Caress of Pleasure

by Julie Kenner

  “This group has access to a number of items I’ve been trying to acquire for years. Items that are at the heart of some very interesting lore regarding curses and black magic.” He eases behind me, his hands on my shoulders. “You see? It’s not about money, but about what they can offer me.”

  He bends so that his breath tickles my neck and ear. “There are more displays in the bedroom,” he says gruffly. “Would you like to see?”

  I close my eyes as if in satisfaction and desire. “That sounds wonderful,” I murmur. “Why don’t you lead the way?”

  Chapter 7

  “Lead the way?” Dante’s stomach twisted as her words—her tone—played again in his head, as if on an endless loop. He was jealous. He knew it.

  Honestly, he didn’t much care.

  He leaned in closer and actually smacked the side of the second monitor, as if that would stop her. “She needs to be getting the hell out of there, not playing footsies with loverboy.”

  “She’s playing the role,” Raine said, and Dante heard the amusement in his friend’s voice. “Ditch too soon and it will look suspicious.”

  “Fuck that,” Dante said. “We need to pull her right now. Three days? That means we need to get in tomorrow morning, extract Merrick, and get the brooch returned by the day after at the latest.”

  “Agreed.”

  “We don’t have time for her to play games with him.” He shot another glance at the bank of monitors. The purse was still aimed at the display case, but the camera around her neck showed that they were approaching a bedroom. He could see the king-sized bed through the open door. And goddamn fucking hell if there weren’t lit candles.

  The prick had intended to get her back there all the time.

  Not that this was any great revelation. But the knowledge that Folsom might touch her—that she might let him, even as part of the scheme—curled unpleasantly in his gut.

  No way. They had what they needed. He was shutting this puppy down.

  He grabbed his phone and sent a text—9-1-1.

  Over the speakers, he heard the ding-dong of her text message alert. On screen, he saw the perspective shift as she turned back toward the living room.

  “Just a second,” she said to Folsom. “My assistant’s been having some issues with a client. I should make sure there’s no crisis.”

  Smart girl.

  She headed back, the purse becoming larger in the first monitor. Then she reached down and withdrew the phone. She was standing in front of the purse cam now, blocking the view of the display cases. But he could see her face, and the relief he saw when she glanced at the message filled him. She didn’t want Folsom. Thank god for that.

  She snatched up the purse, then licked her lips and made a show of furrowing her brow, all the while with her back to Folsom. Dante couldn’t stop his grin. Apparently, she was getting into character.

  “Michael,” she said. “I’m so sorry. It is a crisis.” She approached him—hell, she actually pressed a hand against his cheek. “Rain check?”

  For a moment, it looked like Folsom was going to argue. Then he just looked sad.

  “Sure,” he said. “That would be wonderful.”

  And as Brenna headed for his front door, Dante couldn’t help but feel a little bit sorry for the guy.

  Not that sorry, of course. But a little.

  * * * *

  The moment I get out of the taxi, the front door to Dante’s condo opens, and he steps outside. I hurry toward him, feeling the rush of adrenaline from having accomplished my super-secret spy mission.

  “Did you watch?” I ask as I follow him into the brownstone. “It was as easy as pie.”

  He nods. His expression is tight. Presumably he is still coming off a flood of worry. He’d been concerned that I couldn’t pull it off—hell, I’d been a little concerned, too—but the mission had gone seamlessly.

  I’m not sure what I had expected. Perhaps that Michael would tell me he didn’t share his collections. Or that he would only reveal them for a trade—I strip, he shows me the brooch, which is something that I really wouldn’t have liked. Except for the fact that Dante would be watching through the camera. That might make it interesting.

  I shake my head, feeling a little silly and a lot giddy. “So what now?”

  “Raine and Jessica and Pieter are putting together a counterfeit brooch. It won’t stand up to scrutiny, but with any luck it will only need to be in that case for a few hours. We’ll go in tomorrow morning when he goes for his morning jog. He’s religious about that. And then we’ll return the brooch in the evening. We’ve confirmed that he’s planning to see a show tomorrow night.”

