by Naima Simone
Snatching up the cell, she opened her contacts and skimmed down the list. And there it was. The third and final entry under the Rs. Ronin. That’s all he’d entered. No last name. Fine with her. Kind of appropriate, actually. What she wanted from him didn’t require last names or even conversation. Tapping his info, she brought up a new message.
Kim: I’ve changed my mind.
Panic tinged with hysteria welled inside her the moment after she hit send. Oh fuck. What had she done? Pressing a hand to her belly, she tossed the phone back on the cushion as if it’d suddenly broke out in warts. Okay, calm down. It was done now. And he probably wouldn’t see the text for a while. It was Saturday night, and most people had plans, things to do, people to see…
Well, good God. She was now babbling to herself. She snorted, disgusted. Still, it would most likely be a while before he answered…
Her phone dinged, signaling a new text.
In disbelief, she scooped the phone up. Peeked at the screen.
Ronin: Where are you?
Ohhh shit. A shaky breath shuddered out from between her parted lips. That had been fast. Almost as if he’d been waiting for her reply. As soon as the thought flitted across her mind, she dislodged it with a mental shake of her head. That was ridiculous. But still… Was she really doing this? She swallowed past her heart, which had lodged itself in her throat. Fingers trembling, she tapped out a response before her mind could catch up and put a halt to this madness.
Kim: The Grand. Executive suite.
Three bubbles appeared for several seconds.
Ronin: Be there in twenty.
That was it. She stared at those four words for several long moments, captivated by them. Ensnared by them.
Be there in twenty.
The message seemed to leap off the screen, this time more a warning than a promise.
Her fingers tightened around the phone. Heat shimmered between her legs, and her so-damn-empty flesh clenched. She didn’t try to pretend she didn’t know why Ronin was coming to her.
Excitement jet-propelled by nerves flooded her veins and sent her flying across the suite toward the bedroom. She hurried over to the lighted vanity counter and stared at her reflection. With her hair pulled up in a sloppy top knot, her face scrubbed free of makeup, and her body clothed in the latest I’m-pathetic-and-have-no-plans-for-a-Saturday-night wear, she wasn’t exactly prepared for seduction.
But on closer inspection, she couldn’t help but notice the flush of color painting her cheeks, or the gleam of anticipation in her eyes. She looked…alive. For the first time in almost a year and a half, something other than nothing filled her chest. And that something buzzed under her skin and sizzled in her belly like an electrical current. Did it make her pathetic that a one-night stand lit her up like that Space Needle? Probably. Very likely. But at this moment, she couldn’t seem to make herself give a damn.
Turning from the mirror, she scanned the large room. Nope, no clothes, underwear, or random papers from work hanging around. Still, she closed the closet door, swept a hand over the bedcover, smoothing out a couple of wrinkles, and aligned the pillows. C’mon, Kim. Hopefully, he’s going to throw you on the bed not give it the quarter test. She’d always been a neat freak, but since the divorce, the habit had worsened. She didn’t need a psychologist to tell her the total chaos in her personal life had her trying to exert control over what she could—her environment. Hell, she could figure that one out on her own. Didn’t stop her from spot checking the dresser and bedside tables for any dust.
“This is crazy,” she muttered, striding from the bedroom. That had always been one of her problems. Overthinking, overanalyzing things. It’d driven Matt nuts. Everything didn’t have to be planned out or scheduled, he’d often complained…
Aaaand she was so not going to think about her ex-husband right now. Not when another man would arrive any moment to end her sexual fast.
Calm down. Women do this all the time. She inhaled, held the breath for several seconds, and then released it. You just don’t do it all the time…
Ordering that traitorous voice inside her head to shut the fuck up, she altered her course and forged a beeline for the bar again. Just as her fingers closed around the cork of the wine bottle, a knock reverberated on the door.
She froze, a deer suddenly caught in the headlights of a two-ton monster truck with no brakes. Seconds later, another rap echoed in the room, and of their own accord, her feet unglued themselves from the floor and moved forward, carrying her across the room. Only when she opened the door did she realize she still clutched the neck of the wine bottle. Which she was grateful for because the sight of the big man standing in the doorway had her mouth dry and in desperate need of a drink.
