The Blue Link (RUSH, Inc. Book 1)

by Carol Caiton

  Her eyelids began to grow slumberous and he knew his narrative was turning her on. Unfortunately, watching her was turning him on as well.

  He drew a breath and continued. "But they won't let you orgasm. Your chip implant allows them to monitor and measure your responses and they'll bring you to the brink several times, then ease you down. But then they turn you over and it starts all over again, only it's more intense. You're breasts will be massaged and teased until they're full with wanting and your nipples so hard, you're physically aching for a man's touch . . . until you're excruciatingly heavy and swollen—breasts, nipples, anus, and vagina—that yearning for a man to fill you is all you can think about. The only thing you can think about. Nothing else matters, understand? Nothing."

  She didn't speak. For long moments her brown eyes watched him, glazed now with passion, her cheeks tinged pink with warmth. When she moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue, he jerked behind his zipper. He wanted her so much he hurt.

  "Ethan?" her voice was a husky whisper.

  He had to be careful. Very, very careful. This was the second time she'd shown a clear desire for him. Not for Simon, but him. And the surge of lust throbbing in his loins urged him to take what she offered. How the hell many more times was he going to have to walk away? How many times could he walk away?

  "Go to bed, Nina. It's late." His words sounded like gravel, but he man-aged to turn from her and head for his private wing of the house. He was good at controlling his expression. She'd never know the internal battle he fought. But the image of her poised against the refrigerator, craving what he could give her would be burned on his mind for a long time.

  * * *

  Nina slumped back against the refrigerator, allowed her knees to give out, and slid down to the slate floor.

  He'd left her.

  She was such a fool for thinking he might give in to the desire she'd seen in his eyes. She'd only caught a glimpse, but it had been there.

  Pulling her knees up to her chest, she crossed her arms over them and rested her forehead on top.

  She wanted him. Not Simon. Ethan. Only God knew why, but there it was. At times she wanted so badly to touch him, just to touch him, she had to force herself to get in the car and go to RUSH. It was like a hunger that kept growing.

  Was she turning into a promiscuous woman? Not long ago she'd been half naked in bed with Simon, yet here she sat, wanting Ethan's hands on her, Ethan's mouth on hers, Ethan's . . . .

  Some sixth sense told her to look up.

  Opening her eyes, she lifted her head a couple of inches and saw a pair of large bare feet standing directly in front of her own.

  Oh, God.

  She stared at jean-clad calves, raised her eyes up the length of his legs, and swallowed at the single open button above his fly, the vee of dark hair that disappeared beneath the open waistband.

  She brought her eyes up past the dark springy hair on his chest to his unsmiling mouth, to his flared nostrils and the smoldering desire in his eyes.

  He held out a hand and she didn't hesitate. She slid her fingers across his large palm and in one smooth pull, he had her on her feet.

  * * *

  He moved in closer, felt the brush of her breasts against his ribcage.

  Just this once, he told himself. Just this once.

  He released her hand and slid both of his to her waist. Christ, she was small. He'd touched her before, lifting her out of the Hummer, but he hadn't touched her like this. Not with desire arcing between them. This time he was going to touch her with the hands of a lover and watch her respond. To him.

  He flexed his fingers and smoothed his thumbs over her ribs. One more step crowded her back against the refrigerator and he pressed into her, trapping her, graphically demonstrating his need.

  Her breath caught.

  His own was a rough intake of oxygen and his body tightened with demand.

  "Yes, Ethan . . . yes."

  Her whispered words pushed a wave of longing through him so powerful, it shook him. He'd never felt this combination of desire and tenderness and emotion. It was too much. He felt too much. It squeezed him from the inside out and he sank his face in her hair, drawing her into his lungs while he reveled in this one short interval of freedom to touch.

  She brought her hands to his wrists then slid them lightly, carefully, along his forearms up to his shoulders. She was nervous. He felt it in the feathery touch, her fingers almost weightless, seeming to ask for permission.

