainly not a magazine—they hadn’t hired me yet. “I’m more of a Jack Reacher girl, myself. Although, I have to admit, they both have nothing on you in a suit.”
He rubbed the underside of his jaw with his knuckles. “I will find out, Angelina. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. It’s up to you whether we do this the hard way.”
The hard way...
My skin overheated, and moisture itched along my hairline. I tasted salt and leaned back into the chair. I stroked the hair back from my face. My temple throbbed where my fingers brushed, but then again I could feel everything more. My skin felt overly sensitized. I looked at Haithem, my eyelids half-closed, and let one hand trail down the side of my neck.
“You promise?”
His stare followed my hand. “Promise what?”
“That we can do it the hard way.”
His gaze snapped to mine. I tried to hold it, but my eyelids fluttered. Ringing chimed in my ears, and I could only watch him from hooded lids. He stood, reached for my hands and pulled me to my feet.
“Take off the dress.”
I felt stripped by his words. Naked already. I’d never have the nerve in real life, but this couldn’t be real. My limbs were so light I could’ve floated away. I fished behind me for my zipper and stumbled. Screw that—this was my fantasy. He could undress me. I swept my hair over my shoulder and presented him with my back. His rush of breath whispered across my neck. A gentle tug pulled between my shoulders, then fabric parted down my back with a gentle swoosh of the zipper.
Salt coated my lips. I was hot, so hot, yet the fingers that touched my skin burned. They traveled over my shoulders and down my arms, pushing my dress away. My senses homed in on the stroke of his fingers. The dress pooled at my waist, caught at the flare of my hips. His hands moved from my arms to grip my waist. A hum vibrated through my lips. I gazed down at myself, naked to the waist but for my bra. Large tan fingers pressed into my flesh, making my skin seem paler, softer than I’d ever seen it look.
His fingers flexed, and he tugged me back, cradled me against his hardness. I needed the support to remain standing. He splayed his hands at my sides and moved them to my belly, sliding his open fingers down, down, down to the place that throbbed and ached to be touched. But he didn’t touch me where I wanted him to. He stroked down my thighs, and pushed my dress to the floor.
I leaned into him and closed my eyes. His body changed, and a thick thigh wedged between mine, opening me to him, holding me up. He stroked the insides of my thighs, burning a path of pleasure toward my core. Finally, he closed his hands over me, and I made a sound, half moan, half plea. He rubbed over my panties with firm, determined strokes. I arched into his touch. Blood plunged though my veins, erratic and uncontrolled. His thumbs hooked under the elastic of my panties and slid up and down the sides. I could only watch his hands move, watch the white lace flow through his fingers. He moved to the waistband, performing the same little ritual.
Not the touching I expected, not the kind I craved, but he was close, so close. He teased me with the nearness. I waited for my panties to follow the dress to the ground. Instead, his hands traveled over my skin again. The muscles in my belly contracted under his touch.
I raised my arms and gripped his shirt collar. He wedged his thumbs under the middle of my bra, the small stretch of material nestled under my cleavage. My breasts pulled forward with the tug, straining higher, hungrier. He brushed against the inside of my breasts. My nipples tightened. His thumbs ran beneath the underwire, tracing the curve as high as they could toward my armpits, then his hands pushed inside, stroked their way over my sensitive skin.
I shivered, and gasped for air. Lace dragged over my nipples with just enough friction to be exquisite. Just enough friction to frustrate the hell out of me. He pulled his hands free, and my breasts fell heavily back into my bra. I bit back a groan and tugged his collar. Fast breaths against my hair warmed the top of my head. He slid his palms over my breasts, finally squeezed them the way they begged to be squeezed. My head tossed against his shoulder. He plucked my nipples through the bra, flicked them gently then stroked over them.
“Haithem...” I moaned.
His hands left my breasts, and he turned me sharply. I caught the briefest glance at his face before he held me to him. His expression, dark and ravenous, burned into the back of my eyelids. An unforgiving hardness pushed against my abdomen. I rocked my hips against it and wished I were taller, so it could rub between my thighs. He gripped my bottom, holding me still and tight. I wound my arms around his neck, trying to draw him down for a kiss. He resisted but buried his lips in my hair.
He explored my ass through my panties, running over the curve, skimming under the elastic, even for a moment running his fingers down my crease. I shook against him and stretched up, seeking his warm skin with my lips. The movement brought that hardness closer to the place that craved it. My mouth found the base of his neck, the soft skin just below the start of his bristles. I filled my mouth with that skin, tasted its tang, tasted the subtle bouquet of cologne.