At some point, she would need to stop staring at him. Maybe that point would be when he sprouted a hunchback, or a third eye popped out in the middle of his forehead. But until that moment when he transformed into Quasimodo’s cyclops twin, she didn’t hold out much hope.
Good God, he was huge. It’d only been a few hours; how had she forgotten the width of those powerful shoulders that seemed to fill the doorway. Or let it slip from her mind how he towered above her? His large frame nearly blocked out the light from the hallway behind him so he eclipsed all else, filling her vision until he damn near spilled over.
The dark hair that had been bound earlier tumbled around his face and over his shoulders. The thick, wavy strands should’ve somehow dimmed the gut punch of masculinity that seemed to radiate from him. But to the contrary, they enhanced his virility and the sensuality that clothed him as easily and effortlessly as the white T-shirt covering his wide, hard chest and the faded blue jeans hanging on his lean hips and clinging to his strong thighs. The tattoos swirling over his arm seemed starker, more vivid against his golden, taut skin.
She dragged her gaze up his body, taking the scenic route, and finally met his midnight eyes. One of those pirate eyebrows arched, and a corner of his almost-too-full mouth twitched.
Oh yeah. So busted just blatantly ogling him.
Silently calling herself all kinds of a fool, she edged back, her numb fingers slipping free of the knob. The door started to slowly swing closed, but before she could catch it, Ronin shifted forward, entering the suite. Again, that curious paralysis grabbed her, as if all the energy that seemed to swarm around him had sucked away all her ability to move. He eased into the entryway between the door and the living area, his massive frame dwarfing it. Her brain ordered her feet to get going, to do something. But those gleaming, steady eyes on her—the heated intent in them—had transformed her into a mannequin. And his touch would turn her back into soft, pliable, needy flesh and blood.
She dragged a hand over her hair. What a ridiculous, fanciful thought. So unlike her pragmatic, logical self, it worried her for a moment.
“Nice place,” Ronin finally spoke, the deep rumble of his voice stroking her exposed skin. Since his gaze hadn’t budged from her since she’d opened the door, she had the sense that he was attempting to put her at ease. As if that was possible with him standing there like a mountain of sex, pleasure, and all things guaranteed to grant you a one-way ticket to hell.
The gesture melted the ice that had trapped her limbs. “Thanks.” She waved a hand toward the area behind her—the hand still firmly clutching the wine bottle. “Come on in.”
“Is it safe?” He nodded toward the Reisen. “Or can I expect a whack to the back of my head as soon as I turn around? That would be a new way to get me under you.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Not gonna lie. I’ve never been one for pain with my pleasure, but for you? I could get down with the Red Room shit.”
Any woman worth her ereader would’ve understood his reference to Christian Grey’s room of BDSM fun. That he knew about it, though… She snorted then crossed her arms over her chest, wine bottle tapping her hip. Damn her happy nipples. Just the mention of him—how had he put it?—getting under her, and pleasure, and the rebellious peaks had perk
ed right on up.
“That reminds me.” She set the alcohol on a small table and strode over to her phone, which she’d left on the couch. Scrolling to the camera app, she quickly snapped a picture of Ronin, then pulled up a text addressed to Morgan Bishop and attached his image.
Kim: I’m with him tonight. Name’s Ronin. And for the love of all that’s holy, please don’t show this to your husband.
Her husband being Alex, Kim’s brother. She hit send.
“What was that for?” Ronin asked, that ever-present smile curving his lips.
“Just in case you turn out to be a serial killer with a penchant for dresses made out of skin, I sent your picture to a friend letting her know who I’m with.”
He snickered before removing his cell from his back pocket and, lifting it, took a picture of her. His thumbs flew over the screen, and a second later, he returned the phone to his jeans.
“Good idea. I just sent one of you to my best friend. Y’know, in case I end up on the back of a milk carton.”
