The Bane Affair

by Alison Kent

  "We?" she asked before wondering why she was question­ing him when he was giving her what she wanted. The eroti­cism of skin on skin. Of steam and heat and slick soap.

  "Yes. We." He paused, added, "Unless you have some fe­male ritual you'd rather take care of in private."

  Was he talking about shaving her legs? Douching? Mastur­bating? Or was he simply giving her a way out? "No. No ritu­als but those involving soap and shampoo."

  "Okay then." He uncrossed his leg, leaned forward, and set his mug on the coffee table. Elbows braced on knees, he met her gaze and waited, his patience making her jumpy and in­sane.

  "You know," she began, placing her mug next to his, feel­ing strangely shy all of a sudden. "This seems almost too . . . calculated."

  "You prefer to be impulsive?"

  "Yes. I suppose. Doesn't everyone?" She shrugged, rubbed her cooling hands together and laughed softly. "I love spon­taneity, the excitement of it. Like the other night."

  He watched her for a moment that grew long and heated, his expression darkening, kindling the room's tension to a combustible point. "Are you so sure what happened that night was spontaneous? We kissed on the terrace, Natasha. You stopped us then from going further, but I wasn't the only one aroused while it happened."

  What could she say in response? Admit he was right? She had put him off on the terrace. She'd wanted privacy, wanted the intimacy she hadn't thought possible when faced with the fear of discovery. Even now arousal returned. A flush warmed the skin of her chest, crept upward in a tingling, tickling rush of sensation until even her ears felt the burn. Until it hurt to breathe!

  "If you tell me that when you came to my room you'd al­ready put that kiss from your mind, I'll believe you. But I don't think it happened that way." He took hold of the hands she'd laced together, rubbing his thumb over the backs of her fingers in long smooth strokes and with a hypnotizing pressure so in­tense she feared she would follow him anywhere. "I know it didn't happen that way for me. When you knocked on my door, I was debating whether to go to your room or to make do with a hot shower and soap."

  She pictured him naked, using her tactile memories of his body to imagine him taking hold of his erection and stroking himself to completion. Stroking while he thought of their kiss, thought of the way he'd thumbed her nipples there on the staircase. She couldn't help it; she wanted to watch. Oh, how she wanted to watch.

  But she wanted to watch less than she wanted to touch, to take him in her hand, into her mouth. To bend over for him there in the shower, to back up and offer up all he might desire to take.

  "So, tell me the truth, Natasha. Is it the spontaneity that turns you on, or is it me?"

  Thirteen

  It was him. Without a question. Without a doubt. Oh yes. The spontaneity meant nothing in the end, and he knew it. She saw that awareness along with every bit of his arrogance when she forced her gaze from their joined hands to his eyes.

  Cocky, egotistical sonofabitch, manipulating her into a silent confession while totally turning her on. He knew exactly how rapidly her pulse was racing, how warm her skin had grown. How could he not when he held her hands there where her skin perspired, her blood ran heavy and hot?

  She'd never known a man like this one even while she didn't know him at all. And she couldn't believe how much she wanted him.

  Oh yeah, she wanted him, wanted to laugh from the giddy expectation, wanted to cry out with the frustration of being so expertly played, wanted to push him down onto her sofa, climb on top, and have him until he cried out for mercy.

  That thought more than any other was the basis for the smile she gave him. She wanted to witness him break down and beg.

  Still holding both of her hands, he got to his feet, pulling her up against him. For a second or two, she swore he was going to kiss her. He had that look in his eye, that haunting need she'd seen before, an expression so unbearably sensual that she guilelessly parted her lips.

  She watched him touch the tip of his tongue to the edge of his teeth, watched as he weighed his decision, watched it all unaware of holding her breath until he pressed his lips to­gether and backed a step away.

  He led her unerringly around the sofa, through her bed­room to her bathroom, large enough for only a shower. He seemed so out of place, the epitome of sophistication in his de­signer labels and Italian car, moneyed and well-traveled, by his own admission used to staying in places she could never afford without winning a Powerball lotto.

  Yet here he was, undeterred by her shower enclosure's very modest size. She liked that about him. Liked it a lot. More than she should be thinking of liking anything considering this was no more than a fling. And it was just a fling, right?

  Right?

  She hugged her arms to her waist, glanced from her pedestal sink and the mirror above to the shelf of towels and toiletries and the frosted glass front of the stall while she waited.

  He closed the bathroom door; she heard him take a deep breath and blow it out slowly. At the catch of the latch, she flinched, more nervous now than she'd ever been on the bal­cony. On the balcony, she hadn't had time to think, only to feel.

  It came to her then, way too late. That was the beauty of spontaneity. Leaping into the heart of the fun without making this endlessly long critical analysis prior to launch.

  "I'm sorry the quarters are so cramped," she said at last.