His touch traveled over my back, up to the clasp of my bra, yet again, he only ran his hands under it, didn’t tear it off. I clamped my teeth on his flesh, not hard enough to break skin but enough to show him my impatience. He jerked and made an animalistic sound against my hair. He grasped my ass again and dragged me higher. I wrapped my legs around his waist and hitched myself up with my arms around his ne
ck.
He moved, and a part of me knew it was toward the bed, toward the place I knew he would make me a woman in the way I wanted to be one. My sweat-slicked skin burned. I needed him. Needed him with every cell. The bristles on his neck prickled my cheek, and I turned into it, ran my tongue over the sharpness like the wild feline thing I’d become.
My back lowered into divine softness, then he traveled down my body. I arched into the scrape of his face. He nipped my ribs with his teeth then descended, stopping to run his tongue just under my belly, where the waistband of my panties rested.
The wetness between my legs flowed, and the entire area pulsed. He knelt between my knees, ran both hands down one of my thighs then gently bent my leg at the knee and kissed me on the kneecap. I felt his lips against me as if he’d kissed the place between my legs. My core tightened. His fingers smoothed over my calf then tugged off my shoe. He held it in one hand and slid his other hand down to remove my remaining shoe.
He sat back, holding my shoes. His gaze flowed over me, over my knees, which had fallen open, to the place between my legs that I knew had soaked through its covering, then up to where my chest heaved and my breasts strained.
His nostrils flared, his jaw ticked, and he met my eyes. Every trembling part of me seized. His gaze was voracious, rapacious and shaking with fury.
“I’ll give you one thing. You’re a fine little actress.”
He scooted off the bed, my shoes in his hands. Confusion blazed through my overloaded senses. Haithem stalked to the door. Some of the fog cleared, and alarm rose in my belly. I rolled off the bed, an odd emptiness and nausea turning my stomach. I followed him out the door. He strode across the deck to the back railing, and I ran after him. He stopped at the rail, grasped one of my shoes, and tugged out the insole, then tossed it over the rail and looked inside my shoe as if it contained some sort of mystery.
“What are you doing?” I called, my sweaty skin chilling.
He paused and looked at me. His features had evened, smoothed into the shell I’d already come to know. “You said you wanted to do it the hard way. I’m obliging. Let me know when you’ve had it hard enough—and maybe then I’ll play nice.” He snapped the heel off my shoe and peered inside, then tossed it over. I grasped the railing and watched my shoe and heel fall into the water.
My head seemed to crash with each wave. “I liked that shoe.”
I looked at him, only to see my other shoe receive the same treatment. He turned to me, and my skin flushed again. Too much—way too much. This was one screwed-up fantasy. The edges of my vision clouded. At least it looked as if I might be waking up.
“Do you have anything to say to me now, Angelina?”
I stared at him and nodded—then emptied my stomach onto his polished black shoes.
Haithem
MAYBE THE FIRST honest thing I ever experienced from her was the moment she vomited on me. That wasn’t faked. She was sick. Most likely from spending the night in a freezing lifeboat in nothing but a dress.
I ran my gaze over her shuddering sweat-coated form. Her skin glistened with moisture in a way that sank my attention into every section of her exposed flesh. Some of her hair clung to the smooth rounded curves of her face, the rest was wild in a rolling-in-bed kind of way. Her hips and tits still screamed for me, even after I’d forced her back into that dirty dress.
They chose well.
My enemies chose so well it made it hard to swallow. I hadn’t realized I had a type. When you’re living in obscurity, on the move, there’s no time for types of girls. There’s only available ones. There’s only easy ones.
I wouldn’t have guessed this pretty, girl-I-could-know kind would make me want to throw caution to the soulless sea. Because I could know her. She had lips for kissing but eyes for talking to.
A soft throaty voice that begged to be listened to.
She moaned.
I shut my eyes. Stopped myself from going over to the bed and shaking her awake and demanding answers. Because I’d sedated her.
I linked my fingers together and watched again.
Her head tossed against my pillows.
Maybe they thought I was weak. That I missed my family and having a life. Maybe they thought I’d look at her and remember what those things were like. That I’d get fuzzy ideas and bare my soul to a spy.
Another low keening sound tore between her teeth. I sprang out of my seat—even though if it weren’t for the fact her temperature was so high I’d be tempted to doubt even that sound from her lying duplicitous lips.
She’d find I wouldn’t be easily overcome. There wasn’t that much hope left in me.
They destroyed my life.
They murdered my family.
They killed my optimism.
I crossed to the bed, and stared down at my pretty little prisoner.
