Now he couldn’t let Nikita go. His heartrate finally settled. Her legs slipped from around his waist until she was supporting her own weight, and still he held on.
“That was…something,” Nikita whispered it softly.
“Something,” he agreed. “Though I’ll be damned if I know what.”
She wiggled a little. “You’re still holding on to me.”
He was. “I am.” Not breast or butt, not dug into her hair, just wrapped around her and holding on.
Nikita wiggled again, “Aren’t you going to—”
He kissed her to keep her quiet. Didn’t she know that there were moments when a guy needed time to figure out what the hell had just happened? The blood reaching his brain was still minimal for survival.
“Drake,” she pressed her hands to his cheeks. “You can let go of me now.”
He could.
Except…he wasn’t ready to.
“Nope. I’m not that stupid.” He eased back a half step, ready to pull her deeper into the locker room—and collapsed into a wall. His shorts and underwear were still around his ankles.
Nikita was also totally disheveled. He’d gotten her pants down and off one leg by nearly ripping off one of her running shoes. One leg had a sock, the other still had shoe, sock, and her own shorts and underwear. Her t-shirt was shoved up enough to see that he’d freed one breast from her sports bra but not the other. She didn’t appear to have noticed that yet.
He righted himself and pulled off the rest of her clothes over her ineffective and not terribly strenuous protests.
A naked Nikita was a breathtaking sight. Curves hinted at by her sportswear, suggested by her first outfit from the cruise ship’s boutique, and so promised by last night’s dress, were astonishing when unadorned.
“Shower,” he explained, which stilled the last of her protests. He definitely had to get this woman into a shower with him.
Then he stepped out to drag her toward the nearest stall—and collapsed into the wall again. His own ankles were still snarled up in his shorts.
Nikita allowed herself to be coaxed beneath the steaming spray, partly because she didn’t want to walk through the ship reeking of sweat and sex. But where she’d thought to get herself cleaned up, Drake had other ideas.
Sex with him had been just as rough and satisfying as she’d expected. Sex was meant to be enjoyable and it had been. Though with Drake it had also been much more. To have someone like him totally lose self-control over her as a woman was a revelation.
But a different man awaited her in the shower. He worked shampoo into her hair with a deep scalp massage. With soap and a washcloth, he made sure that not a square inch of her skin was untended, even the bottoms of her feet, which had turned out to be ticklish in a way she’d never been with anyone else. She didn’t need any spa treatment when she had Drake Roman to take care of her. She braced her hands against the wall to keep herself upright as he worked over her body. It was so soothing that she was slow to pick up on what else he was doing until it was too late.
She was already halfway to gone before she noticed. He was so gentle that she couldn’t find the energy to protest until he delivered another wave of release that stole her breath as it rippled through her body.
He washed himself off before she could recover enough to even think about returning the favor.
“Let’s go. We don’t want to be late for dinner. Or the art auction.”
She leaned against the wall a minute longer before she could dredge up any interest in getting dressed. Men in her experience might give pleasure as long as they were receiving it as well, but for one to make an experience completely about her was unheard of. She was having trouble reconciling the man who had slammed her back against the wall and taken her with such delicious power with the one who had gently coaxed her body to a second release in many ways as overwhelming as the first.
Tender was not something she expected from Drake, nor any man in her experience. Poor Barry always had come to her bed like a soldier—hot and ready for action. He’d been kind and fun, but there was no question about who was having the sex and who was receiving it.
Drake was—
“The clothes fairy has left us a present,” Drake announced. He held up a pair of clothes bags.
He was still splendidly naked and already recovering.
“If only we had time, lovely Nikita, but duty calls.” His protests did nothing to stop his body’s continuing reaction. Taking a deep breath and releasing it as a very complimentary groan of frustration, he pulled a towel off the rack and heaved it at her face. “At least cover up something before you kill me.”
Nikita had never been shy. She’d been one of the only women around Curtis Contracting. Nobody messed with her because her dad was Curtis’ Number Two, but shy didn’t stand a chance. Living with a SEAL team of ultra-fit, ultra-raunchy males? Modesty didn’t stand a chance either.
“Aww. Is poor Drake having trouble controlling himself around sexy women?” Not that she’d ever been called that—at least not by anyone who didn’t land hard on his ass half a second later. She tossed the towel over her shoulder and let it drape down between her breasts, but not cover them.
Drake’s eyes went darker and his expression was very intent.
She eased across the wooden slats of the shower area with the light tread of a sniper stalking its prey until barely a breath separated them.
She could see that Drake was nearly blind with need for her and his body confirmed the assessment.
Was she channeling Sugar somehow? Maybe she understood the woman, so competent in her craft but still sidelined for being female in a male world. So Sugar made a point of packing a physical punch that no man in his right mind could ignore.
And yet Drake had. Oh, he’d watched Sugar surely enough, but he’d watched Nikita far more—even without the tight leather.
Before she’d left, Sugar had said something to her that Nikita hadn’t understood at the time. “That boy is just so gone.”