  He speaks firmly. Matter-of-factly.

  And honestly, I just don’t get it. I want someone to share my victory. I’d expected it to be Dante, and I’m not at all sure what his problem is.

  I force my thoughts away from him and back to his words, then frown. “You’re just going to walk into his apartment? Did you see the security? There’s more electronic locks and gadgets than on the space shuttle.”

  “We’ve got it under control.” Again, his answer is clipped. Curt. Frankly, it’s starting to piss me off.

  “Fine,” I say. “Good for you. But why the hell do you only need it for a few hours?”

  “We have our reasons.”

  “You know what, Dante? Just screw it. I’m going back to my hotel.” I turn to head toward the door, but he grabs my arm and pulls me back.

  I stand ramrod straight in front of him, practically vibrating with anger.

  “It has a microdot,” he says. “We need to retrieve it. That’s all.”

  “That is so not all.” I grind the words out, and they are harsh. They are an accusation.

  For a moment, he says nothing. Just meets my eyes. Just breathes.

  Then he seems to sag.

  Nothing changes. Not his expression, not his posture. But I know this man, and I see the change in him. And when he looks in my eyes, I see the sadness, too. “I didn’t like it.” His words are flat. Almost cold.

  “Like what?”

  “You,” he says. “With Folsom. I didn’t like the way he looked at you. I didn’t like the way he touched you. I didn’t like the way you flirted with him. And I damn sure didn’t like what he intended to do with you in that bed.”

  “You didn’t?” I can’t help myself—I’m smiling.

  He notices, and the corner of his lip curves up, too. “No. No, I didn’t.”

  He takes a step toward me. “But it doesn’t matter what I like, what I didn’t like.”

  I feel my pulse kick up in tempo. “Why not?”

  “Because we said we were done.” He reaches out, then gently brushes his fingers down my arm. “No more touching.” He takes another step toward me, so that there is barely any distance between us at all, and I forget the muscle contractions required to breathe. “No more fucking,” he adds.

  “That’s what we agreed.” It takes all of my willpower to form words, and then even more to take a single step toward him. “Those are the rules.”

  Now there are only inches between us, and I catch the scent of him—soap and aftershave and, oh god yes, the musky scent of arousal.

  I glance down and see his cock, hard now inside his jeans. Straining. My cunt is wet and throbbing, and I cannot help myself. I have to relieve some of the pressure.

  I drag my teeth over my lower lip, and as I do, I slide my hand down, then cup myself between my legs over the thin material of my skirt.

  Inches from me, Dante groans—and that sound of pure, male arousal fuels me. I use my fingers to ease up my skirt. I’m exposing my thigh—a little bit, then a little bit more. And then the edge of my panties. And then all of them.

  The pale blue silk is soaked through, so wet that the material clings to my bare pubis, sticking to my vulva, dipping into my folds. I slide my hand slowly up my thigh and then ease my flat palm under the material.

  My skin is so hot, my cunt so we
t. And right then, all I want to do is fuck myself with him watching. All I want to do is make him crazy—make him come.

  I skim my fingers over myself, and the pressure on my clit makes me shiver. I keep going, my fingers gliding over my slick heat, and then I thrust one, two fingers inside. I swallow a moan, my head thrown back, my eyes closed, as I gyrate my hips, pumping my own hand and imagining that it is Dante.

  “Oh, baby,” he says. “Fuck the rules.”

  He drops to his knees and one hand goes to my hip, his thumb hooking in the band of my panties. He tugs them down, then uses his other hand to get them all of the way off.

  Then he takes my hand, ignoring my groan of both protest and excitement as cool air brushes over me, as arousing as a lover’s touch.

  Slowly, he sucks on each of my drenched fingers, and the sensation is so intensely erotic that my knees go weak and I have to cling to his shoulder so as not to fall over.

