Love Me Later

by Libby Rice

  Snickering. Then, “Horse’s mouth? You think that kind of talk gets you what you want from a woman?” She looked truly appalled that he ever got anything he wanted. From anyone.

  “Always.” It was never conversation that he, or they, wanted. “Let me rephrase. I want you to tell the story of your life. Not the New York Times.” He ran the back of his hand down her upper arm. “Tell me, Scarlet. How did my Empress fall from her throne?”

  Drunk or not, her eyes shuddered. “We passed on the stairs, remember? You were going up as I was coming down.”

  She merely played with the cheese, pulling the piece apart and laying it bit by bit on his tray. Finally, he reached out to still her busy fingers. Breaking off a tiny bite, he held it up. “Eat. You need it.”

  Sighing heavily, she said, “I’d rather have fermented grapes.”

  “Tough.” He brought the tangy cheese forward toward her lips. “Eat the cheddar, Scarlet.” When he reached her mouth, he couldn’t resist. His fingertips brushed over her bottom lip for the briefest second before she pulled back. Her softness burned like a brand, and it was all he could do not to slip a finger inside her warm mouth, just to see what she’d do.

  Bite me, most likely.

  “Feeding me now, are you?” she scoffed, chuckling low. Yet her eyes dilated, and he didn’t think she could blame the low light.

  “Did you lie to him?” he asked abruptly. Betray him like you did me? He needed her to shoulder the blame for the rift between father and daughter. To have shown herself, once again, for the manipulative bitch he could easily set from his mind.

  Her mouth went slack as she ate. Only ten chews this time. “Excuse me?”

  “It’s a reasonable assumption given your tendency to use and abuse.” In that moment, he wanted to be away from her almost as much as he wanted to be inside her.

  “Never. I—I—” Her mouth opened and closed like a fish floundering out of water. “What happened to you?” she asked suddenly, staring at the yellowing bruise that snaked along his forearm.

  “Battle wound.” As if she gave a shit about his Monday night fight, but he let her change the subject. For now. “You should see the other guy,” he added with a wink.

  Scarlet scooted up in her seat and brought his arm into her lap, massaging the soreness and tracing the bruise with her soft fingertips. Her touch jolted across his skin, a torch’s sizzle. They made a combustible combination, one that could burn them both to cinders and leave them standing bereft and beyond repair. At the same time, not even his practiced loathing lent the will to resist.

  The raw silk blouse she wore had shifted with her movements, and in the computer’s glow, he could see the outline of a lacey bra. The shirt and the bra were so delicate he could picture the outline of her nipples. He knew what they’d look like… shell pink, a shade darker than her pale skin. They’d be small and sensitive to his touch. To his tongue.

  He hardened at the thought. Fuck, he ached. For a woman he refused to want or trust.

  “Do you contact him? At least often enough to keep yourself knee deep in those big checks you’re so fond of?” He knew the question would be a cruel reminder.

  The soft touches against his arm stopped, and he almost took the taunt back. Anything to keep her fingers on his skin. When she looked up, her eyes had gone wide, but her jaw remained set. “Especially not that.”

  “Sounds intriguing,” he mocked.

  This time when she answered, her musical voice was low and hesitant. “Why do you care? You never even knew him—”

  “Wrong.” He let the “g” vibrate against the silence of the cabin. “We’ve met several times. He even fucked me over on a land deal a few years back.” When Tripp Leore had backtracked on their signed contract and invited Ethan to sue if he wanted to do something about it, Ethan had pulled out. Nearly getting burned by another Leore had opened old wounds, seconding the fact that the name was poison.

  “You’re not alone in that, I’m afraid.” She sat sideways in her seat and rested her temple against the headrest, staring at her fingers as they curled around the air above his arm. He sensed her hesitance to touch him again, yet she didn’t tell him in no uncertain terms to fuck off.

  She was softening.

  “That kind of money,” she continued with a brief squeeze of his wrist. “Your kind of money. It can be dangerous.”

  Yup. That freaky money gets me every time. “My kind of money is the only way to live, sweetheart.”

