Provocative

by Lisa Renee Jones

  “A bit like you thinking I was trying to buy you when you already agreed to fuck me,” I say, tangling fingers into her hair and not-so-gently tugging her gaze to mine. “I’m not him,” I add, “whoever he was, but as you said. Why does it matter? You just want to fuck me out of your system.”

  “Why do I want you?” she breathes out. “You’re such an arrogant bastard.”

  “The arrogant bastard who’s going to fuck you better than you’ve ever been fucked, sweetheart,” I promise, my mouth closing down over hers, and I can feel her breathe out in reaction, as if my kiss is what she’s been waiting for, and it turns me on. Fuck. She turns me on. Too fucking much considering I sought her out to destroy her.

  Angry with myself for losing focus, and at her for being that damn distracting, I tear my mouth from hers, my hands settling at her hips. Staring down at her swollen lips, her lipstick untouched, but she will not be, in every possible sense, when I am done with her. “You want one night?” I ask. “That’s your hard limit?”

  “Yes,” she confirms, grabbing my lapels again and tilting her chin up to add, “That’s my hard limit. Take it or leave it.”

  “Then here’s my hard limit,” I say. “We agree that I’m going to change your mind about your hard limit.”

  “No,” she says in instant rejection. “That essentially makes my limit obsolete.”

  “Your limit stands,” I say. “But I’m telling you up front. I’m going to change your mind. Starting now.”

  “Are you asking for my agreement or demanding it?”

  “Stating a fact and sparing us time considering we have about ten more minutes before that auction starts and you’re missed.”

  “Fine,” she says. “I’ll save you lost energy while you spare us lost time. You can’t change my mind.”

  I react to the absoluteness in her tone, lifting her from the wall and turning her to face the sink, her hands settling on the counter, my big body caging hers from behind. Her reaction is a lift of her chin, her gaze meeting mine in the mirror with defiance in the depths of her stare. “One night,” she repeats, adding a smooth, “Tiger” to the end of the sentence, as if she wants to poke the very tiger she’s just called me.

  “Do you know how much I enjoy a challenge?” I demand, tugging her lace dress up to her hips, her nearly naked ass now under my palms.

  “Too much,” she replies, not even sounding breathless, “In fact some might say that indicates you’re insecure at your core.”

  Amused, challenged, I give her backside a teasing smack that earns me a yelp, before I turn her to face me. “Tell me if it’s too much and I’ll stop.”

  I pick her up and set her on the counter, spreading her legs, my hips settling between her knees, hands on the lace bands of her thigh highs. “Then again,” I say, my fingers sliding up her naked thigh, to rest just at the edge of her silk panties, “since I’m such a bastard, if you tell me it’s not enough, I might not care. But I’ll try to be polite about it all.”

  “Polite?” she asks, giving a choked laugh, her hands covering mine on her thigh. “You?”

  “I’m so fucking polite,” I say, “I deserve an award for proper manners.” I stroke the silk between her legs, her spine arching as I do. “I’ll carry your bag for you,” I continue. “I’ll hold the door for you.” I lean in and press my cheek to hers, mouth at her ear. “I’ll make you wet,” I say, shoving aside her panties and stroking the slick heat of her body, my reward in the soft moan that slides from her lips. “I’ll let you come when I’m ready for you to come. I’ll even warn you right before I rip your panties off.” I grip the silk in my hand and yank it away, shoving them in my pocket before settling on one knee in front of her. “And now I’m going to lick you in the very spot you want me to lick you but I’m not going to let you come.” I lean in, and run my tongue along the exposed skin just above the lace of her hose, then caress a path to her sex, where I pull back just enough to allow my breath to trickle over her, my cock so fucking hard it hurts.

  She makes a sexy, desperate little sound, her hips arching ever so slightly, urging my mouth closer, and I give her nub a tiny lick. She moans, and I swear I feel that sound like a stroke of her tongue on my cock. Restraint is my friend and her satisfaction, and for that reason, I suckle her gently, then tease her with a long swirl of my tongue. And damn I do want more, I want everything right here and now, but waiting for the sweet taste of her orgasm, and that perfect moment that I bury myself deep inside her, is all about anticipation, about submission. Her submission.

