by Anne Calhoun
Her touch was searing. Electric. It wasn’t always easy to be naked in front of a woman; between the appendectomy scar and the port scar, this moment usually brought things to a screaming halt for a moment. Still, it had to be easier for him than it was for Riva. He broke contact and reached behind his head to yank the shirt off. Her eyes widened, her gaze skimming over his chest, but she didn’t ask, just swept her own shirt over her head, leaving her hair in tousled disarray.
He used chest and hands and hips to urge her down onto the mattress. Stretching out full-length against her was like taking serious voltage. He’d never been more aware of body contact. He pressed his erection into her hip, tucked his knee between hers, and went back to kissing her.
By the time he’d finished, her mouth was hot and soft and open, smearing messily against his as her body lifted infinitesimally into his. Determined to discover what she liked, he trailed his lips along her jaw to her ear. What would make her purr, gasp, arch into him? He wanted to know, had to know.
She went still when he brushed his lips over her ear, tipped her head to the side when he closed his teeth on her earlobe, but the press of his tongue to the soft skin just below her ear made her shudder, then sigh. She was ticklish; a light touch on her ribs made her squirm, but when he firmed up, it was like her entire body went molten. Her thighs had parted a little more, giving him room to roll more closely into her body. Instead, he kissed his way down her torso, his mouth hot and open and wet around the edges of her bra, then her navel, pausing at her belt.
He looked up the soft curves of her body and found her staring down at him. “Turn over,” he murmured, working consciously to make it a suggestion, not a command, or an order.
She looked surprised, a little hesitant, but did. Maybe putting her body in his hands had become automatic, but he didn’t take it for granted. Instead he shifted up her body, keeping his thigh between hers and draped himself over her back. He swept her hair away from her nape and pressed a kiss into the vulnerable skin.
Beneath him, her body went still, something he noticed when the soft give and take they’d developed halted. Suddenly, he was breathing into tense muscle and locked joints.
Interesting. Fear or desire? He did it again, this time lingering so his breath washed over sensitive nerves, adding a tiny edge of his teeth. A full-body shudder, then a low moan and she went soft under him. While he watched, a shiver raced over her shoulders and lifted the tiny, delicate hairs on her nape.
A feral surge of desire swept through him, canting his hips until he was grinding against the round curve of her ass. To regain his control, and torture them both, he repeated the kiss on every bump in her spine from her nape to the top of her tailbone. When he reached her bra strap he unfastened it, nudged it aside, and went back to dropping kiss after kiss down her back until he’d reached her jeans.
“Turn back over,” he said.
She did, her hair spreading over her face until she pawed it back, then pulled off her bra. He didn’t want to stare, but found he couldn’t help himself. Her skin was so pale, the tips of her breasts a dark rose and peaked. She shifted, spreading her legs, making room for him to settle between them. Involuntarily he pushed against her, the movement tidal, deep. He took his weight on one arm and teased the skin above her waistband with his other hand, keeping his kiss as light as his touch. He traced her hipbone, her ribs, then swept up to cup her breast.
She wrapped both arms around his neck and arched into the touch. Again, his control nearly failed him when she wrapped her leg around his hip and pulled him closer, the quick rise and fall of her abdomen brushing against his, heightening the sense of constriction in his jeans.
Then her hands were between them, working away at her button and zipper. He sat back, helped her get her jeans off and discard them on the floor by her bra, leaving her bare from head to toe. Cold air swept over them as he lost the plot for a second, again caught up in the simple beauty of her body.
“You too. Please.”
The words were almost inaudible, but she was with him. He unbuckled his belt, unzipped, got through the awkward moment of getting jeans and boxers off over his erection. Naked in front of her, the moonlight picking out the stark red scar from his port, the thinner, older scar from his appendectomy. But she wasn’t looking at those. Instead her gaze skimmed like warm silk over his shoulders, his arms, his abdomen.
She was looking at him.
“Come here,” she said.
He settled against her, letting the feel of her bare skin against his wash over him and be distinct data points. Her bare thighs against his. His cock, trapped between her soft stomach and his. Her nipples, tight little points against his chest. Her hands, one at his nape, the other at the small of his back. Her pulse was pounding in her breast again. He kissed her, ignoring the need throbbing in his cock, soaking in the texture and taste of her mouth, the sensation of having Riva under him.
Don’t get too carried away, said voice of reason in his brain. Right now you can pretend this doesn’t mean anything. Hell, you’ve been pretending that for years. But you go any further, and you’re in uncharted territory.
Tearing himself away from temptation, he shifted to one side and skimmed his hand down her torso, following the curves he’d seen only in his fever dreams. His mouth hot and open over her, he stroked the trimmed curls covering her mound, then dipped his fingers into her folds.
The first touch made her shudder, lift, spread, opening her so his fingers delved into slick, swollen folds. He groaned, rested his head on her forehead, and closed his eyes as he dipped into slick heat, circled her opening, then trailed up in search of—
There. She arched. Her fingernails, short as they were, bit into his shoulders. He circled the tight bud, ruthlessly focusing on her response to hold back his own primitive instincts, but nearly lost it when she started to gasp. He covered her mouth with his own and kept a steady pace, watching her muscles tighten, her body quiver, and the pretty pink orgasmic flush bloom on her face and throat. She was tender and strong and earthy, fully present in her body. Her fingers tightened on his shoulder and biceps, her hips lifted into each stroke, and he was lost. Her release looked less like letting go and more like annihilation.