When she’d asked gone on what, Sugar had just offered one of her merry laughs and followed J-dawg back to his monster SUV. Well, now Nikita knew. Drake wasn’t merely gone on her, he was “so gone.” She could feel the incredible rush that she could have Drake forget about everything in this instant if she wanted to. She’d never had such a sense of power over a male, especially not one like the “great” Drake Roman. It was a gloriously heady feeling right up there with sex.
But he’d said that they didn’t have time. Pity.
He still held the two clothing bags in one hand. She unzipped the first one, spotted a dress, and plucked it from his fingers.
“Later, Roman.”
When she turned to walk away, he grabbed her arm and pulled her back. For half a second she thought he’d take her right there and then. Instead, he dumped his own clothes bag at his feet and held on to her upper arms with both hands. He wasn’t looking at her chest or hips. He was studying her eyes from just inches away.
“Say it like you mean it,” his voice was so rough that she barely recognized it.
She tried shifting her arms, but his grip didn’t ease. She was suddenly a little afraid. There wasn’t a chance that he’d try to hurt her, besides, she could take him down a hundred different ways if he tried. But his intensity was so all-consuming. She could feel its shadow all around her. “Drake…”
“I’m serious!” He shook her lightly. “Say that there is a later, because I don’t want whatever this is to just be about pounding one another up against some handy door or wall.”
Nikita tried to see her own reflection in his dark eyes. He wouldn’t allow any flippant answer. But she didn’t know what else to give. Only once in her life had she promised there would be more and she’d lied. Instead she’d sent Barry out on a mission with too little information and he’d been captured, then tortured to death in the Congo—and not even for information, just for sport.
Yet for Drake—how was she supposed to ma
ke an acceptable answer for Drake Roman?
A part of her wanted to, needed to. A part of her didn’t dare.
Fear. That was one thing that had been trained into a Special Operations fighter more than anything else: fear was to be recognized and addressed.
Whatever it was that she feared in this moment couldn’t be allowed to stop her. Caution her? Yes. Stop her? Not without a damned good reason.
The gaping wound of her past said she had a good reason. That she should just turn and walk away.
But Drake’s look wasn’t only demanding, it was also pleading with her.
That she couldn’t ignore.
She leaned in just enough to rest her lips on his, but not enough for their bodies to brush together. “There will be a later,” she whispered against his soft kiss.
“Okay,” he nodded slowly to himself and she could see the tension ease slowly back out of him. “Okay,” he repeated it like he hadn’t heard himself say it the first time.
He finally let her go and reached down for his clothes bag.
She began drying herself off.
Nikita just hoped that this time her promise didn’t kill him.
Dinner passed in a blur.
He’d barely a moment to appreciate Nikita in the dark blue sheath dress that draped around her and swept to the floor. It must be one of the formal nights aboard. His good charcoal two-piece and freshly polished shoes had appeared from his own bag.
He held the door open to the men’s shower as formally as he could for her to step out. Thankfully, only three people were waiting. He handed off the two bags, which now only bore their gym clothes, with a “Make sure these get to my suite” to the first ship steward he passed.
Zoe wore a huge grin as she eyed Nikita—until the moment she spotted Nikita’s hair. They’d done what they could with it and Drake didn’t feel guilty for a second about what he’d done to it. With a characteristic “Oh my gawd!”, Zoe grabbed Nikita’s hand, then rushed her along the corridor to the beauty salon.
Altman stood in a simple black suit with a black turtleneck. His arms were crossed over his chest and he was glaring at Drake.
Drake figured his luck was holding when, before Altman could kill him, a steward arrived to guide him off to drinks before dinner.
He thought he had a good handle on the situation. Everything with Nikita was moving too fast and not fast enough, which he hoped meant they were in the middle ground and were progressing at exactly the right speed. He had no idea to where, but that described most missions in his life, so he was okay with that. Knowing he simply wanted more was enough for now.
His professional reputation was sufficiently menacing now that a small bubble of space had formed around him at the bar, even when Altman wasn’t adding his looming presence. The Russian mobster crossed the space to size him up and pass the time of day. An Italian prince—were their still princes in Italy? He didn’t think so—well-gone on a bright blue drink, barged through the invisible barrier to offer him a price well into six figures for Nikita. He’d have to remember to tell her that one. He also double-checked his wallet and wristwatch to make sure he still had them when the man departed.
He watched the odd dance, as badly arranged as an unchoreographed stage play, reflected by a mirrored wall placed to make the bar seem larger than it was. Everyone was backlit by the failing day. Without thinking, his theater training had him standing in the center of one of the few spotlights so that he stood out from the crowd all the more. Everyone here was merely a mirage except—
Then he’d forgotten everything.
He spotted Zoe first, very attractive in a green jewel-tone gown that revealed almost nothing on the top, but offered an eye-catching slit that showed a very nice leg and spiked matching sandals. He tried to see if Altman noticed, but it was hard to tell if he focused on her specifically or just as a new addition to the crowd. Maybe he had someone at home, but Nikita had said she didn’t think so.