  He raised his head, stared down into her eyes. "Yes," he murmured in return, answering her unasked question.

  Lifting one hand, he skimmed his fingers along her jaw and watched her lids drift down as she turned her cheek into his palm. And once again, watching her curl into his touch and nestle against his hand, the softness of the moment caught him by the throat. Emotions were involved here. Deep emotions—on his part at least. If it was nothing more than a fleeting attraction on hers, he'd deal with it later.

  Threading his fingers into her hair, he bent down and felt her warm breath merge with his. He ran his tongue over her bottom lip. Back again. Then he moved that last inch and closed his mouth over hers and damn it, he lost himself in triumph when her arm circled tight around his neck and she kissed him back.

  Triumph. Over a kiss.

  When had he ever felt like this? The exhilaration. The sense of rightness. Adoration, for God's sake. And a need so powerful, he locked his knees and shuddered.

  Slipping a hand beneath her sweater, he smoothed his fingers over warm satiny skin. He brushed his knuckles along the underside of her bra, over the stiff lacy fabric, then curved his palm around the magnificent weight filling his hand.

  He rasped his thumb across her nipple and she froze. The fingers on his shoulders squeezed tighter.

  He forced himself to wait. It had to be her choice. He knew he could make the decision for her. He knew every pleasure point on her body as well as any masseuse at RUSH. Hell, his thumb was poised and waiting over that tight hard bud, the hand in her hair in position to heighten her desire.

  His groin throbbed and ached with the need to lock her hips to his, to grind himself against her, and every natural impulse he possessed pushed him to use that knowledge to tempt her, to seduce her beyond the ability to think.

  But he wanted no regrets. He didn't want her to look at him tomorrow, embarrassed. Or to avoid him altogether.

  So he listened to her breathe, felt the rise and fall of her breast in his hand, and waited for her decision.

  She opened her eyes, soft and heavy, and met his gaze with honest emotion. "Don't stop," she whispered into his mouth. "Please, Ethan, don't stop."

  He tangled his fingers in her hair, slid his other hand behind her back to unfasten the lacy garment, and tugged. Then he crushed her mouth under his and filled his palm with glorious female flesh.

  Jesus, God Almighty. She was everything he'd imagined whenever he looked at her, everything he'd visualized when he stood holding that lacy garment in his hands.

  Blood pounding in his head, throbbing in his groin, he untangled his fingers from her hair and pulled the sweater over her head.

  Satisfaction beat at him when he slid her bra off and dropped it to the floor. She was beautiful. He filled both hands with those full mounds, bent down, and drew a dusky, puckered nipple into his mouth.

  She cried out and an inferno of lust roared through him.

  Tearing his mouth from her breast, he reached for her ass and hissed out, "Lift up, sweetheart."

  She did as he told her, stretching up on her toes, and he lifted her off the floor, nudged her legs apart, and fitted himself between her thighs.

  "Yes, Ethan! Oh, yes!"

  Wrapping her legs around his hips, she squeezed tight and rocked against his erection.

  "Wait, Nina. Slide back down honey."

  She whimpered and shook her head.

  He groaned. "Sweetheart, slide down."

  He managed to get one han
d between them and unfastened the button of her jeans. Tugging at her zipper, so goddamn hungry for her, his intent must have gotten through because she relaxed her legs. He peeled the jeans down to her knees before her feet touched the floor and her sandals slid off as he tugged then tossed the garment aside.

  He slid his palms over her bare-naked ass, hoisted her off the floor again, and drove himself against her.

  A G-string. He'd missed the G-string.

  Sliding his hand beneath, he slipped two fingers inside her wet heat and she flew apart at once.

  "Ethan!"

  "Christ! Ah, Christ!"

  He bucked against her, pinning her back to the refrigerator, helplessly grinding into her until the world went dark and he erupted with a force that jerked his body with each spurt.

  Damn. Goddamn!

  Spent, weak in the knees, he tucked his face into her neck and collapsed against her. Then he tried to ease back as he felt her struggle for breath.

