Savage

by Michelle St. James

  She forced her eyes to his face. It didn’t help. They were dark gray, almost black, and he was looking at her with a combination of anger and lust, like he wanted to hate fuck her right there in the doorway.

  He stepped back to open the door wider. “Come in.”

  She followed him inside, her eyes on the undulating dragon inked onto his back. The beast was rendered in deep blues and greens, the scales carefully detailed in black. Its tail was long and thick, winding its way all the way into the waistband of Farrell’s jeans. The dragon was blowing fire, the flames etched in brilliant red and orange. She couldn’t stop looking at its eyes. Fierce and cold, they were a reflection of inner rage.

  She forced her gaze away from it, letting her eyes roam the cavernous space of Farrell’s loft instead. There were a few new things — a plush brown sofa, a sleek modern dining table, new cabinets and appliances in the kitchen — but it was otherwise exactly the same.

  The open living space was flooded with gray light from the mullioned windows that had been part of the building since the 1800s. They rose all the way from the floor to the ceiling, soaring a good twenty five feet high. Still, the room was warm. It must have cost a fortune to keep warm.

  “The building is quiet today,” she said. “I didn’t see anyone on my way up.”

  “There isn’t anyone to see,” he said, walking to the fridge and pulling out a beer. “I own it now, and I got rid of all the other tenants.”

  “Oh,” she said, trying to hide her surprise. “It must be nice to have some privacy.”

  He ignored the statement. “Beer?”

  “No, thank you.”

  He shut the fridge, leaned against the counter, and studied her with hooded eyes, a predator calmly surveying its prey. His expression sent a jolt of something like fear — or was it anticipation? — through her body.

  “What?” she asked, desperate to fill the silence that had become too heavy with unspoken words.

  “I’m simply looking at you, Jenna.” His voice was gruff, and he pushed off the counter, walked toward her. His pace was slow and measured, his eyes never leaving hers. She held her breath when he stopped only inches away, so close she could smell him — musky and dangerous and utterly male. He tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “You haven’t changed, not outwardly, and yet there’s something different about you.”

  I’ve been so lonely. I’ve missed you so much. I gave birth to our daughter.

  “Maybe I’m just older.” She tried to focus on the words. On anything but his touch and the proximity that made her want to step into his arms.

  But it didn’t matter that she resisted, because a moment later, he stepped forward. Then he was so close she felt the energy of his body like a current, a forcefield of white noise that blocked out the voice of reason screaming for her to run.

  “We both are.” His voice was cold, the words clipped.

  “What about the key card?” she asked, trying to keep her hold on something practical.

  “It’s from a bank. In Madrid.” He said it casually, like he was as distracted by her proximity as she was by his.

  “A bank?” Her voice was too breathy. It gave away the sensation running amok in her body. Sensation caused by his nearness, by the undercurrent of anger in his voice that said if he took her now, it would be hard and intense and all-consuming.

  “That’s right.” His eyes were glued to her lips.

  “That’s… strange.” She said it, but she couldn’t seem to sort the information. Her brain was misfiring, her heart beating too fast as her body flooded with something like adrenaline. Something telling her to run. To get out while she still could.

  But there were more powerful forces at work in her mind. In her heart.

  They told her she’d been waiting five years to be this close to Farrell Black. That she’d known this would happen when she saw him at the funeral. Maybe even before that.

  That it was inevitable.

  He lowered his head to her shoulder, turned his face toward her neck and breathed deeply, like a man long deprived of scent. She closed her eyes against the sensation of his broad chest brushing against her breasts, the whisper of his breath against her collarbone. His body was a lick of fire she was powerless to resist. She knew she was going to get burned. But it was so hot, and she’d been cold for so long.

  She needed to leave. Needed to leave and never come back before this went any further.

  His body barely grazed hers, and his hands remained at his side as he nuzzled his way up her neck, stopping at her ear, his lips still not quite touching her skin. He was less than an inch away. So close that if she moved at all she would brush up against him.

  Her face against his cheek. Her breasts against the wide expanse of his chest. Her thighs against his powerful legs.

  She forced herself to remain still. It was the best she could do, because there was no way she had the will to turn away. Not with her nipples hard and ready for his mouth, her pussy throbbing for his tongue, his fingers, his cock. Maybe if she didn’t move he would change his mind. Decide this was a bad idea. Say no for the both of them.

  He leaned closer, and she felt the brush of his erection against her belly. It sent a lightning bolt of heat to her center, soaking her panties even as she kept her eyes closed, tried to pretend this wasn’t happening. Then his cheek was against hers, the whiskers of his five o’clock shadow setting her on fire as they scraped against her skin, his breath hot and urgent against her jaw as he moved closer to her mouth.

  His hand slid up one arm, slow and easy. It continued around the curve of her shoulder, all the way to her neck. He held it there, his thumb stroking the hollow of her throat while she held her breath. Then he slid his hand into the hair at the back of her head, cupping it in his big hand as tenderly as a baby bird. She’d forgotten this about Farrell.

  How he could be so hard. So demanding.

  How he could be so soft. So tender.