  "Don't be." He moved in behind her, rubbed his palms up and down her bare arms before bodily turning her around. "Don't be sorry. And don't be nervous. We're both here be­cause we want to be. That's the only thing that matters."

  He sounded so certain and so confident when she was nei­ther. She was, in fact, on the verge of shaking out of her skin. What was it about him that made her so edgy? She'd never been the sort to get caught up by feelings she couldn't define.

  Yet here she was, a casual affair held in one hand, the need to know the secrets he kept in the other, and no way to balance the scale of contradictions.

  "I'm not nervous," she said, and shivered. "I'm just. . . cold."

  His expression softened, the lines at the corners of his eyes fanning out as he smiled, seeming to relax even further the deeper her tension set in. He reached around her into the stall and turned on the water. From the corner of her eye, she watched clouds of steam roll and rise, the humid air swirling, settling on her skin and, when she inhaled, reminding her of why she was here.

  She retreated a step within the confining space. "Uh, you probably don't want to get too close. I did quite a lot of danc­ing tonight."

  He moved nearer anyway, one brow arched with interest. She backed up further until she hit the wall of white and blue tiles, raised a halting hand to the center of his chest. "Trust me on this. Space right now is a very good thing."

  "Consider me warned." He spread his legs, using his body as a barrier to prevent her escape, braced both palms above her shoulders on the wall and leaned in, nuzzled her neck, hummed against her skin. "You smell like you've been having a very good time."

  The man was obviously too horny to think straight. "I smell like a locker room."

  He chuckled. Her nipples hardened. His heart beat a tom­tom rhythm into her palm. "It's a hell of a turn-on, Natasha, knowing a woman isn't afraid of working up a sweat. Makes sex all that much better not having to worry about messing up her hair."

  Natasha snorted. "You mean it's better because you don't have to do all the work."

  "That, too," he said before he bit her.

  Not too hard and not to hurt her. Only to let her know he was there. As if there was a chance she could ever forget. Especially now that he was tasting her, drawing the skin he'd nipped into his mouth and healing it with his tongue, the tip that was teasingly gentle, the flat that was firmly intent.

  She dug her fingers into the hard muscles of his chest, groaning, then fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, tugging the tails from his waistband, finding skin—yes, there he was. Warm and smooth. Hard beneath flesh t
hat was resilient. His pecs. His abs. The round of his shoulders. The strap of muscle supporting his spine.

  She couldn't get enough of touching him, or of his mouth kissing and nibbling and no doubt marking her neck black and blue. He smelled so good, like dark woods and desire, and she smelled like . .. ugh. No. Not yet. Not yet. Palms flat to his pectorals, she pushed him away.

  His eyes flashed brightly, and she loved seeing the evidence of how much he wanted her. Loved the power inherent to sex. Wondered not for the first time if her fascination with men wasn't as much about that sense of control as it was about their bodies.

  "Peter, I need a shower," she said, reaching for the hem of her tank and whipping the shirt over her head. Pier breasts bounced; she watched him watch her, saw his ragged intake of breath, took note of the tightly clenched line of his jaw, the tic of pulse at his temple.

  Grinning to herself, she ducked out from beneath the bridge of his arms and reached for her pants' rear zipper. He stepped in behind her, and before she knew to struggle, bound both of her wrists in one hand. She was no match for his strength, had she wanted to fight. She didn't.

  She simply closed her eyes, raised her chin, and let him win this first battle. Mist from the shower settled over her skin, beading and running in rivulets that dampened her throat to her belly.

  She arched her back, thrust her hips into the cradle of his, wanting, aching, needing him to release her, to slip his hands around and cup her breasts, to slide his fingers between her legs and discover how ready she was. To press the heel of his palm to the mound of her sex and grind down hard. What she needed was for him to be naked.

  Her impatient tugging of her hands from his hold only-served to tighten his one-handed grip. "You're hardly playing fair."

  He chuckled, toyed with her zipper, inched it down just far enough to dip a finger beneath the elastic of her thong and into the crevice between the curve of her cheeks. "Isn't all fair in love and war?"

  This wasn't about love. It wasn't. He knew it as well as she. This was about using his strength to get what he wanted. About her willingness to easily give in. "Sure. The same way paybacks are hell."

  He laughed at that. A belly-deep laugh. The sound burst free before he could stop it, as if he'd held the emotion pris­oner too long. "Natasha Gaudet, you are a hell of a woman. You try a man's control in dangerous ways."

  He didn't know from dangerous, she mused, squirming against his hold. "What exactly are you trying to control back there, mister, because I can't imagine anything being more dangerous than a dissatisfied woman."

  "You think I would ever leave you dissatisfied?" he asked, his voice low and soft against the shell of her ear. He settled his free hand on her belly, spreading his fingers wide. She sucked in her stomach; he took advantage of the gap, slipping into her pants to cup her sex through the textured lace of her thong. "Making you happy is all that matters."

