by Naima Simone
She sucked in a breath. Jesus Christ. Jesus. Christ.
“I’d just snatched the butcher knife from the drawer and turned around when he burst into the room. Either he didn’t see the knife or didn’t have time to stop, but he barreled into me, and I…I stabbed him in the chest. I’ll never forget the look in his eyes. The disbelief. The fury. The gasp he released as he fell to the floor. The smell…”
Bile roiled in her stomach, fed by the horror Chay must’ve suffered and the hatred of a perverted bastard who’d long been dead. She’d never considered herself a violent person, but at this moment she could go Lorena Bobbitt on the sick asshole before putting him back in the hole where he belonged. If all was fair and just in this world, Richard Pierce was spending an eternity in the deepest pit of hell as Satan’s bitch.
“What do you want me to say?” Why did he scrutinize her as if waiting—no, expecting—her to revile him? The new, but now familiar, killing rage blinded her again. “Is this where I change my mind about who you are? About how I see you? Who am I to pass judgment on how you intended to stop the pain? Thank God the right person ended up on the end of that knife, though,” she growled.
Slowly, he shook his head, eyes so sad. And resolved. So damn resolved. She could practically hear the thought wending through his head. You don’t understand…
The hell she didn’t.
“Aslyn, I’ve done things. After Richard’s death. Things I’m not proud of…”
“I don’t give a fuck,” she snapped. Unable to remain seated any longer—unable to not touch him any longer—she skirted the table and knelt between his legs. Cupping his face between her palms, she smoothed her thumbs over his sculpted cheekbones, under the mesmerizing beauty of his haunted eyes. “You listen to me, damn it. Don’t think about how you’re going to respond to me or convince me I’m wrong and don’t know what I’m talking about. Listen,” she demanded. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing to apologize for. To anyone. You were a scared fifteen-year-old boy threatened not just with a gun but with the safety of the one parent you had and loved. No apologies for how you protected her. Or how you survived.”
She grabbed one of his hands, lifted it, and pressed her hand to his. Palm to palm. His long, elegant fingers dwarfed hers, and tears scalded her eyes.
“You’re strong. A protector,” she whispered, folding his fingers into a fist. “You bring justice.” She straightened his fingers again and kissed the palm. “And unimaginable pleasure and joy. You humble me.” Closing her eyes, she brushed her mouth over his. “You are a good man, Chayot Grey. An honorable, worthy man.”
For a long moment, he didn’t move. His breath didn’t ghost over her skin.
Sorrow struck her in the chest.
I’ve lost him. I didn’t get through…
With a moan, he parted his lips and took her mouth in a burning kiss. She welcomed him, accepted him. All that he was—his darkness and the light. His strength and vulnerability. His reserve and his rawness. In that moment, she claimed him as assuredly as his mouth branded hers.
His tongue plunged deep and coiled around hers, drawing on her. Hot. Sexual. Unleashed. Seeking. Her head tilted back under the pressure of his hungry mouth. She arched into his big hands, and they stroked up her back, pulled her closer, and held her steady.
He shot to his feet, carrying her with him. All modesty razed under the heat of his passion and need, she scrambled up his body and hooked her legs around his hips, her arms around his neck. The hard plane of his chest rubbed over her aching nipples, and the rigid column of his cock ground against her clit. She groaned into his kiss, angling her head for more. Pumping her hips for more.
His soft growl rumbled over her lips as he cupped her ass in both hands and headed down the hall. Every step and jostle rubbed her over his erection and caused another jolt of pleasure to pulse through her. By the time he entered her bedroom and laid her on the mattress, she almost pleaded with him to strip her naked and just fuck her already.
He granted half her wish.
Within seconds, her shorts and panties were tugged down her legs and tossed to the floor. Cool air rushed over her wet, swollen folds, reminding her he could clearly see the evidence of her desire for him glistening on her sex. Modesty should’ve been a thing of the past considering how many times they’d had sex in the last few days. It should’ve been. But as he stared at her naked, vulnerable flesh, she couldn’t resist the urge to shield herself. She was far from Penthouse material, and lying on the bed, stretched out in only a T-shirt, she felt…exposed.