  But when he leans forward and laves me with his tongue, I know that I am going to explode. “No,” I protest, taking a step back. “Not yet. I want you inside me when I come. Please, Dante. Please, fuck me.”

  He looks up at me, and I think that he is going to lay me flat right there and thrust his cock hard inside me. And, oh dear god, I hope he does.

  Instead he stands, his golden eyes lit like flames. “Upstairs,” he says. “I want you in my bed. Naked and spread-eagled, your pale skin against my black sheets. Your hands fisted in the material as I take you. And I want to hear the echo of your scream when you come.”

  I can’t even manage a response. His words have turned my body to liquid lust, and it is all I can do to nod in blissful, eager agreement.

  He has an elevator in his brownstone similar to the one next door, and he leads me up to a masculine room with rich leather and dark wood. A huge bed dominates the space, and yes, the bed is made up with black linens.

  Beside it a window is open to the courtyard below. Pale yellow light filters up from a lamp below to cast the room in what looks like candlelight.

  “Take off your dress,” he says. “I want to see you naked.”

  “Take off your pants,” I counter. “I want to see your cock.”

  He laughs, and the sound washes over me. “Dear god, Brenna, I lo—I love that mouth of yours.”

  I draw in a ragged breath because we both know what he intended to say. And it’s true for me, too. I still love him. Wildly. Passionately.

  I just don’t know what that means.

  At the moment, I’m not inclined to analyze. I simply want his hands on me, his cock inside me. And as he follows orders and strips, I do the same, grinning at him as we both move fast, as if in silent competition.

  He finishes first, and for a moment, I can only stare at him. At the hard perfection of his body.

  A little too perfect, actually, because the scar I remember—that I loved tracing—is gone. And I’m not entirely sure how that can be. It is as if he has a fresh coat of skin, and the old, scarred skin was shed and left behind.

  That, of course, makes no sense.

  Or it makes as much sense as Dante not aging.

  He is looking at me warily, as if he knows what I am thinking. I frown, then make a circular motion with my finger. Slowly, he shows me his back. Where there had been five luscious birds inked on his back, now there are six.

  “You got another. Why?”

  “A reminder,” he says.

  “Of what?”

  “That I shouldn’t lose fights.”

  He turns back around, and now his face is hard, as if he is afraid that I am getting close to some dark secret. Honestly, I think that I am.

  I reach out and touch his chest, then run my finger along the long path of the now-missing scar that once ended just above his pubic bone. He shivers in response to my touch, his already hard cock growing harder.

  “I don’t understand,” I say. “How—”

  He takes my hand and cups my fingers around his cock. “Is that really what you want to talk about right now?”

  Part of me wants to scream yes, yes, because something inside me knows that this is so very important. That this is the key.

  But the other part of me—the part now holding velvet steel in my hand, the part that is wet and throbbing with desire—can think about nothing but his hands, his lips, his cock.

  Slowly, I shake my head. “No. That’s not what I want to talk about.”

  “Then get on the bed.”

  I slowly draw my hand over his cock, making him moan before stepping back and releasing him. Then I do as he asks. I get on the bed. I spread my arms. And, yes, I spread my legs.

  He is looking right at me, and rather than embarrass me, the sight of his eyes trained right at my core only arouses me more, and I give in to my body’s urge to move. To wriggle. To let my hips dance and sway in a futile attempt to find satisfaction.

  He takes pity on me and moves to the bed. And though I had told him I couldn’t wait to have his cock inside me, I cannot deny that the stroke of his hands upon my bare skin coupled with the kisses he now trails up my leg have me writhing with a building, agonizing pleasure.

  He laves my clit, then thrusts his tongue inside me with such wild ferocity it makes me buck. He lifts his head and smiles at me, and though I want more, he continues up my body until his mouth closes over my breast and his teeth bite down on my nipple, softly at first, and then hard enough to make me cry out—even as that pain ricochets down my body from breast to cunt.