Hope couldn’t be used against me. For the briefest moment, it almost had. Not anymore.
Her hands curled in the sheets. My fists curled at my sides. I’d read her university transcripts. She’d completed a dual major in journalism and theater studies. She was literally an actress.
A very, very good one.
She tossed again, her face turning towards me. Her lips parted with a throaty moan that sent a wave of need slamming into me.
Fuck. Swamping lust gave my heart a deeper rhythm in my veins.
I shouldn’t touch her.
Shouldn’t.
I couldn’t look away. Sweat beaded her upper lip, clinging to fine invisible hairs as innocently as a milk-mustache. My hand parted ways with my will, reaching for that mouth.
What a perfect weapon.
I brushed her top lip. Shouldn’t be touching. The heat of her skin branded my thumb. Jesus, her skin was warm.
So fucking warm.
A dark blend of shame and desire had me hard and desperate, even if unwilling. Her heat should’ve been a giveaway. My palms prickled with the memory of her fevered skin flowing slick and quivering under my touch. I sank to my knees beside the bed. Perhaps, I should’ve known she was unwell.
But I hadn’t wanted to notice—I’d wanted to touch.
Just like I had to touch now.
I rubbed my thumb back and forth over the irresistible petals of her lips. Over the tiny split on her bottom lip that broke the silky smoothness. Why not touch—she was mine. Everything in me shook with the compulsion to sink my thumb into her hot mouth.
Whoever recruited her knew what they were doing. Kept her life squeaky clean. Perfectly mundane.
I’d found their one mistake.
Six weeks.
Her nose scrunched. I moved my touch over her cheekbone, where light freckles fanned out and faded. So deceptively wholesome. There were six weeks missing from her life where she’d vanished from the face of the planet. Six weeks where even though her absence was noted on her academic record, it was forgiven without reason. Six weeks long enough for an intensive training program with the right people.
My fingertip found the groove in her cheek, where even resting her dimple creased skin.
Yes, Angelina was the ultimate angelic weapon,
Karim had been right. I’d been naive. I wanted to believe in her and I wanted to believe in what we’d shared. But one coincidence is a coincidence too many. Now there were four. The coffee shop. The elevator. The spying on the dock. Stowing away on a lifeboat.
I’d be a fool to believe any of it, no matter how tempting it was.
I tore myself free of the thrall of touching her, and stood.
She’d been there on my bed. Thighs apart. Panties damp enough to see pussy-soaked fabric. Wet enough the musk of her lust reached me. That was believable. I could have fucked her. Clamped a hand around her throat and fucked her hard and rough the way the look in her eyes dem
anded.
But she wanted that.
She’d enticed me to take her. Is that how she’d get to me? Did she plan to seize me by the cock?
Never.
I scrubbed the side of my face with my palm. I still felt the lick she dragged over my jaw. The way she’d run her tongue over me like an animal—she took no prisoners.
Neither would I.
She had no idea who she was dealing with. If she thought she did, she was about to find out how wrong she could be.
I’d be the one to take her. Push her. Exploit her weaknesses. Use her lust against her the way she’d intended to use mine against me.
By the time I was done, I’d know her to her deceitful core.
EIGHT
THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT puking up your guts that makes everything very real. You just don’t dream that shit—the heaving, the muscle contractions, the burning and definitely not the vile, acidic stench. I curled onto my side and retched foam into a bucket. When I fell back onto the pillow, a cool cloth pressed over my forehead.
“The medication will work soon, and you’ll feel better.” The familiar voice was soft, and smothered my burning system with another layer of heat.
Haithem, whoever and whatever he was.
I draped my arm over my eyes and groaned. The cool cloth stung my skin. If I’d still believed I’d dreamed up the whole experience, this would be the part where it turned into a nightmare. This would be the part where smart girls ran. But my body groaned with heaviness, immobilized by fever, the roiling in my belly and pain in my joints—and something else, too. The tiny focused place inside me that was having a meltdown of its own.
“Your temperature was extremely high, but it’s coming down. You’ll be all right.”
I resisted the urge to rub my rump, where a stranger had jabbed a needle while speaking gibberish to Haithem. I let one eye slip free from the cover of my forearm and glanced at him. Bright red lines marred the skin on his neck, but the look on his face was even more haggard than the rest of him. Holy shitballs. I covered my eyes again. I’d scratched him like a crazy person. I’m not sure what I’d been thinking. Things got a little hazy after I puked on him. I only remembered the stranger, the flash of a needle, and fighting like a demon. Because that’s what you do, obviously, when you’re delirious, and spies are trying to administer medical treatment to you.