A chuckle bubbled up inside her chest. Lord, how did he do it? Make her laugh so easily? This was about sex—hopefully dirty, throat-hoarse-from-screaming, mind-scrambling sex. Not about how he seemed to so effortlessly ease the heaviness that had weighed down her chest for a year and a half.
Her phone dinged, and she glanced down at the screen, still open to her text app.
Morgan: OMG!! Did your milkshake bring THAT to the yard??? Daaaaaaaayaaaamn, Kimmy! Do you have condoms? Crotchless panties? Did you shave your…
A GIF of a fluffy cat turning cartwheels accompanied the message.
Christ, the woman was crazy. And she was only half joking; sometimes she wondered about her sister-in-law’s certifiability. Shaking her head, she tossed the phone back on the sofa and glanced up. And met a rock-hard slab of chest covered in white cotton. All traces of amusement fled, and the excitement edged in nerves rushed back in, filling her like a riotous flood. The doubts and insecurities rode in its undertow, reminding her that she was a novice at this casual sex thing. That he was probably expecting Debbie Does Dallas and would get The Golden Girls.
“What are you doing here?” she blurted. When his shoulders stiffened, she squeezed her eyes shut and pinched the bridge of her nose. She sucked at this. Heaving a breath, she tipped her head back. “What I mean is, what do you want—”
“I know what you mean,” he interrupted, invading her personal space.
She shifted back.
He moved forward.
She shifted again.
He moved again, until their two-step ended with her spine pressed to the wall and he loomed over her, his big palms flattened on either side of her head.
“What I want,” he murmured, that low, melodic-but-rough tone creating a flurry of chaotic sparks inside her, “is to hear that sexy moan again. The one you made while sucking on my tongue like you tasted something real good. I want to strip these adorable pajamas from your cock-tease of a body and find out if this caramel and cream skin is smooth and sweet all over.” He bowed down, nuzzled her jaw, and delivered the tiniest of licks that ricocheted pleasure through her as if he’d tongue-bathed her from ankle to neck. A dark hum that reminded her of a purring lion reverberated in her ear. “I love caramel, by the way.” Another lick, accompanied by the minute sting of his teeth. “I want you to use that beautiful, tight control you got going on to dance and twist on my dick. Then I want to see you lose it, see that control crack right down the middle as you come so hard, I don’t have a choice but to go with you. And after that? I want to do it again and again all night until I limp home in the morning.”
The air that had been trapped in her throat, choked by lust, expelled from her on a long gust of breath. No one, and she did mean no one, had ever spoken to her so graphically. So blunt and…raw. So honest. She wouldn’t have ever labeled herself a fan of dirty talk. But now? Give her a foam finger and flag because she was sold. Dimly, she caught the buzz of her phone on the couch, but she ignored it, all her attention focused on the man turning her inside out with insane lust.
I want to do it again and again all night until I limp home in the morning.
The words sent desire and relief careening through her. That’s what she’d been clumsily attempting to ask him. What did he want out of this thing? Not more than tonight, because she didn’t have it to give. Hell, that she was diving into this…interlude shocked her. She didn’t want more, didn’t want a phone call in the morning to remind her of this diversion into erotic madness. One night to let go, to get down and dirty. To be someone else other than the rejected, buttoned-up, reserved woman she’d become.
“That make you feel better?” he asked, and she stiffened at his uncanny ability to pick thoughts from her head. “Were you worried I’d wake up in the morning, want the key to your house, and start ordering china patterns?” He tilted his head to the side, studying her, and part of her ached to dodge and evade that too-incisive stare. “No worries, hala. I’ll give you whatever you ask for tonight, and what you can’t bring yourself to ask for. Use me in any way you need to erase those shadows in your eyes. If you want forgetfulness tonight, take it from me, and the morning—and the days after that—will take care of themselves.”
Take me. Use me.
She shivered, the seduction and temptation of those four words almost too much to bear. Yet at the same time, she recoiled from his scalpel-like perception. Shadows in her eyes. She wasn’t a pity lay.