  He brushed his lips against her jaw on one side while his other hand held her in place by the hair at the back of her head. She was breathing loudly now, unable to hide the need pulsing through her body as he moved closer to her lips. His hand came up to her cheek, his thumb rubbing against her bottom lip even as his mouth found hers.

  The kiss was tender and chaste. She sighed, sinking into his lips, letting her body go soft against him. For a moment time seemed to stop. There was only Farrell’s body and mouth against hers, one hand in her hair, the other bracing her cheek.

  She felt the end of the moment like a coming earthquake. A vibration she could almost hear. A warning to duck and cover.

  He grabbed a fistful of hair at the back of her head and tugged hard enough to send a jolt of pleasure-pain though her body. She gasped, and when she opened her eyes, he was looking down at her, fury swirling in his gaze like a firestorm.

  Then his mouth was on hers again, and this time there was nothing chaste or tender about it. He used the hair at the back of her head to slant her lips under his, giving him better access to her mouth as he backed her up against the big window overlooking the street. She barely felt the pane of glass against her back as he plundered her, using his thumb to open her mouth wider for him. Like he couldn’t get enough. Like he would never be able to get enough.

  The press of his lips was merciless, almost painful. Her arms went around his neck, and she pressed her body against his, molding herself to him, fitting all of her curves to the corresponding planes and hollows of his body like nothing had changed.

  His tongue invaded her mouth, a conquering force that pillaged and burned as it laid claim. This wasn’t Farrell the lover, but Farrell the warrior. He wasn’t there to pleasure her. He was there to take his own pleasure. To prove he was still in charge.

  It only made her want him more.

  The small amount of stubble on his jaw scratched at her cheek, but it didn’t matter.

  She fisted his hair in her hands and pressed closer, nibbling his bottom l
ip until he growled, reached a hand between them, ripped open her blouse like it was a piece of paper.

  Then his bare skin was against hers. She sighed, sinking further into his kiss as their hands traveled each other’s body. He bit down on her lower lip. She tasted blood, but the sensation was so erotic she didn’t care. This is how it was with Farrell. How it had always been. The frantic need to own and occupy at any cost.

  No rules. No niceties.

  Pleasure.

  Pain.

  All the same in the name of joining their bodies.

  He licked his way down her neck, trailing his tongue along her collarbone as he continued to her breasts. They were heavy with her arousal, and she moaned as he freed them from her bra. He took one of them in his hand while he lowered his head to the other, closing his mouth around her nipple. He sucked hard, and she cried out, arching her back into the pleasure of it. She reached a hand between them, letting it move down his muscled abs, into the waistband of his jeans.

  He growled as she took him in her hand. Like the rest of him, his cock was massive.

  Powerful.

  Unyielding.

  Her pussy ached with the need to feel the satiny length of it buried inside her. She stroked him while he worked her nipple with his tongue, flicking it against the hard little peak, then sucking and nibbling until she had to press her thighs together to keep from coming.

  He let go of her breast, letting his hand travel to her jeans. It slid into her panties and he plunged his fingers inside her without preamble. His touch was angry, insistent, and she tried to keep her legs clamped together around his hand, wanting to stop the orgasm that seemed to have a mind of its own.

  “You’re so wet, Jenna. So hot,” he said, moving back up to her mouth. He seared her with his gaze. “Do you think anyone else can make you this wet? This hot?”

  The words sent a powerful rush of arousal to her core. She tried to turn her head away, wanting to deny the truth of it, but he turned her face to look at him as the fingers of his other hand worked her pussy with long, hard strokes.

  “Say it,” he demanded, staring into her eyes. “Tell me no one’s ever made you this wet. This hot.”

  He withdrew his fingers, and she whimpered as he brought them to his lips, licking her juices from them while he thrust his cock into her hand, grinding against her swollen pussy.

  “You better fucking say it, Jenna. Or I’m going to come in your hand and you’re going home to a cold shower.”

  She would die if she didn’t feel his fingers inside her again. If she couldn’t come while he stroked her clit, his mouth hot and demanding on her own.

  “No one makes me this wet,” she gasped. “No one makes me this hot.”

  He invaded her mouth with his tongue as he moved his hand back into place. She moaned as his fingers plunged through her dripping folds, then slid over the sensitive peak of her clit. She moved her hips against his hand, working in a perfect rhythm that came back to her like no time had passed.

  Like she was made for him. Like she still belonged to him.

  She stroked him at the same time, gliding her palm over his rigid shaft as he rolled her clit under the fleshy pad of his thumb. She was out of her mind with the need to come. She could no longer remember why they’d been apart. Why she’d been afraid of him. She was fully alive for the first time in five years, every cell in her body attuned to his. There was nothing but his mouth on hers, his cock growing bigger and harder by the second, pulsing in her hand while she moved against his fingers, the orgasm becoming more and more inevitable with every passing second.

  He looked down at her, his eyes flashing. “I’m not waiting for you. Not this time.”

  It was a punishment of sorts, but it didn’t matter because she was going to come. It was like an approaching storm. She could feel it in the ground under her feet, smell it in the air like an electrical storm.