  “Until you’re crushed under the weight of it. Or realize neither you nor those you hold dear can see past it. Maybe you even hurt someone with it—”

  He clucked his tongue in the dark. “And how would one do that?”

  She reached for the remaining cheese he’d set aside, her movements languid. “Maybe you need to apologize for wronging someone you care about, and money becomes your tool because it’s the only emotional currency you know.”

  What was this? An excuse for her seven-figure apology? Pointing the finger at him had destroyed his reputation, delayed his business launch, and gotten him evicted from his apartment and expelled from school. For months, he’d slept with his eyes open in a place where balled fists hadn’t meant prize money, but survival. When proven wrong, she’d waltzed in with a little regret and a lot of cash, expecting him to fall at her feet in gratitude.

  “Money could never compromise my humanity,” he said. And anyone who gave her fortune that kind of value could never voluntarily part from it, no matter what she said now. The number of zeroes before his decimal may have surpassed hers, but she obviously remained entrenched in the good life. These days he knew the worth of those massive diamonds winking from her ears. Quite the business casual for a woman who suddenly shunned wealth.

  “Leave off, Scarlet.” He registered the scathing scrape of his voice as he reached out, tracing a fingertip around one of the stones. “We both know you didn’t willingly part with that kind of money. You wouldn’t. More like couldn’t.”

  His hand slipped to her neck, and she inched away. Sober again, her face had lost its dreamy tranquility. “Here’s the interesting thing, Ethan. I don’t owe you or anyone else a play-by-play of my checkbook balance. Contrary to what you obviously believe, I don’t owe you anything.”

  He let a slow smile spread across his face. “A pity, that.” A rush of pride at her defensive posturing swirled into the potent desire he’d stopped denying.

  Mute, she blinked at him, chewing almost violently at her lower lip until he brought his fingertips to her mouth. “Don’t.” His emotions yo-yoed. One minute, he welcomed her worry. The next, he couldn’t bear to witness it.

  Jerking away from his seeking fingers, she burst out, “No.” Her eyes widened in shock before she added, “I’m not for you.”

  “Really?” he asked silkily. “Then who are you for?”

  He didn’t think she’d answer. But after a second, a reply too raw to be fabricated slipped out. “Maybe no one.”

  Her honesty stripped his defenses. “I disagree. You’re too…” Beautiful, alive, real. “You can have anyone.”

  “Except Ethan Blake.”

  “Especially Ethan Blake.” Or at least parts of him.

  She turned away without another word, her petite form huddling under her lap blanket, curling into the seat toward the window. The posture showcased her slender neck and a few pale tendrils that had escaped her updo to curl invitingly against her flesh.

  Grinding his teeth in frustration, he fought to kick-start lungs that refused to function properly. The tension inside him grew to an excruciating pitch until his breathing tripped, and he barely resisted the urge to drag her to him.

  Then his willpower gave him a big “fuck you.” He shoved his laptop beneath the seat, stowed his tray table, and reached for her. “Scarlet, let me—”

  “Leave it.” The words were harsh, signifying an end to his inquisition, whether he liked it or not. “I told you—”

  “Hush.” He d
ragged a hand from the nape of her neck, down her spine, and up again. “Shh.” He kept stroking, occasionally switching to knead the tension from her slim neck and shoulders until he felt her relax into the seat. Anticipation leapt in his chest when she accepted his touch. Leaning in, he placed a lush, closed-mouth kiss against her nape, her delicious floral scent coiling in the back of his brain.

  Purposefully avoiding anything threatening or overtly sexual—for now—Ethan used his hands and mouth to first relax and then to gradually arouse, saying nothing for long minutes as he continued the gentle massage. Finally, her body went lax in his arms, and he traced the shell of her delicate ear with his tongue, marveling at his first taste of her skin.

  It was like he remembered. One feel, and he would do anything, forgive anything, for another.

  “Can I touch you?” He prayed for a yes, doubting his ability to tame the need that steamrolled in through his fingertips.

  “You are touching me,” she answered, her voice husky but uncertain as she flattened her hands over the window shade. The motion caused her to rock back into his arms as though she were unsure as to why she responded to him the way she did, but was really interested in finding out.