  "No, not yet," she gasped, tightening her arms around his neck. "Don't leave me yet."

  Leave her? She thought he wanted to leave her? He didn't want to let her go at all. He wanted to carry her straight to his bed, hold her until he got his strength back, then make love to her with a hell of a lot more finesse than a man who couldn't last long enough to get his shorts off.

  "No," he murmured. "Not yet."

  He nuzzled her neck. Maybe she wouldn't realize he'd lost control. She didn't have much experience. She'd only ever been with Simon.

  Simon.

  I want her back, Ethan.

  His stomach clenched.

  I'm asking you to stay away from her . . . .

  Bitter tendrils of guilt began eating through the ecstasy of release, cheating him of the contentment he'd found just on the heels of finding it.

  I can handle it.

  Fuck! Futile anger surged up inside. Dragging his face from her neck, he pressed his forehead to the cool metal refrigerator and shut his eyes.

  Please, Ethan, don't stop.

  I can handle it.

  Oh, God, Ethan!

  I can handle it.

  Don't leave me yet.

  No. Not yet.

  He let out a tortured breath. He didn't want to give her up and a long minute passed before he accepted the decision he didn't want to make.

  He pressed a kiss to her temple then another.

  "Nina?" Already he felt the loss.

  "Mmm?"

  She didn't raise her head. Snuggled in his arms, she no longer gasped for breath, but both legs were still wrapped around his hips . . . as though she didn't want to let go of him either.

  He squeezed his eyes shut, breathed her fragrance one more time, then exhaled in resignation.

  "This can't happen again, honey." His throat ached with each word. "We can't let it happen again."

  She grew still and he knew he'd hurt her. Hell, her naked body was still crushed against him. His fingers still pressed intimately into her body.

  Regretfully, he slid his hand from her moist heat and cupped her bare cheek.

  "Tomorrow," he whispered, "I'm going to harass you like always. I'm going to shout and swear at you every time you come near my bedroom or whenever you do something that jeopardizes your safety. And I'm going to lose my temper if you don't call when you're going to be out late." He drew a shallow breath. "And you're going to give me hell for it. You'll leave something beside my dinner plate to tell me what a sonofabitch I am, and you'll storm out of the house again, just to get back at me."

  She shook her head against his chest.

  "Yes, honey. This can't go any further. There's too much at stake."

  Finally she lifted her face. Tears trailed down her cheeks so it confused him when she offered a weak smile. "I know. I understand what you're saying. But I didn't storm out of the house to get back at you."

  Lowering his forehead to hers, he fell for her all over again. "Goddamn it," he whispered. "Goddamn it."

  * * *

  She wanted to stay wrapped around him for the rest of the night. She wanted more than these brief stolen minutes. If he'd give them a chance, something deep and meaningful could develop between them. She was sure of it. She was sure he knew it, too.

  But she hadn't lied to him. She did understand. Despite the hurt inside, she knew a relationship between them would have serious consequences. Not only would it destroy the friendship between him and Simon, it would carry over into RUSH as well. Everyone would probably think her on-again off-again romance with Simon had been rocky because of Ethan. It was a natural assumption, but how would that change their view of him?

  She considered all of that as the afterglow of their lovemaking began to wane. And when he raised his forehead from hers and said, "I'm going to ask you . . . again . . . to pretend this never happened," she gave him a watery smile.

  Yes, she could pretend. For him. But she wouldn't forget. She'd never forget.

  "And you'll find a phone and call me if you're going to be late coming home?"

  She nodded and sniffed.

  "Then kiss me one more time, sweetheart."

  His hands went to her waist and supported her as she lowered her toes to the floor. She reached up to brush his hair off his forehead, imprinting the moment on her memory, the depth of emotion in his eyes, the sensation of his thumbs rubbing softly over her abdomen. Then he lowered his head and she told him everything he wouldn't let her say with words when his mouth met hers for the last time.