  He plunged his fingers inside her while he continued rubbing circles over her the little bundle of nerves that was the epicenter of her desire. It was all she needed. There was a millisecond when her body felt suddenly lighter, like she was floating, and then she was in the eye of the storm, clenching around his fingers while white light exploded behind her eyes. After that there was nothing but emptiness and silence and the convulsing of her body again and again as it let go of the tension that had been building inside her since the moment she walked away from him.

  He let out a guttural cry, and she felt him spurt hot and urgent onto her hand while she continued stroking him, milking him for every last drop until she was sure he was done. She lay her head back against the window, still feeling the warmth of his body as he braced his hands on either side of her head. They were both breathing hard, both silent.

  Finally, Farrell straightened. He zipped up his jeans and crossed to the armoire against one concrete wall. When he returned he was holding a t-shirt in his hand. He handed it to her without meeting her eyes.

  “I’m sorry about your blouse.”

  She felt suddenly exposed, and she took the T-shirt and slipped it over her head. Then she zipped her pants and stepped away from him.

  “Did you plan that?” she asked, folding her arms over her chest.

  She expected his gaze to be cold. Instead it was completely devoid of emotion. “Would it matter?”

  She thought about it. “I suppose not.”

  He walked to the dining room table and picked something up, then crossed the room to stand in front of her. She could smell their sex. Smell the earthy odor of their orgasms lingering in the air. It sent another wave of arousal to her already sensitive center, and she shifted on her feet, silently begging her body to get a grip.

  He held out his hand. “Here’s the key card. The address of the bank in Madrid is there as well. He was only there twice, and he left the same day both times. I’m still looking into his time in Amsterdam.”

  She took it, felt the slip of paper where he’d written the address folded around the card. “Thank you.”

  She had the urge to take a step forward. To be back in his arms. She could tell him about Lily. Beg him to forgive her. To understand how frightened she’d been.

  But nothing had changed. He still commanded her body. Still filled that empty space in her soul that seemed meant only for him. He was the owner of her heart, the father of her child.

  And he was still a violent, dangerous man.

  “I should be going.” She stepped around him, picked up her bag from the sofa on her way to the door. She was almost there when his voice stopped her.

  “Jenna.”

  She thought about ignoring him. Hurrying from the room before he could speak. Before he could say something that might shake her already-faltering belief that she’d done the right thing all those years ago.

  She turned to face him instead. Because she had no choice. Because he was her lighthouse in any storm, and even when she thought she was better off being tossed at sea, his light glowed to her from the darkness.

  “Yes?”

  “You belong to me, body and soul. Always have, always will.”

  She turned and fled.

  16

  Jenna was still shaking when Mrs. Hodges opened her door twenty minutes later.

  “Lily, look who’s…” The older woman stopped mid-sentence when she saw Jenna’s face. She immediately reached for her, pulling Jenna into the flat. “What on earth has happened, dear?”

  Jenna shook her head. There was no polite way to tell Mrs. Hodges that she’d just had an earth shattering orgasm with Farrell Black. That he’d taken over her body like he’d owned it all along. That for a few minutes, she’d forgotten all about Lily and motherhood and the responsibilities that went along with it.

  “It’s nothing,” she said. “I’m fine.”

  “You most certainly are not,” Mrs. Hodges said, leading her to the kitchen. She pulled out a chair and put the kettle on to boil, then took two cups from the cupboard.

  “Wher
e is Lily?” Jenna asked, sitting down.

  “Lily is just fine,” Mrs. Hodges said. “She’s watching one of those animal shows she likes so much. Something about endangered lions.”

  Jenna nodded, relieved to have a few minutes to compose herself.

  Mrs. Hodges was silent as she set about making tea, waiting for the kettle to boil, pouring the water, letting the tea steep. By the time she set a steaming mug in front of Jenna, she was feeling calmer, warmed by the old stove in Mrs. Hodges' flat and the familiarity of the tiny kitchen.

  Mrs. Hodges sat in the chair across from her and looked her in the eyes. “Now talk.”

  Jenna drew in a breath. “I don’t… I don’t know what I’m doing right now.”

  The other woman leaned back in her chair, studying Jenna with knowing eyes. “Why do I have a feeling this has to do with Farrell Black?”

  Of course, Mrs. Hodges would know. She’d been Jenna’s confidant when she’d found out she was pregnant, had listened for hours as Jenna considered the pros and cons of telling Farrell or keeping the secret. Of staying or leaving. In the end, she’d waited for Jenna to come to her own conclusion, told her to follow her heart.

  She hadn’t listened. Following your heart only seemed to get you in trouble. She had instead followed her head by leaving London, putting as much distance between her and Farrell as possible.

  Jenna looked down at her hands. “I didn’t plan to see him, but he was at the funeral, and then, well…”

  Mrs. Hodges lifted an elegant brow.

  “I found something in my father’s things. Something I didn’t understand.”

  “And would you care to tell me about this something?” she asked.

  Jenna considered the question, then shook her head. She didn’t want to implicate anyone else in her father’s secret until she knew what it was. “Not yet. I still don’t have any answers, but I went to Farrell for help.”

  Mrs. Hodges took a drink of her tea. “And did he?”