The orgasmic tension in her muscles slowly slackened. Her hands released their grip on his shoulders. She stared up at him, eyes wide, defenseless.
So that’s how it felt to cross the line and jeopardize his career. He’d just have to pretend a little harder, when he got home.
But right now he wasn’t home, and he’d do it again in a heartbeat, because for the first time since Riva had reached for his hand to write her phone number on it, she was soft and relaxed against him. No tensed muscles ready to fly, no conflict in her eyes. Heart pounding, body aching, he bent his head and rested his forehead against hers.
It felt so goddamn right.
“Ian,” she whispered. Her hand drifted down to his hip. “What about you?”
It might literally kill him, but he shifted to the side. “There’s no rush,” he said, though it cost him. He was as aroused as he’d ever been. “We don’t ever have to do that, if you don’t want to. I’m going back to my room to make some notes,” he continued over her soft protest. “You should get some sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”
He got out of the bed and snagged his clothes from the floor. When he left her she was sitting upright, the sheet and duvet clutched to her chest, hair tousled, glaring at him.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Riva surfaced from a deep sleep to the muffled sound of her alarm going off under her pillow. She silenced it, then stared at the screen. Four forty-five in the morning. Head raised, she listened for any sign of alert life in the suite’s other bedroom. All she heard was muffled sounds from the floor below her, the clink of a coffee mug against the countertop, then water running.
She shoved her hair out of her face as she swung her legs over the side of the bed, then paused again. Still no noi
se from Ian’s room. His light had been on when she’d finished showering and gone to bed. She was running on about five hours of sleep. Ian was running on less. Maybe that would keep him out of her hair for the next fifteen minutes.
He’d been in her hair last night. A sense memory triggered a hot little thrill, of Ian’s hand gathering her hair before his lips brushed her nape. She associated his hands with power and control, so the firm touch—
No. Stop there. Not now. Stay focused.
Tiptoeing across the plush area rug, she turned the knob and opened the door slowly. No light from Ian’s room, no rustle of bedclothes, although she suspected him of Spidey senses and the ability to Apparate from one spot to another. She stepped into the hall, looked and listened. No Ian, no voices downstairs.
Just her father.
Ian wasn’t going to like this, not one bit, but what mattered in the long run was making sure she had enough evidence to get Isaiah free from the LPD’s clutches and back in a kitchen, where he belonged. She padded down the stairs and turned the corner to the kitchen. Her dad was standing by a steaming French press, focused on his phone. For a moment Riva looked at him in the dim light over the stove. He wore khakis and a Henneman Candy and Vending button-down, and his belt matched his work boots. His hair, the same shade of chestnut as her own, was liberally streaked with silver. His knuckles were thickened from a lifetime of working with his hands, loading and driving a truck, schlepping boxes of candy from the truck to the vending machines.
He looked so ordinary, so human. He was anything but.
She cleared her throat and rubbed her eyes as if wiping away sleep. “Morning, Dad.”
He spared her a single glance. “You’re up early.”
The important thing was to sound like the girl she used to be, desperate for his attention and approval, uncertain and afraid. Going for deferential, she took a hesitant step into the room. Getting him to talk to her would work much faster than Ian’s plan, and besides, she should have done this seven years earlier. This was her responsibility, not Ian’s. “We didn’t get much time to talk last night. I thought maybe I’d run a route with you today.”
She used to do that all the time during school breaks, go out with him on a route. She was so proud to go. Each year she waited anxiously for the moment he got her a shirt just like his but in her size, with her name and the logo on it. The receptionists would fuss over her, and her dad would stand by, proud as any father could be, while she restocked machines, collected the coin bins, or ran back to the truck for an unexpectedly low item.
She’d loved him so much. Pleasing him, earning his approval, was the only thing that had mattered to her.
“Not today,” he said, dismissing her. “You should spend your time getting a handle on your mother’s little lunch deal.”
She could make a lunch for eight worthy of a magazine spread in a couple of hours. “I’ve got a pretty good idea of what I’m going to do, and I’d rather—”
“Hey, do you think your friend upstairs would want to come work out at the gym tomorrow?” He depressed the plunger on the French press and opened the cabinet for a travel mug. “I’ve got a fighter who could use a different opponent.”
Think fast. He doesn’t respect people who plead. “I’m sure he’d love that,” Riva said. That would be a good way to get Ian out of the way while she searched for her father’s laptop. “He was pretty impressed with you. I’ll text you and let you know.”
Her father flicked a glance at her as he poured coffee. “I really need to go.”
She waited a second, her toes curling away from the tiled floor, and played her next card. “Business isn’t as good as I said it was,” she said finally.
His eyes sharpened. “That so.”
“Yeah. I didn’t want to worry Mom.”
“Do you need money?”