  He arched into her, silently pleading for her to take more from him. “Scarlet? Can I make you feel good?” Use my body to pleasure yours?

  She moaned softly, and the effect was intoxicating. The low sound stole through his veins, the ultimate attaboy. His hands surged under the blanket to brush against her breasts, massaging them like he had her back and stomach. Straining to get closer, he came up hard against the armrest that separated them, smacking his jean-clad erection against unforgiving plastic and metal. With an impatient tug, he arced the offending blockade out of their way, his movements stirring the air around them. Beyond the fresh scent of woman and exclusive French perfume, he detected the barest hint of feminine arousal. His brain stuttered at the thought of her body getting ready.

  Ethan closed his eyes and imagined them going beyond what the confines of the plane cabin would allow to a place of mad lust, where the only thing that mattered would be him pounding out the ache he knew pulsed between her thighs.

  Making her come until he was lost.

  He slid his hand into her silken hair, close to the scalp. A few pulls released her ladylike chignon and arched her spine forward, thrusting her gorgeous breasts up to beg for his touch.

  He lowered his mouth to her ear. “I’m so fucking hard, Scarlet.”

  As her head slammed back against his shoulder, her lips parted in a soundless moan. The sight of her arousal had him hardening further.

  “Ethan, I—oh, God.” She peeled her torso away, again pushing against the window shade, though this time, they weren’t separated by the intrusive armrest. Her backside twisted frantically against his cock as he sat turned in his seat, the friction of his clothing nearly burning him alive. Rearing back, Ethan tried to shake the intensity, but the feel of her pert ass grinding against him had his skin prickling all over, like his whole body was an extremity being awakened after going to sleep.

  Then, without his permission, her low, desperate cries triggered an elemental need to see her satisfied.

  Reaching around again, he slowly unbuttoned her silk blouse and spread it apart. He swallowed the incoherent sounds that bubbled up when he flattened his hands over her warm stomach and slid them upward over the demi cups of her lacy bra, fascinated by the way her breath sawed in and out in desperate gulps.

  It would take nothing to release her nipples. The flick of a wrist.

  He couldn’t resist, and with his next move, he reached inside her lingerie to cup her, gently pulling the mounds from their confinement before rasping a forefinger over each distended nipple.

  This time there was no suppressing the guttural moan that vibrated his chest.

  ******

  Hunger settled in Scarlet’s middle in a scorching, insistent ache. Ethan’s large hands palmed her breasts all too knowingly, his hardness sliding forcefully against her rear.

  One part of her demanded she stop him. Now. Another niggled that she’d always known Ethan wouldn’t hurt her. She’d known, deep in some silent, unrecognizable corner of her heart, and yet she’d made unforgivable accusations. Perhaps he deserved a little trust even though he’d threatened, insulted, and then laughed at her in the space of a day. Because despite the war cry of her every last instinct for self-preservation, her traitorous body cried hell yes. She wanted to hate him for his disdain, but the hate part refused to cooperate.

  All she got was the want.

  She’d become the mouse after a baited piece of cheese that might well kill her, and she didn’t have the strength to resist. He offered pleasure at a high price—a trap—but she’d grown so damn hungry she was willing to pay.

  “More?” he rasped behind her, and she felt her body heat in answer. Not one touch without at least implied permission. “Scarlet?” he asked again.

  Go ahead. Trust the lightening not to strike. “Please,” she said on a ragged sigh.

  With warm fingertips, he nudged her nipples into hard points. When she arched forward into his hands, one disappeared, his fingers returning wet from his devious tongue. The combination of moisture and cool air on the tip of her breast brought an uneven demand to her lips. “More.”

  “Turn for me, Scarlet. Let me see you.”

  “The others…”

  “No, sweetheart, everyone’s asleep.” While Ethan’s voice was barely a whisper, she knew any concern for being detected had flown long ago. For both of them, the risk became part of the attraction.

  She let his hands ease her around in the seat. Instantly, his head bent, and one nipple—the shiny wet one—disappeared into the hot depths of his mouth. When she hissed at the shocking heat, a low twrrling in the back of her throat, he sucked at her for a moment before pulling back to alternate puffs of blown air with assuaging licks over the swollen peak.