  I pull back, my fingers flexing into her legs. Her eyes go wide, a pained moment in her eyes when she realizes I’m really not going to let her come. “You’re evil,” she says, as I stand and set her on the ground.

  “But polite,” I remind her. “I warned you in advance.” I pull down her dress. “I even put your clothes back on.”

  Her eyes flash and she reaches into my pocket and grabs her panties. “You don’t get to keep these,” she declares, scooting past me to walk to the trashcan where she tosses them.

  I shackle her arm and pull her to me, her hands on my chest, my hand at the back of her head. “I didn’t want the panties,” I say, “I wanted this.” I slant my mouth over hers, my tongue licking long and deep into her mouth, and I don’t give her time to object or submit. “Now we both will taste like you for the rest of this event,” I say. “Until we both taste like you at the end of the night.”

  “Like I said,” she whispers. “You’re evil.”

  “Your torture is mine,” I promise. “I’m hard as fuck and want to be inside you, but without limits. And this bathroom is one big limit.” As if proving my point, knocking erupts at the door. “Faith! Are you in there?”

  At the sound of Josh’s voice, Faith’s eyes go wide, her fingers curling on my lapels again. My hands come down on her shoulders and I lean in close to her ear. “Easy, sweetheart. Answer him.” I lean back and she takes a deep breath, giving me a nod.

  “I’m here,” she calls out.

  “Did you fall in or what?” he demands. “The auction’s about to start.”

  “I’m coming,” she says, her voice a bit louder now and when I smile, she glowers at me, and adds. “I’ll be right there.”

  I barely contain a laugh, and she must think I won’t, because she pushes to her toes and presses two fingers to my lips. The flare of heat between us is instant, and I take her hand, leaning in to brush my lips over hers before my lips finger her ear. “This is our secret. Go. I’ll follow.” I lean back and she nods, but when I would move away, she grabs my sleeve and gives me a confused look that turns to gratitude, before whispering, “Thank you.”

  And once again, she is nothing I expect, and it seems everything I want. I give her an incline of my chin, and step around the corner and into one of the stalls. I can hear her moving around, fixing herself before the click of the lock sounds, and she opens the door. “What the hell, Faith?” Josh demands. “You need—”

  The door shuts, but I still hear her reply, “You embarrassed me,” and the way her voice trembles with accusation with those words. “Why would you ask him to buy my work?”

  I don’t hear his reply, their voices moving further down the hallway, but I heard what was important. She’s embarrassed. But is she really, or is it an act? “Fuck,” I murmur. I want it to be real. I want to prove she’s innocent, but the facts are inescapable. There were checks equaling damn near a million dollars written to her mother by my father, and notes that lead me to suspect blackmail. And my father and her mother died of unexpected heart attacks and my father died after her mother. That points to Faith double-crossing her mother, but if she did it for the money, where’s the damn money?

  I push off the wall and press fingers to my temples. Maybe her mother had another partner who took the money. Or maybe Faith is in bed with that partner, who’s hiding the money. I unbutton my jacket, my hands settling on my hips. I don’t do stupid and I’m not going to star
t now. My father ran through women, including my mother. He didn’t write them checks and he damn sure wouldn’t write nearly a million dollars to one woman. And no one proves guilt while trying to prove innocence. I cannot lose my focus. I have to kiss Faith to taste the murderess beneath the woman and I have to tear down that wall of hers to ensure she can’t hide behind it. I’m not here to save her. I’m here to expose her, even destroy her. And I have to make sure that every moan I get from her is one step closer to one, or both, of those goals.

  I walk to the door and yank it open, stepping into the hallway, my stride measured, with purpose. Find Faith. Get her out of here and alone. Fuck her. Expose her. Own her. With this intention, driving my every step, I find my way to room 4C where the mostly seated crowd encircle another stage, the easel on display there still covered. Scanning the chairs middle, left and right, as well as the rows of people standing behind each, I locate Faith, standing behind the chairs in the center row, Josh by her side, and I watch as he pats her shoulder, and then leaves his hand there. And she lets him.

