Storm Damages

by Magda Alexander

  “Good?” I ask.

  Those beautiful eyes of his glow jewel bright. “Like touching heaven itself.” He pulls my head toward him, kisses me. A soft, soft kiss that swims through my veins.

  Don’t make me fall in love with you, Storm, I couldn’t stand the pain.

  He clutches my hips. Now that my body has adjusted to him, the fiery need to climax builds in me again. Noooo. I don’t want to come this fast. Needing to do something to keep the orgasm at bay, I sink my teeth into his shoulder.

  He roars, turntables us. Next thing I know I’m flat on my back, my legs over his shoulders, and he’s pounding me to hell and back.

  “yes, Yes, YES.” I scream and come so hard I see an entire galaxy of stars.

  With a series of hard thrusts and grunts, he finishes right behind me before collapsing on me.

  For a few minutes, all I can do is catch my breath and wait for the world to stop pinning around me.

  “You’re fucking amazing, love.” Rising above me, he threads his hands through mine and pulls both over my head.

  My breath grows short. “D-Don’t.”

  He lowers his face to a couple of inches up from mine. “Look at me, Elizabeth.”

  My gaze rises to his.

  “It’s just me, love, and I’ll never hurt you.” With infinite care, he kisses my eyes, my cheeks, my mouth.

  He’s all around me. His heat, his scent, him. I command my fear to dissipate, order my spirit to revel in the joining of our hands, the connection of our bodies. Because that’s what it is. With his cock in me and my hand in his, we’re connected. Physically, yes, but spiritually as well.

  “Let go of your fear, Elizabeth.”

  From deep within, something bright and splendiferous shines through, something I’ve never experienced before. The overwhelming strength of this emotion mists my vision, causing a tear to roll down my cheek. “Ohhhhh.”

  A look of horror comes over his face. “Don’t cry, darling.”

  He starts to release me, to withdraw from me, but I clench hard on his hands, wrap my legs around his. “No.”

  “Elizabeth?”

  I blink away the moisture in my eyes. “Don’t go.”

  “Never.” His lips brush against mine and he gives me the sweetest kiss I’ve ever known.

  I remained because he needed me. Who knew I would end up needing him instead?

  Chapter 17

  ______________

  Gabriel

  DESPERATE TO KNOW WHERE HER DEMONS LIE, I take Elizabeth’s hand and lead her to bed, hoping I can get her to talk about her past.

  Settling next to me, she lays her head on my arm.

  “That was amazing,” I say.

  “Yeah, it was.”

  Her skin’s so fair, I instantly discern her emotions by the rosy flush to her cheeks. I thread my hand through hers, drop a kiss on her lips. I love touching her, kissing her. “So what kind of little girl were you? Did you have tea parties with your dolls?” I don’t know how many doll tea parties I got roped into by Bri.

  She glances at me, then off into the distance. “No, I didn’t have tea parties, and I only had one Raggedy Ann doll.”

  The thought Elizabeth’s playmate consisted of only one moppet guts me, and I tighten my hand around hers.

  I—” She clears her throat. “I grew up in foster homes.”

  That much I learned from the report Jake compiled on her, but of course she doesn’t know I know. “How did that come to be?”

  Breaking our connection, she sits up and turns her back to me. A form of avoidance, I know. But maybe she needs the lack of physical contact to open up. “My mother died when I was six.”

  “And no one stepped forward to claim you, take care of you?”

  She shakes her head, tussling that glorious hair of hers. “No. Her parents wanted nothing to do with me.”

  How could anyone abandon a sweet little girl to the hands of an uncaring foster care system? I thread my fingers through her hair and brush out the tangles. “Go on.”

  “At my second foster home—”

  “What happened at the first?” I trace my hand down her spine to the small of her back, hoping my warmth brings her comfort.

  A shoulder shrug. “They didn’t want me.”

  “Why?” I fight to keep the emotion from my voice, knowing if it bleeds through, she may stop her revelation.