“No,” he murmured. He palmed her knees, gently but firmly pressed them apart. His gaze flicked up her torso, crashed into hers, and she gasped at the fire blazing there. All vestiges of embarrassment melted under that greedy heat. Refusing to release her from his hooded scrutiny, he lowered his head between her thighs. Placed a kiss to the crease where her leg met her torso. “Roll over. On your hands and knees.”
Shivers skated over her hypersensitive skin. She obeyed without hesitation. The dark promise contained in that lust-roughened voice could only mean good, hot-as-hell things for her. She detected the rustle of clothing and glanced over her shoulder in time to witness him whip his shirt over his head. Damn. How many times had she caressed all that gold, tight flesh? Kissed it? Tongued it? And still his honeyed skin, toned muscle, and ridged abdomen possessed the power to render her breathless. With her ass in the air and legs spread, he could easily glimpse his effect on her. She couldn’t hide her body’s reaction to him—didn’t want to. This—the sexual cream dotting her feminine folds—was honest. Her body couldn’t lie.
Warm, full lips stroked over the small of her back as knowing fingers circled her clit. Pleasure jolted her like an electrified current. She bucked at the dual caress. He whispered an assurance against her skin, then belied the soothing noise by tonguing the sensitive skin again and pinching the throbbing bundle of nerves. She cried out, head thrown back on her shoulders. God, it was too much. It wasn’t enough.
Chay’s mouth blazed a path up her spine, pausing over her scar and paying it extra attention. The soft brush of his tongue over the ridged flesh echoed in her heart, erasing a tiny bit of the terror and pain with each gentle graze. He climbed up on the bed behind her, and denim grazed the backs of her thighs, piling another sensation on top of the others that pushed her closer and closer to sensory overload.
“Up,” he ordered, guiding her with hands on her shoulders. Without warning, he gripped the hem of her shirt and yanked it over her head. In seconds, her bra had disappeared as well. Air whistled from her lungs. His bare chest pressed against her back; his denim-covered erection rode the crease of her ass.
“Tell me where to touch you, Aslyn,” he murmured, the silky command as tempting and seductive as the serpent with Eve. And like her, Aslyn surrendered to sin, too.
“Here.” She directed one of his hands to her breast. “And here.” She placed the other between her legs.
“Like this?” He gently thumbed her nipple, teased a fingertip through her cleft.
She shook her head, almost frantic. “No.”
“What do you need, baby? Tell me.”
She huffed out a breath that edged close to a sob. “Harder. Please,” she begged. Sliding her own hands over his, she rolled the hard tip between her thumb and forefinger. Pushed the heel of his hand to the top of her sex and undulated her hips in a silent demand to ease the ache. Make her come.
“Like this.”
It wasn’t a question, but a statement. A knowledgeable declaration. He pinched her nipple, tugged it, raked his nail over the tip. She shuddered. Pleasure edged with just a bite of pain. Just enough to make her bow into his touch. Crying out, she reached behind her, tangled her fingers in his hair.
“Yes,” she panted. “Like that.”
“And this.”
He plunged two fingers into her core, and she writhed, trapped between the two caresses. Trying to escape. Trying to force him
into a deeper, harder touch.
He tortured her. Mercilessly. Perfectly. Switching breasts, he plumped the flesh first before subjecting the neglected peak to the same ruthless pleasure. With each tug he thrust into her, creating an erotic rhythm that had her body singing. Tug. Thrust. Tug. Thrust. She teetered on the rim of ecstasy, suspended by his control, his whims.
“Chay.” She moaned, riding his fingers. “Please. Let me…”
“Come?” he murmured. “Do you want to come?”
“Yes,” she cried out. Goddamn, yes. “Please,” she pleaded.
“Not without me,” he growled into her ear. The mattress shifted beneath her as he moved off the bed. She closed her eyes, but heard the whisper of denim sliding down skin. Caught the soft rip of foil.