Then Drake spotted her. He’d only had a glimpse of the long, deep ocean blue gown earlier. As she stepped into the room, chatter dropped by half and he couldn’t hear the other half because his ears were ringing.
The gown was a long sheath that gathered asymmetrically above her waist in a bow. The beaded top emphasized her figure and the semi-transparent mesh across her cleavage declared her exceptional form. It was sleeveless, allowing her powerful shoulders to humble all pretenders. And the salon had done a feather cut to her hair, tapering from front to back, exposing her face.
He didn’t remember crossing to her until he was holding her hands and staring into her face.
“You know that it will never pull back in a ponytail again?”
“Shit! I didn’t think of that when Zoe was pushing.” Then she glanced around and almost blushed. “That wasn’t exactly in character, was it?”
“No, but it was infinitely reassuring. I like knowing that you’re still Nikita Hayward despite how amazing you look.”
She studied his eyes for a long moment, then leaned in and kissed him lightly.
That’s when the evening blurred on him. Such a simple gesture. His looks had afforded him a kiss whenever he wanted one. But one from Nikita in such a public setting, and he could suddenly see them as a couple.
Beyond this setting. After escaping his grandparents’ social agenda, he’d never thought to be in such a place again. No. He and Nikita would be out hiking, sailing, shooting, something active. And he could picture it like it was already true.
“Someone offered me a lot of money for you.”
“Show me who and I’ll kill the bastard.” Again, the powerful woman emerging from the beautiful one.
“No. I don’t want you so much as tearing a fingernail. You’re worth over six figures to me already. And in that gown, I’ll bet the price has gone up to seven.”
“You mean out of this gown.” With the harshness of her tone, he was almost tempted to point out the “Italian prince” to see what happened.
“That,” he whispered in her ear, “is for nobody but me.”
Again, that long, unreadable SEAL gaze.
He’d meant it as a joke.
Then she nodded her assent.
It was his last coherent thought.
She no longer clung to his arm, but instead held his hand, releasing it only at dinner so that they could eat.
Chapter Nine
Arthur slid up to them so smoothly as they arrived at the art auction that Nikita almost looked to see if he was on wheels. His smile widened as he inspected her from clasped hands to sheerly masked cleavage.
Drake’s hands slowly tightened in hers until his grip was as powerful as the moment he’d dragged her into the men’s shower, except this time it was shaking with raw fury. Maybe she could get used to having someone feel protective about her, even if she didn’t actually need it.
She considered making an effort to push her chest out further just to see if Drake would test the strength of his fist against the man’s jaw. Now probably wasn’t the moment.
“We’re so glad you could come. It is early in the cruise,” he alternated between talking to Drake’s face and her chest, “therefore we will be auctioning only a few choice pieces tonight.”
Three dozen paintings had been moved from the tiny shipboard gallery to the piano bar. A pair of easels and a podium had been set up at the far end of the room. Out the window, the Caribbean sunset was ending in rusty skies and black waters.
Nikita scanned the room for potential weapons and spotted very few. Tables were screwed to the floor. The bar was open, but clearly rigged for rough seas. Each liquor bottle was clamped into inverted brackets with press-to-pour spigots. The piano sported a massive chain from the base of the sound box down to a U-connector mounted to the floor. This place was fully prepped for stormy sailing.
Of course she could brain Arthur with the edge of her hand, if she dared strike out while wearing this dress. For fear that her chest would fall out of it and give A
rthur a thrill, she didn’t even dare to raise her arms in order to check out her strange new haircut that tickled her neck.
No one had ever looked at her the way Drake had at that first moment.
When Barry had “staked his claim” on her, he’d simply made it clear he’d shoot anyone who touched her.
Drake didn’t boast or warn. Instead he looked at her as if she were the most captivating woman in history and he was the lucky one in this situation.
Which didn’t mean he wouldn’t pound the crap out of Arthur if she didn’t do something soon.
“I know so little about art,” she paused long enough for Arthur to have to look up at her face. “If I were to start collecting, what do you suggest I begin with?”
“Mr. Roman’s predecessor was always partial to the work of Myora Folsum,” he waved a thin-fingered hand toward a particularly awful nude.
Nikita supposed the work was well enough executed, but it was more a Hustler centerfold sort of image than even a Playboy one—there wasn’t even a pretense of artful. It was just a woman’s body. The artist hadn’t even included her full face, letting it trail off the edge of the canvas so that she existed only from her lips down as if that was all that mattered.
“My predecessor’s taste is not mine, I assure you.” Drake’s dangerous snarl warmed her heart.
Arthur didn’t pitch a different painting, instead he looked suddenly worried. Was it loss of a commission or— She double-
squeezed Drake’s hand as a warning, as much as she could against his still powerful grip.
He glared over at her. The tiniest shake of his head said that he got the message but didn’t give a damn.
She knew there was a reason she liked him.
“I think we will pass, Arthur,” Nikita offered, not trusting Drake to speak. “Take me dancing, Drake. Won’t you please?”
Target of Mine: The Night Stalkers 5E (Titan World Book 2) Page 10