“No. No loans. You built Henneman Candy and Vending without help, and I will, too. I need … to expand my business.”
“Into vending?” He snapped the lid onto the travel mug. “The bulk of my business is still the stuff that’s bad for you.”
“Not that business, Dad.”
He went still, and for a moment Riva thought she’d pushed him too far. The darkness in his eyes had a knife edge and the power to slice her to ribbons. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Dad,” she said quietly. “I know I screwed up in college. But I’m stronger now. I could be useful.”
He hadn’t moved. “What would your boyfriend think of that?”
Riva smiled. “He’s not my boyfriend. I get a call a week, more in the summer when the weather’s nice, from people like that, who never risk everything to make something of themselves. He’s just a desk jockey thinking the grass is greener on the other side of the cube wall.”
“Your mother hopes he’s your boyfriend. I caught her looking at wedding venues.”
“Tell her to stop. We’re not dating, much less getting married,” she said, ignoring the little twist in her heart.
Her father snapped the lid on the travel mug and gave her another one of those long, unreadable looks. Like he was gauging whether or not to trust her. “Maybe you both could be useful.”
She frowned, hoping she looked like a better actor than she felt. “How’s that?”
“Lancaster has potential. We’ve been trying to lock down that market for a while. We’ve made some friends doing it. Enemies, too. A friend with the city wouldn’t hurt.”
Nothing specific. Nothing incriminating. “Got it,” Riva said, even though she had nothing.
“He works in IT? They can’t pay him much.”
“No idea,” she said. “If he quits, he’s giving up a pension and government benefits, so backfilling with cash wouldn’t hurt.”
“You probably didn’t plan it, but your job’s a good one. It’s a legit cover for money coming in, and you move around every day, like I do.”
“That’s what I thought,” Riva said, trying to infuse excitement and pleasure into her voice. Her dad would like the ego strokes.
“Our last try at laundering the money fell through. Management problems. Nightclubs are risky.” He shook his head. “You’re a known quantity. Let me talk to some people.”
“Great,” Riva said. “I’ll be around for a few more days. I could stay longer, but Ian has to get back.”
His name came out without hesitation. She still wasn’t thinking about last night, but she did notice that. Saying his name no longer tripped her up.
“I’ll call you later.”
“Love you, Dad.”
He let himself out the back door. Riva stood in the kitchen, listening to all the familiar sounds of her childhood—his boots on steps, the garage door opening, his car engine turning over, tires on the cement, then the Doppler sound of the engine fading like her last hopes.
He hadn’t denied it. At some level she’d thought he’d either deny his involvement, or say he’d gotten out of that gig when the business got back on its feet. But he hadn’t. He was either so confident in his ability to remain hidden in plain sight, or so delusional that he didn’t even deny it. She rubbed her forehead and then she did the only thing she could do in this moment. She went back to bed.
* * *
Several hours later, she awoke to bright sunshine, birds trilling obnoxiously in the oak tree by her window, and the scent of Ian Hawthorn’s sweat and skin drifting from her pillow to her nose. Earlier she’d been still shrouded in shadows and too focused on her father to think about the night before. But daylight brought with it a new awareness, of the relaxed muscles in her shoulders and back, and the little flashbacks to Ian’s mouth on hers, his hands on her skin, whispered words in her ear.
Water ran in the pipes leading to their shared bathroom. He was awake and in the shower, a thought that conjured images of water flowing over Ian’s lean, hard muscled body. Now she knew exactly how he looked, the way the planes of muscle shifted under his skin, the coiled strength hidden by bland,
unremarkable office-drone clothes. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. The way his muscles flexed and bunched reminded her not of a World Wrestling Entertainment steroid junkie but of a stealthy predator, dangerous, silent, disarmingly supple but fast and with razor-sharp teeth and claws. A jaguar, she decided. A lynx. Fierce. Feral. Deadly.
Stop slotting Ian Hawthorn into the wild kingdom.
The itch she’d been unable to scratch for years should have been satisfied, but felt incomplete. She’d thought it would be wild, passionate, hastily banging into doorframes and tripping over their clothes in a frenzy to get skin to skin and down to business. She’d thought it would be almost separate, each striving to come, an explosion of long-delayed tension and desire.
Instead, he’d turned all his relentless, focused attention to her pleasure and taken nothing for himself. She found she wasn’t surprised, would have been more shocked, in fact, if he’d been selfish in bed.
There’s no rush, he’d said. They didn’t have to ever have sex. Did he really mean that?
The little voice in her head wanted to know if it had worked, wanted to see him, see how she felt near him, if her body would give in to the little opportunities to brush against him.
Out of habit she reached for her phone, where she found texts from Isaiah and Kelly. Isaiah had sent her a conscientiously detailed update on the farm, including the temperature, humidity, barometric pressure, state of mind of the chickens, egg count, and a rundown on every plant in the greenhouse and fields. The last messages were pictures of what he’d cooked for dinner.
I’ll finish the chores early today. Want anything else done while I’m here?
She had a laundry list of projects to do around the farm, but none of them appropriate for an eighteen-year-old to tackle on his own.