  “I screamed all the time for my mama. The lady who ran the foster home had other kids to care for and I was too much for her. Actually, I didn’t mind. She ended up doing me a favor. I met Casey at the second foster home.”

  “Your flatmate.”

  When my hand kneads her skin in a tender massage, she sighs. “Yes, best day of my life. He fed me, made sure I did my homework.”

  I will need to show Casey my appreciation for the way he cared for Elizabeth.

  “We never stayed in one home for long. When I was ten, they moved us into a house where a teenage boy lived, the son of the lady who ran the home. I knew right away something wasn’t right with him. He looked ... funny.” She locks her hands together, so tightly her knuckles turn white.

  “What do you mean funny?”

  “He had crags all over his face. Dodgy eyes. They never settled on one thing, but darted from place to place. But they always returned to me. Casey put a lock on my door and told me never to be in the house alone with him. One day”—she twists her hands as if she can’t bear to talk about it—“I came home early from school with stomach cramps and found him in my room going through my things.”

  My hand clenches on her hip. By sheer will, I force it to relax. “What happened?”

  “I screamed and he knocked me down. He was fifteen and much bigger than me. I fought him, kicked him in the balls like Casey taught me, but it didn’t slow him down one bit. Later we found out he was high on meth.” Her gaze looks off into the distance.

  Her speech has changed. Instead of her usual adult voice, she’s adopted the patter of a much younger girl.

  “He tied my hands above my head, and he—” She gulps.

  “Breathe, love. Breathe.” I can’t stand listening to her pain. If it’s the last thing I do, I will find the bastard who did this and tear him apart.

  She clears her throat. “He-he tried to rape me, but he couldn’t, you know, get hard.”

  Thank God.

  “So he beat me with his bare fists. Broke my arm, a couple of ribs.”

  I can’t remain aloof any more. Sitting up, I clutch her to me. “Jesus. God. No.”

  Rather than fight me off, she wraps her arms around my waist. “Casey arrived from school and heard my screams, and after he beat the crap out of him, he called the cops. They hauled both of them to juvie while an EMT crew whisked me to a hospital. A week later, they released Casey and moved us to a different home. Took me a month to heal.”

  “What happened to the sick son of a bitch who hit you. Hope he went to jail for a long time.”

  “He died in juvie. Somebody beat him to death.” She shudders.

  Karmic justice at work. I brush my hand down her back again and again until she stops trembling. “Did you talk about it with anyone?”

  “You mean like a therapist?” She whispers against my skin.

  “Yes.”

  “No. I refused.”

  “Why?”

  She withdraws from me, swipes angrily at the tears running down her face. “I was ten, Storm. Ten-year old girls don’t go spilling their guts out to some shrink.”

  I curl a hand over her shoulder. “So all these years, you’ve held it in?” I experienced a tortured childhood of my own, so I have a good understanding of her emotional pain.

  She shrugs off my comfort. “Can we talk about something else? Like food. I’m starving.”

  Avoidance at its best. A shadow lurks deep in her eyes. I don’t care how long it takes, one way or another, I’ll get the truth, all her truth, out of her.

  Chapter 18

  __
____________

  Elizabeth

  THAT NIGHT HE INSISTS ON SHOWING ME HIS HOME. So I slip into the black, lace-sleeved dress I stowed in my luggage and the string of pearls I bought at a garage sale. They shimmer and look good enough to pass off as the real thing.

  While he showers, I straighten out his papers as best I can. I’m so familiar with this deal, I understand his organizational binder. I insert the research papers under that tab and the financial information under the valuation tab. I’m slipping the binder into his briefcase when he emerges, freshly shaved and smelling of that yummy cologne I love.

  His brow wrinkles as he stares at the table, now devoid of paperwork. “You put everything away?”

  “Yes, I didn’t think you’d want your documents out in the open where anybody could see them.”

  “As in anybody who could do something with that knowledge?”

  “Yes. Oh.” Only then does it hit me. I’m on the opposing side of the deal. I could use the information to our advantage. Not that I noticed much. Too busy thinking about him to process what I was looking at.