  Scarlet clutched at his shoulders with her nails, sinking into the pleasure, watching his hand trail around the curve of her knee at the edge of her skirt. His voice came in a dark whisper. “Will I find you wet?”

  She nodded tightly, ready to drag his hand to where she needed him most. But those fingers kept stroking in place, only inching upward after several moments. The ascent was agonizing, but he finally reached the apex of her thighs and the lace nestled between.

  “Answer me, Scarlet.” He stroked her cleft through the material, pushing in slightly, teasing her blind.

  “Yes.” She whimpered. “Wet. Too hot.”

  “Oh, sweetheart, you’re definitely both,” he said hoarsely. “Can you part those beautiful thighs for me?”

  Barely. But she did her best, easing her thighs as wide as the seat and the skirt would allow.

  He moaned around her swollen nipple. “That’s it. Ah…” Soothing her inner thighs, he murmured his appreciation. “Smooth. Soft.”

  Sneaking beneath the lace to the flesh beneath, his finger was a soft stroke right up her center, blitzing her nervous system.

  He raised his head from her breast and looked at her, his eyes glittering with intensity. “Fuck, Scarlet, you’re ready.”

  Forget the lightning. Let it strike.

  “Please, Ethan.” The words were a hoarse demand. Her hips rose to meet his hand, to press against him as he brushed right where she ached, just hard enough to intensify her need, to merge it with madness.

  Without another word, two thick think fingers sank into her, and she convulsed at the sudden sensation of being filled. Looking at him, she caught a glimpse of his pink tongue swirling around her nipple. Letting her eyes rove lower, she watched the erotic dance of his muscled forearm as it disappeared beneath her skirt in time with the warm pulls of his mouth.

  Her world shrank to the point where his fingers caressed her in a thick slide—in and out. When his thumb swirled gently around her swollen clitoris on the downward stroke, she couldn’t stop the words tha
t tumbled out. “Oh, how I’ve wanted this,” she panted, realizing she was going to come. Knowing she would have to do it silently. Barely understanding she might come to regret her candid, passionate words.

  He knew. Pulling away from her throbbing nipple, he growled, “Tell me when, sweetheart. Give me everything.”

  “Now, Ethan, now.” The words had barely left her lips when his mouth covered hers for the first time. He ate at her, a sensuous stroking of lips, teeth, and tongue, swallowing any noise she might have made, or even thought of making, as the pleasure crashed in voluptuous waves. His fingers didn’t stop. The powerful, surging advances and slow retreats continued through the storm, teasing out every trace of release.

  When the surges ended and she stared at him, mute and horrified, he withdrew his hand from between her legs in an unhurried motion and smoothed her panties into place, stroking over them before he inched her skirt down beneath the blanket.

  After he buttoned her shirt, he placed a chaste kiss to her forehead.

  His lips skimmed her ear. “It seems that you, Empress, are going to be worth the wait.”

  Chapter 7

  July—Copenhagen, Denmark

  Adjoining suites. That minion of Ethan’s, Susan What’s-her-name, had booked them into connecting rooms at the Hotel d’Angleterre, a two-hundred-and-fifty-year-old throwback to the days when grand hotels were called things like, well, the d’Angleterre.

  Scarlet sauntered into the space, her eyes drinking in a host of eighteenth-century furnishings that popped with lavish fabrics in varying patterns of ice blue and cream. Surprisingly, the subtle melding of paisleys, stripes, floral prints, and an occasional solid created a sumptuous sanctuary, not the tacky chaos she would have expected. Maybe this would be the hotel room that let her sleep.

  While the bedroom exuded Victorian haven, the bathroom eschewed the vintage theme for the full Scandinavian spa experience. A round ceramic tub beckoned from the corner, complimenting the bowl sinks that perched atop a mirrored vanity. Plush white rugs lazed upon a warm stone floor that, if she desired, could be heated from below. Ultramodern conveniences overlaid the otherwise classic elegance of her suite.