  “Now,” he says, and in one swift and confident movement, he has rolled onto his back and is turning me with him. I end up straddling him, my legs on either side of his waist, his cock standing at attention behind me and teasing my ass in a way that is undeniably enticing.

  “Fuck me,” he says. “As hard as you want. As deep as you want. And keep your eyes open. I want to watch your face as you come.”

  I whimper a bit, but I don’t protest. Instead I rise up, then scoot back so that I am over his cock, the head placed right at my core. I ease down slowly, then harder. Until finally I can’t take the tease and I slam my body down hard before rising up on my knees and repeating the process.

  It feels incredible. Like fireworks in my womb spreading out to my fingers and toes.

  I feel alive and in love, and even in the midst of this wild passion, I know that is a very dangerous way to feel.

  At the moment, I don’t much care.

  I ride him hard, fondling my breasts when he tells me to, playing with my clit when he tells me to do that.

  And when he tells me to come, I do that as well, my body primed to his demands and desires. So yes, I explode on top of him, my body drawing him in, milking him, taking him all the way to his own, violent, explosion.

  After, I collapse forward on him and breathe deep, recovering from the power of what just crashed through me. It was more than sex, more than an orgasm. It was a communion, and I am not sure that I can ever be the same.

  His arms are around me, holding me close, and we lay like that for a long, long time.

  But once the tremors of the orgasm have faded, I slide out of his embrace and pad naked to the window. I hug myself and look down at the courtyard we’d passed through yesterday to get to his office. He’s told me that there is another courtyard on the other side of Number 36 and another brownstone, and that one is owned by Mal.

  I can’t help but wonder about the amount of money these men and Phoenix Security command, or about what they do. In truth, I know very little about them. But I know my heart. And I know what—and who—I want.

  I also know what I fear, because I will not survive being tossed away again.

  “Brenna?”

  I turn to see Dante propped up in bed.

  “Are you okay?”

  I shake my head. “I should probably go.”

  He stands up and comes to me. “Talk to me.”

  I raise a brow. “Talk to you? What is there to talk about? You almost said you loved
me—no, don’t try to deny it. But, dammit Dante, you’ve also told me you’re going to walk away. You told me that day at the Algonquin, and nothing has changed. And I don’t want to lose you again. Dammit.”

  I didn’t mean to spill all of that, much less these damned tears. But it’s the truth, and I have no interest in skirting around my feelings. Not now. Not when I have him back in my life.

  “I know,” he says. “But it can’t work,” he says, and the pain I hear in his voice is so sharp it feels like a knife that is cutting me to ribbons.

  “Why?” I demand. “How the hell do you know if we don’t try?”

  “Try?” He slides out of bed and comes to stand beside me. He clutches tight to my arms. Almost too tight. “Try?” he repeats. “There’s no room for risk in this game, Brenna.”

  I shake my head, not understanding.

  “Dammit, don’t you get it?” He is still clutching my arms, so tight I anticipate bruises. “I want you, Brenna. I’ve wanted you from the moment I met you, and I still want you. I want you, and I don’t ever want to let you go.”

  “Don’t do this to me again,” I say, tears flooding my eyes. “You told me that in London. You said we had an eternal love. A love that spanned time and distance, and all sorts of pretty words. But then you left. You just left.”

  “Because it can’t work,” he repeats. His words are so harsh it sounds as though he is spitting them. “It can’t fucking work.”

  “Why not?” I demand. “I love you, Dante. I wish I didn’t. The last thirteen years would have been one hell of a lot less lonely if I could have forgotten about you. But I love you, and every moment that I don’t have you is like a knife through my heart. You’re the one who left—you. So dammit, Dante, I want an explanation. You say it won’t work? Then you need to tell me why!”

  I am screaming, my voice rising with each word. I can’t remember ever being so angry. So hurt. “Tell me,” I demand. “Tell me right now.”

  “You want to know? Fine. This is the goddamn reason.”

  As he speaks, he races toward the window and bursts through the glass. And as my scream fills the room, he falls five stories, then lands in a broken heap in the courtyard below.