“No.” She twisted around, and he paused with the condom above his cock. “No,” she repeated. “No condom. I want you. Only you. All of you.” She wanted what he’d never given anyone else. Sex with nothing between them. After tonight—after he’d shared with her what she suspected he hadn’t revealed to anyone else—she needed this. Needed him. Naked in every way. Emotionally. Physically. Unlike when he’d taken her in the shower, she wanted him to finish inside her. Mark her in the most primal way possible.
He stared at her from under a hooded gaze. She steeled herself for his denial of this connection, but then he set the latex on the bedside dresser on top of the discarded foil. She exhaled, her heart a relentless hammer inside her chest.
Like a gorgeous, golden predator, he stalked back to the bed. Captured her mouth in a kiss that reignited a flame that had never gone out, but fueled it to burn hotter, brighter. Hungrier.
Lifting his head, he pressed a hand between her shoulders, silently ordering her to lower to the bed again. She crouched on her hands and knees, trembling in anticipation and desire. God, she needed him. To come into her. Stretch her. Claim her. At some point he’d become so vital to her that she didn’t feel complete if he wasn’t with her, touching her. Inside her.
He gripped her hip with one hand, smoothed another up her spine and drove it into her hair. Blunt fingernails scratched her scalp, and she shuddered, the reaction echoing in the starved clenching of her core. The hot brand of his erection tunneled through her slit, nudged her clit.
“Chay.” She whimpered, frustrated but so damn turned on she almost screamed. “Please.”
He stiffened. Then buried himself inside her with a single thrust. She cried out, shaking. So full. Almost too full. From this position, he filled her to capacity.
“Shh,” he soothed, rubbing a hand up and down her spine, over her ass, and around to her quivering belly. “Easy, baby. I have you. You feel so damn good. So wet. Tight.” He groaned, rocked his hips against her bottom. The tip of his cock prodded a place deep inside her, and she expelled a hard breath, a quake rippling over her, through her. “Damn,” he growled, and began thrusting heavily inside her.
He fell over her, covered her. Skin stuck to skin, sweat the adhesive gluing them together. Hard fingers tugged her head back, and he set his teeth to her, branding her as he slammed into her, rode her. Caught up in a vortex of ecstasy, she spiraled helplessly toward orgasm, aided by his dick hitting the same magical spot over and over again.
With a scream, she tumbled ass-over-head into rapture. Plunged into ecstasy with her arms flung wide.
Knowing Chay would catch her.
…
Damn.
What inconsiderate bastard blasted music at the ass crack of dawn?
Aslyn peeled an eyelid open. But instead of the orange, yellow, and pink rays of a new day, moonlight streamed through the bedroom window. Still night. And this wasn’t the rental home, but the condominium. The safe house.
And the heavy, solid weight behind her was Chay. Warmth uncoiled in her stomach and radiated to all points south and north. I could get used to this—
Whoa there, girl. Rein it in.
The Stockholm syndrome reared its twisted, confused head again. Only, was it confused? Or in denial…
“Damn it, Rafe.” Chay rolled over and out of the bed. She lay on her back and completed her stretch, studying him with unabashed admiration while he snatched his jeans off the floor. He yanked his cell phone free and pressed it to his ear, cutting off the tinny ringtone.
“Yeah,” he said, his tone abrupt. After several seconds, his frown cleared, the stoic reserve returning. “Yeah,” he repeated. “Give me thirty, and we’ll meet you there.”
She sat, a hollow pit replacing the sultry heat of moments ago. He lowered the phone, stared at her.
“What?” she rasped.
“The surveillance we continued on your house,” he said, tone flat. “They spotted a trespasser early this morning. Aslyn, we might have caught your stalker.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
He hated police stations.
And though this time Chay wasn’t confessing to a two-decade-old murder, the interrogation room in the Canton police station still irritated the hell out of him. They all looked the same. Institutional colors, two-way mirror, a small table that made him feel like the Jolly Green Giant, and the most uncomfortable chairs ever created by man. Why couldn’t one of these rooms be decked out in red paint, a long conference table with plenty of leg room, and cushy seats?