  His mouth kicks up in one corner, and one dimple pops up in his cheek. “You’re blushing. Should I worry?”

  “No, I ...” Shoot.

  Pulling me to him, he drops a kiss on my nose. “Ms. Nosey Parker.” The phrase sounds like an endearment.

  I push at him, but he doesn’t let me go. “I didn’t pry, Storm.”

  “I know.”

  “How do you know?”

  He tilts up his head and looks down on me. “If you had, I would have never known.”

  I squeeze his middle. “Glad you have such a high opinion of my spying abilities.”

  He curls his hands around my face and kisses me. I melt into a puddle.

  “Maybe we should stay and have dinner here.” His voice’s gone all husky.

  “Dinner? Is that what you call sex now?” After my true confession, we did the dirty deed again, and now, going by his hard on, he’s ready for round three. I smack his shoulder. “God, Storm, can’t you stop thinking about sex for one second?”

  “Not when I’m around you.”

  “Well, you’re going to have to. I want to see your place and eat dinner.” I don’t understand what’s going on with my stomach. We ordered sandwiches and salads from room service earlier, but I’m starving again. I shrug mentally. Maybe it’s just trying to make up for lost nutrition.

  Since I don’t want anyone from Smith Cannon to catch us together, I suggest we travel separately to his place. After balking at first, he ultimately agrees. Half an hour later, I hitch a ride on the elevator. Thankfully, I don’t run into any of my coworkers on the way down. Outside, the doorman beckons to one of the many taxis lined up by the curb. I gather by the smile on his face, my tip’s too generous, but I’m too nervous to remember the gratuity rate for hailing a cab. The taxi arrives at Storm’s building in nothing flat. When I announce to the concierge I’m here for Gabriel Storm, his eyes widen for a second before he dials a number and announces my name.

  While I wait, I enjoy the magnificence of the lobby. With its overstuffed sofas and chairs, gold marble walls and crystal chandeliers the vestibule is a throwback to the art deco era. I half expect that famous fictional detective to stroll through the reception area in his upward-curled mustache and patent leather shoes. “How lovely.” I whisper to no one in particular.

  “Glad it pleases you.” Storm says from behind me.

  My hand flies to my chest as I turn to him. “God, you scared me.”

  “That was not my intention.” Placing a hand along the small of my back, he guides me toward the bank of elevators, gilded with Egyptian images. But that’s not his final destination. Taking a right turn, he leads me toward a recessed opening in the wall, one made almost invisible by potted Palmetto Palm trees standing guard to its right and left.

  “Where are we going?” I ask, confused.

  “To the private lift that will take us to my penthouse.” He threads my hand through his and walks me to an intricately detailed iron grill gate. When he keys in a code into an electronic keypad, the gate swings open, and we step toward a smaller version of the gilded elevators. He pushes the ‘Up’ button, and soon a cacophony of deep groans and grinds rattles from behind the door. Even though the noises sound ominous, I don’t panic. Until the elevator door slides open to reveal a space the size of a coffin.

  “Oh, hell no.” I own shoe boxes bigger than that. I turn back to the gate.

  But before I take a step in that direction, he grabs my arms and swings me around to face him. “Where are you going?”

  “Back to the hotel.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not getting in that rattletrap.”

  “No one has died riding this lift.”

  “There’s always a first time.”

  “It will be fine. You will be fine.” His lips quirk.

  I can tell he’s fighting back a smile. The bastard. “Nuh-uh.”

  He hauls me into him and plants a kiss hot enough to curl my hair. And just like that, hunger replaces fear.

  He picks me up and carries me into the rickety, wobbly contraption, and, God help me, I don’t care. All I care about is his mouth, nibbling my bottom lip, licking my upper one while I writhe against him.

  One of his hands lets go long enough to press the gold gilded “PH” button. But then it returns to my ass, molding it, lifting me. Using his hips for leverage, I climb him like a tree, while he hitches up my skirt and palms his favorite place which just happens to be bare.