  His hands squeezed her waist, slid up to the outer sides of her breasts, then swept around her back and pulled her tight against him as though he, too, felt the same gut-wrenching anguish. Over and over again his lips met hers. His tongue delved into her mouth, caressing hers in a slow languid dance of emotion that brought even more tears slipping down her face.

  When he finally broke away, he dragged his lips across her wet cheek and she felt him mouth something against her skin. Then the arms around her relaxed and eased away. He lifted one hand, tucked her hair behind her ear, and wiped a fresh tear. Then he stepped back, turned around, and walked away.

  She stood in the silence for a long while. Outside the wind blew a scattering of dry leaves around the patio. They swept against the sliding doors, ticking against the glass.

  He wasn't coming back. She knew he wasn't, but she watched the empty archway until a chill chased across her bare skin. Goose bumps rose on her arms and across her breasts, reminding her she stood practically naked in the middle of the kitchen. She looked down at the floor, at her clothes scattered haphazardly here and there, and bent to gather them up.

  The button was missing from the front of her jeans and that surprised her because it hadn't been loose. Studying the empty hole where the grommet should have been, she remembered Ethan's fingers working it free and smiled a little. Then she scooped up the rest of her things, padded across the room, and turned off the light.

  She was tired. And she was tired of crying. She'd shed more tears in the few short weeks since leaving home than she had over the course of many years.

  She turned on the light in her sitting room then reached around the doorframe for the switch that turned on the two bedside lamps.

  She took one step into her bedroom and came to a dead stop. The hairs on her arms rose up with panic and her first thought was that someone had broken into the house. Her second thought nearly suffocated her with terror. Was the intruder still here?

  A fear-stricken glance around the room told her she was alone. But her bedroom looked as though someone had searched it. Quickly, as though pressed for time. Her dressers were in a shambles, half the drawers pulled wide, her clothes in a tangle and falling over the sides. Hundreds of dollars worth of silk underthings lay heaped in a pile on the floor. Bits of brown paper dotted the carpet.

  Her mind raced, cataloging every detail. Then she remembered the boxes. Her clothes, nearly everything she owned, had been packed in the boxes Ethan had stacked in the hall.


  Foolishly, she walked back through the sitting room and checked the hallway. Of course the boxes were gone.

  She turned back toward the upheaval. Ethan would have known if someone had broken into his house. He was a security expert for goodness sake. Between the cameras, keypads, and monitors, he'd know it the second anyone so much as set foot on his property. A dozen alarms would probably go off.

  Which left her with only one conclusion. Had he done this?

  Her eyes landed on a scrap of brown paper. Cardboard. Torn from one of the boxes. Had he upended her clothes into the dressers like so much trash into a dumpster? Why? What did it mean?

  Where the goddamn frigging hell have you been?

  She hardly dared breathe. He'd been furious. More than furious. And he'd been worried.

  Her pounding heart began to slow. She took a cautious step toward the walk-in closet and peeked inside. All of her dresses hung in a tidy row. Nothing out of place. No burglar in sight. Her bedroom hadn't been searched at all. Instead, for some reason known only to him, Ethan had emptied her boxes in a blazing fury and left her bedroom looking as though it had been ransacked.

  CHAPTER 36

  Ethan took the elevator from Security Central down to the checkpoint. Intent on exiting the building, he responded with a nod or a clipped greeting when necessary and continued on his way. It was the first break he'd had since arriving at seven thirty that morning and he had some personal business to take care of. If he didn't do it now, he'd be lucky to catch another break before quitting time.

  Turning off the main walkway, he headed toward the food court and straight for Urns & Leaves. He bought a large black coffee, chose an outdoor table where he wouldn't be overheard, then pulled his cell phone from his pocket and punched a speed-dial number.

  "Yo, Ethan, wassup?"

  "How you doing, Michael? Good weekend?"

  "Always. They're all good. Whatcha need?"

  "A favor. It's personal. And it's on the shady side."

  "Okay. Tell me what you want so I can calculate the risk."