He sighed. Shit, he was deflecting and concentrating on anything that would derail his mind from the memory of the last time he’d occupied an interrogation room. Then he’d been exposing a terrible secret that could have jeopardized his future as well as his friends’. That last occasion had also marked the divide between a private, anonymous existence and a life open for public consumption and sordid speculation. Hell, a producer from a cable network had even contacted him about a Movie of the Week film.
In the last couple of months, his reality had started veering toward, if not normal, something that resembled quiet and solitude.
At least it had until last week.
He cast a glance at the quiet woman sitting to him. Well, “quiet” might be a misnomer. Aslyn wasn’t verbally speaking, but the incessant jump of her leg, the drum of her fingers on her thigh as if she played an imaginary piano screamed “I’m nervous as hell.” He’d noticed that quirk about her. She seemed in perpetual motion. Even when sitting, something—her fingers, her feet, her legs—moved. He remembered that frenetic energy during her performance. Aslyn didn’t remain sitting on a bench. She owned the stage in her leather pants, fuck-me boots, and flowing shirts. She stood, strutted, danced, conducted. A person—including Chay—couldn’t take their attention off her for that hour.
And that was the problem.
In a short week, she’d impacted his life like a blazing meteor rocketing through Earth’s atmosphere and slamming into the ground. The landscape of his life had been forever altered by her appearance in it. She’d shown him deep down he wasn’t satisfied with a lonely existence tempered by the occasional nights out with friends. He may not want more, but he needed more than a superficial connection with a woman. He longed for a woman he could trust, could be naked to the soul with, could…love. A woman who knew all his dark secrets and accepted him anyway.
Today, he was not only willing, but he’d exposed a secret to her he’d hidden from three of the closest people in his life. Though he’d never confided in Gabe, Mal, or Rafe about the full extent of Richard’s abuse, Chay always suspected they’d guessed the truth. He’d never confessed to anyone but Aslyn about the failed suicide. His shame had been too great. Yet he’d trusted her.
She’d wrought change in him and his life. And the messed up part was the desires she’d stimulated and created could only be satisfied by her. So where did that leave him? Wanting a woman who would return to the other side of the country.
Wanting a woman who lived her life in the spotlight.
Everything she did invited public adulation or scrutiny. After being on the receiving end of the ravenous and predatory press once, he couldn’t do it again.
“Stop staring at me,” Aslyn said without turning her head and verifying he had been intently studying her. Red and gold hair tumbled over her shoulder like fire. He barely resisted the urge to loop one of those curls around his finger and tug. Her lashes would flutter, and her breath would shudder from between her parted lips. He could predict her reaction as easily as he could foretell his next heartbeat.
“How do you know I’m staring?”
“I can feel you,” she murmured. She tilted her head to the side, meeting his gaze this time.
The answer and the desire in her eyes sent heat spiraling through him. He clenched his fists. I can’t lay her out on the table in the interrogation room and fuck her senseless…right?
The door to the room opened, and a detective entered, aborting any thought of having her legs hooked over his shoulders and his cock buried deep inside her.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.” The detective, a bulky man with salt-and-pepper hair, offered his hand to Aslyn first, then Chay. “My name is Detective Adams.” He lowered to the chair across from them. “Thank you for coming in, Ms. Jericho. I’ll try not to keep you too long.”
“It’s not a problem, Detective.” Aslyn smiled, and Chay silently snorted at the slightly dazed expression on the apparent career officer’s face. It probably wasn’t a usual occurrence meeting an internationally known concert pianist—and a beautiful one to boot. “Especially if coming down here means this nightmare might finally be over.”
Adams cleared his throat. “Yes, well, we’re still questioning the suspect, but…” He leaned forward, his clasped hands on the tabletop. “Ms. Jericho, I read the reports that have been filed regarding the trespass, harassment, and assault. I have to be frank. The UNSUB who is behind those crimes sounds unstable, erratic, and intelligent. The guy we picked up outside your house is an eighteen-year-old kid who lives a couple of streets over from you. Socially awkward, yes. Dumb? Probably. Horny?” He coughed, his lined skin flushing red. “Pardon me.”