“And you’re okay with just offering up your body to be used like some sexual chew toy?” As soon as the hard words exited her mouth, she longed to snatch them back. She hated them, detested the defensiveness that had become her emotional default. That was her MO—if someone got too close, she shoved them away, mistrusting their motives.
Mistrusting herself.
She parted her lips to apologize, to call this whole night off. But before she could voice it, he leaned closer until their noses nearly bumped, until their breath mated. Lust still gleamed in his eyes, but so did the flicker of anger. Both set her on fire.
“What makes you think this is all about you? What if I have a ton of shit raining down in my life, and I showed up on your doorstep needing to not think, to lose myself in your tight body? What if I need you to use me, to give me a hard fuck so my mind is free of everything but how damn good it feels? You consider that?”
Shame weaved a path through her, as did the sudden, burning desire to give him that hard fuck he’d come for. She didn’t need to know the details of the “shit raining down in his life,” just as he didn’t have to know hers. But that didn’t erase the longing to supply them both with a few hours of oblivion.
“No,” she admitted softly. “I didn’t consider that.”
He nodded, the wisps of irritation fading from his gaze. “Now what do you want, hala?”
That was the second time he’d called her that name—hala. Curiosity to know what language it derived from as well as the meaning of it tugged at her. But not as much as the need to answer his question.
What did she want? Hot, filthy sex. Pleasure. Forgetfulness. To feel desired again.
To feel.
“You,” she whispered.
After a long moment where he contemplated her like a puzzle he’d figured out, he straightened to his full height. His arms still bracketed her head, but he towered above her.
A slight smile flirted with his mouth, possessing an edge that had the core of her clenching. “Then c’mere and get me,” he said, that same edge sharpening his tone…his command.
A second of indecision, of self-doubt, fluttered in her chest, but she squelched it almost as soon as it appeared. Pushing away from the wall, she took the two small steps that separated their bodies. She recognized his tactics; he was putting the decision—the power—in her hands. For a woman who’d felt powerless for so long, his offer was…intoxicating.
She flattened her palms on the wide expanse of his chest, and his muscles twitched un
der her skin, but that was the only response he betrayed. He continued to study her, his head not lowering to accommodate her. Not even when she slid her hands up his pecs and over his shoulders with an unbidden hum of appreciation. He intended to make her work for it.
Fine by her.
Stepping onto the tops of his scuffed boots, she locked her fingers behind his neck and applied pressure, ordering him without words to give her his mouth.
With a slow curve of his lips, he obeyed. Almost. He lowered his head the smallest degree. But enough for her to lift onto the balls of her feet and cover the distance. Enough for her to take. And did she.
Like his kiss in the convention center earlier that day, she didn’t ease into it. Didn’t gently explore or brush her lips over his in a tender question. No, she dove into him. Plundered that generous, carnal mouth like it held the richest treasure. And it did. The earthiness of his taste. The tickle of his beard. The erotic, wet tangle of his tongue. The harsh hunger of his groan. She stole them all, claiming each as her due.
On the tail end of a growl, he leaned into her, one hand falling to her ass and cupping a cheek through her thin pajama bottoms. Holding her close as he pressed harder into the kiss, flipping the tables and consuming her. Her mind whirled as a shudder worked its way through her body. A lightning bolt of pure lust struck her, and she twisted her fingers in his thick hair, the strands like rough silk caressing her palms and the backs of her hands. Another sensation to add to the ever-growing pile of sensory delights. She clung to him, arching into his big frame, rubbing against him like a cat in heat, whimpering into his mouth.
God, the things he did with that mouth. She wanted to find out what else he could do. Desperately. But first, more than her next kiss-infused breath, she wanted to get an eyeful of the huge body that had tempted and teased her from the first.
Unwrapping herself from around him, she shifted back and gave his chest a series of small nudges and pushes until they’d switched places, and he stood with his back pressed against the wall. He didn’t protest or try to reverse their position. Instead, he settled his hands on her hips, long fingers loosely spanning her waist, and waited.