  The surprised look on his face is priceless. “Where’s your underwear?”

  “Back at the hotel.” I suckle his bottom lip and grind into that hard length of his.

  He catches an arm against the side of the elevator. “Christ almighty.”

  The elevator dings, and the door opens, but we stay right where we are, going at it like horny teenagers.

  Breathing heavy, he pries his mouth off me. “We have to get off, love.”

  I grind down my wet heat on him. “Working on it.”

  He steps out while I cling to him like a demented monkey, kisses me hard one last time before letting go.

  I take my time sliding down his body. Only when my heels hit the rug, do I become aware of my surroundings and to the possibility of someone else being present. I tug down on my dress and look around hoping no one witnessed my bare ass. Luckily, we’re the only ones there. Classy, Elizabeth. Real classy.

  “Come.” He takes me by the hand and leads me to the couch. The living room, with its burgundy leather sofa, love seats and chairs, crystal coffee tables, gold gilt lamps, and deep thick cream rug, is straight out of House Beautiful—the Brit version. It’s also bigger than the downstairs of my townhouse.

  “Well, what do you think?” His expectant glance tells me he truly cares about my opinion.

  “Gorgeous.”

  He blows out a breath and grins. “Glad you like it.”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “Since I graduated from uni.”

  “Uni?”

  “Oxford.”

  “Oh, of course.”

  “I needed a place in London, away from the family manse.”

  Given his bad boy status, of course he needs a place away from the family mansion, somewhere to take all his women. “Lucky you found this penthouse then.”

  “I didn’t ‘find’ it, love. It belongs to me. Passed down from my great grandmother, Emily Swift. She built The Brighton in the 1930s.”

  “Bet there’s an interesting tale there.”

  “There is.” He tugs me down to the couch to sit alongside him. “Champagne?” He points to the silver ice bucket standing to the side.

  “Yes, please.”

  While he pours, he continues his story. “She was quite young when she married her first husband. A man twenty years older and her Radcliffe college professor.”

  I take the flute from his hand, and a sp
ark arches between us, leaving me breathless. “Oh, my. So she was hot for teacher.”

  He laughs. “Quite the opposite, actually. Teacher was hot for her. She was quite beautiful, you see. I have a picture of her ... somewhere.” He glances around, rises and grabs a photo frame from a console table. “Here.”

  The black and white photo shows a smiling, dark-haired woman in the prime of her life. Sheer joy pulsed out of her.

  “She was gorgeous. Was she American or British?”

  “American.” He takes the frame from my hand, rests it on the coffee table.

  “So how did she come to build this place?”

  “Long story.” Curling his arm around my shoulders, he settles us into the couch. “Earlier in his life, her husband interned at the same law firm as Calvin Coolidge, and they became the best of friends. When Coolidge became President, he rewarded his friend by appointing him Ambassador to Great Britain. Unfortunately, he suffered a fatal heart attack soon after his appointment. After his death, she chose to make her permanent home in London, and soon she was part of the “in” crowd. You see, she possessed the three Bs—breeding, beauty and brains—as well as pots of money she inherited from her oil baron father.”

  By the way he flashes his devastating grin, I can tell he’s enjoying the telling of this tale.

  “Due to her period of mourning, she didn’t socialize much, but somehow she caught the eye of my great grandfather. And he caught hers. He was blonde, blue-eyed, charming. I’m told I resemble him quite a bit.” He sneaks a glance at me to make sure I’m looking before he poses in profile.

  I bite down on my lip to keep from laughing. “Was he arrogant as well?”

  He barks out a laugh. “Probably. Anyhow, an indecently short time later, less than five months after her husband’s demise, they married. They couldn’t wait, you see.” He winks at me.

  “Why not?” I sip the champagne.

  “She was pregnant, and they needed to tie the knot before she gave birth, otherwise, the child would be illegitimate. The baby turned out to be a boy, and he became the next earl before he turned five.”

  “Five? What happened?”

  “My great-grandfather wrapped a car around a tree. Died instantly.”