  I inhale on yet another rush of possessiveness over this woman that could easily lead me to Faith’s side, pulling her to me. But I am not a man to act rashly, or without calculated action. My mentor back in LA, the smart, hard-ass bastard that he was, used to say that if you have a bird and it flies away, if it doesn’t come back you never had it in the first place. He was talking about clients and reliable witnesses, but I’ve found that premise to have broad reach. I’ve pursued Faith. It’s time for her to come to me. It’s in that moment of decision that an elegant woman I estimate to be in her late fifties to early sixties takes the stage, her dress floral, her hair long and gray.

  “Hello everyone,” she says. “I’m Katie Wickerman, Chris Merit’s godmother, and I am so very proud to share his newest release. This one is special to him and while I believe you will find it rather different for him, as well, I believe it’s his most brilliant work to date. But I won’t talk your ear off. Without further ado…” She reaches for the sheet. “I give you Rebecca.”

  My spine straightens at the name of the painting, and when the sheet slides away, gasps and murmurs fill the room, while the familiar scene the work depicts punches me in the chest. It’s a beachfront, on a pitch-dark night, and yet you can make out the hundreds of people gathered there with lights in their hands. Honoring a woman named Rebecca, who, after months of being missing, was declared dead.

  “And now I’ll hand the stage over to Kenneth Davis, our auctioneer,” Katie says, while a short man with a Santa Claus beard joins her.

  “We’ll open the bidding at fifty thousand dollars,” he announces, but right now, I’m not in this room. I’m back on that beach, reliving that night that was less than one year ago now. The cold wind. The heavy emotions. The profound way one woman brought together a city and touched so many hearts and lives. She certainly did mine.

  “One hundred thousand,” the auctioneer calls out, snapping me back to the present, my gaze pulling left to find Faith still standing with Josh, and delivering way more satisfaction than it should, his hand is no longer on her shoulder. I inhale and glance at the painting again, and I am suddenly far more connected to the many dark secrets of Rebecca’s life, death, and murder than ever before. I want this painting.

  Decision made, I walk to the table positioned by the door, and register to bid. Faith appears by my side, my beautiful bird returning to me at the same time “three hundred thousand dollars” is shouted out from the stage. “You’re going to bid?” she asks.

  “I’m going to win,” I tell her, accepting my paddle, as I hear “Four hundred thousand dollars,” shouted out. Not about to allow the auction to close before I win, I give Faith a nod and start walking, looking for a spot near the stage. A moment later, Faith catches up to me, pursuing me now, and then and only then, do I snag her fingers with mine, guiding us to the right side of the stage, close enough for the auctioneer to see and hear me. “Five hundred thousand dollars,” he calls out. “No,” he amends quickly with another raised paddle. “Make that six hundred thousand.”

  I release Faith’s hand and she murmurs, “My God,” at the dollar figure and links her arm with mine. Touching me by choice, that free will she is showing motivating me to win my auction sooner rather than later, and get her out of here. I hold up my paddle and call out, “One million dollars.”

  The room seems to let out a collective gasp, but the auctioneer is not fazed. “We have one million dollars,” he says. “Do we have a million one?”

  “A million fifty thousand,” a woman call outs.

  I scan the crowd, a forty-something woman in a red dress is directly across from me giving me a wave, a smug look on her gaunt, overly made up face that says she thinks she’s won.

  “A million one,” I say loudly, lifting my paddle.

  The woman scowls and the room fills with murmurs before the auctioneer says, “Do I have a million two?”

  My competition purses her pre-puckered lips and lowers her paddle, then sits. The auctioneer delivers final warnings and it’s done. I’ve won my painting. Faith steps in front of me, gripping my lapels as she had in the bathroom. “You just bid a million dollars on one painting.”

  A million one, I think, but I don’t point that out. “It’s a charitable donation,” I say instead.

  Josh appears beside us and goes on the attack. “How the hell does an attorney have the money to pay that kind of bid?”

  “Josh,” Faith snaps. “Stop.”

  “I’ve invested well and inherited well,” I tell him. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “I want to invest where you invest,” he snaps.

  “I’ll give you my guy’s name,” I say dryly, “but I have to warn you. I make most of my own picks.”

  “Of course you do,” he says, repeating the exact words Faith had used about me knowing Chris Merit earlier. I arch a brow and he smirks. “Bottom line. You have money to throw around, and you thought you’d use it to impress Faith.”

  He’s trying to take us back to our bathroom argument and I’d shut him down, but Faith steps in first. “Josh,” Faith chides, and looks at me. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize, sweetheart,” I say. “I do want to impress you, but not with my money.” I glance at Josh. “Because what your agent here fails to understand is that smart people do not surround themselves with those chasing their money, or with any misplaced agendas.”

  His eyes sharpen with hate before he spouts back with, “My agenda is to protect and support Faith.”

  “I wasn’t aware we were talking about your agenda at all,” I say, making his misstep obvious.

  It’s in that moment that Katie chooses to join us, smiling at us all, her greeting first directed at Josh and Faith, before she focuses fully on me. “Nick Rogers,” she says, offering me her hand. “Thank you for being so very generous.”

  “It’s a special painting,” I say, shaking her hand. “It took me off guard, but in a good way. I had to have it.”

  “Chris told me when he called about your ticket that you’d understand the painting in ways others would not.”

  “Rebecca not only means something to me,” I say in confirmation. “But I was on the beach the night that painting depicts.”

  “You knew the woman who inspired the painting?” Faith asks.

  “I knew her,” I say, thinking of the many times I saw Rebecca with my client, in what is now my sex club. She was his. He just didn’t know how much he wanted her to be his. But that isn’t information for Faith or anyone else. “I was involved in the investigation into her disappearance and represented someone close to her.”

  Josh jumps on that. “Someone suspected of murdering her?”

  “Rebecca was killed by a woman who was jealous of my client’s love for her,” I say.

  “Thrown in the sea,” Katie supplies, “Chris’s wife found her journals and ultimately she was a key to solving the crime.”

&
nbsp; “Really?” Faith says. “That’s…incredible. How must she feel being a part of such a tragedy?”

  “She feels like she knows her,” Katie says. “Chris did know Rebecca and it guts them both that she’s gone. Though I admit, I keep hoping she’ll show up one day, and we’ll find out she’s been on some island somewhere, living life well.”

  “We all do,” I agree, “including everyone on that beach that night who didn’t know her, but knew her story.”

  “Indeed,” Katie agrees. “Indeed.” She inhales. “Onto brighter topics.” She turns to Faith while Josh slips away, hopefully shamed into staying away. “Faith,” Katie says, taking her hand and patting it. “You are so very talented. We’re honored to have your work here.”

  “Thank you,” Faith says. “I’m honored to have it here.”

  “Your father would be proud,” she says. “Reid was proud of you.”

  I watch Faith’s delicate little brow furrow. “You knew my father?”

  “I did,” she says. “And your mother. Our neighbors are like family. We loved hearing your father tell stories about the many Reid Winter’s before him. We actually used to get together with them when you were a young girl.”

  I watch confusion slide over Faith’s face. “But I thought you were competitors. My mother said—”

  “We were competitors? I mean, technically yes, but variety is the spice of life. It’s not us or you.”

  “I’m very confused right now. My father—”

  “Loved your mother very much and we had a falling out with your mother before you even hit your teen years. But Reid and Mike spoke quite frequently. And just so you know, my husband wanted to be here tonight, but we had a private party at the winery that got a little rowdy. Perhaps you can come by for dinner one night.” She glances at me. “With you of course.”

  A woman in a suit dress, clearly not here for the party, appears beside us, her attention on Katie. “Sorry, Katie, but I have a situation.”

  “What is it Laura?”

  “The bidder who lost the auction insists that Mr. Rogers cash out before she leaves.”