  "Then let me go," she demanded, pressing herself into his hand and wiggling until she felt that first sexy zing of heated sensation zipping all the way to her core. She trembled, and then she said, "Because I'm not the least bit happy, I guarantee you that."

  "Are you sure?" He eased a finger into her folds, found her moisture, slicked it in a circle around her clitoris until she writhed against him and moaned. He responded with a chuckle, along with a whispered, "I thought so."

  "Damn you," she said with a whimper. She hated how ef­fortlessly he aroused her. She loved how effortlessly he aroused her. "I want a shower."

  "I want you." He pulled his hand from her panties, made quick work of her zipper. But when the low-riding waistband refused to slide from her hips, he had no choice. He had to let her go, needing the use of both of his hands.

  She shimmied out of the clinging red rayon, and before he could stop her, she stepped into the shower wearing only her thong. She turned, victorious—a feeling he doused immedi­ately when he reached back and flipped off the lights.

  She heard the rustle of clothing, saw shadows cast by the night-light plugged in on the one bare wall, the shape of a shoulder, an arm, the muscled curve of a hip as he shed his pants. She wanted to see him. God, but she wanted to see him. What was his deal with letting her see his body?

  She had no time to ask. He blocked what light there was when he stepped through the enclosure's door, which he never did close. And then his hands were on her shoulders, his mouth grinding down on hers, his erection a heavy solid weight press­ing into her belly's soft give.

  With the glossy tile behind her, she had no place to go, noth­ing to hold onto. Nothing but Peter's body. She reached up, took hold of his biceps, and returned the kiss, drawing his lower lip between hers and keeping her eyes wide open.

  It was an erotic sensation, looking up and seeing him in the abstract while feeling him tangibly, with her hands, her belly, her breasts. He opened his mouth, and she followed his lead. He tasted like Darjeeling tea, smelled like the woods in the rain. His tongue rubbed languorously over hers; he seduced her with sweeping strokes and his lips' soft suction.

  She moaned, deepened the kiss, digging her fingertips into the hard bulge of flexed muscles he kept in check. He had her where he wanted her, where she wanted to be, and possessed the strength to do anything. Yet he simply made love to her using no more than his mouth.

  He was supposed to be vulnerable. She was supposed to be prying out his secrets while all barriers were down. She was too busy to pry. Too busy falling hard for a dangerous man. It didn't matter that she'd sworn earlier, to herself and her girl­friends, that she wouldn't let this happen.

  It was happening. Later she would be a big girl and swal­low the bitter pill of repercussions, as long as he didn't stop touching her, kissing her, loving her now.

  He slid his hands from her shoulders to her neck and then her jaw, cradling her face tenderly, dropping kisses along one cheekbone, the bridge of her nose, her eyebrow, the dip of her temple. She shivered beneath his touch, certain she had never felt so much from such a slight caress.

  It was simple, innocent, no more than a soft kiss good night, a mellow good morning, a lovers' affection gesture. She swore she would melt from the pleasure. Her limbs grew languid, her breathing shallow, though her skin began to sizzle and burn.

  The night-light blurred an orange glow through the frosted glass, casting him in silhouette. Hot water stung like bullets striking the tops of her feet, a contrast to the sweet brushes of his mouth. She whimpered, wanting more, searching with her lips, which reached no higher than his collarbone.

  She kissed him there; tickled by the damp dusting of hair in the center of his chest, she wiggled her nose like a bunny. That made her laugh, a laugh that was in no small part panic over how hard and how deeply, how completely, how madly she was falling for no reason that made any sense.

  "You're laughing." His voice rumbled low against the shell of her ear.

  "You noticed." She found the disc of his nipple and laved it with the flat of her tongue.

  He growled, the sound rising from the base of his throat. "I'm hoping that means you're happy."

  Happy. He had said her being happy was all that mattered, yet she'd let him get his way. "You know what would make me ecstatic?"

  "Tell me," he said, trailing kisses and nips down the side of her neck all the way to the curve of her shoulder.

  He kept that up and she wasn't going to be able to tell him anything. She wasn't going to be able to think.

  She did manage to release him, however, long enough to reach for the wire rack hanging from the showerhead and her bottle of shampoo. "To start with, washing my hair. Then cleaning my body. You know, those female rituals you were so worried about witnessing."

  He moved away—not far because there was nowhere to go—but far enough that she missed him. She sighed, shivered, and raised her face to the spray. He took the bottle of sham­poo from her hand, and once she'd thoroughly wet her head and body, he pulled her back into his warmth.

  He washed her
hair, working up a lather with his fingertips, massaging her skull from her forehead to her nape, rubbing circles of varied pressures over her scalp until keeping her eyes open was not the battle but the war. She moaned, caught up in the sensation of coming undone.

  "You have no idea how good that feels," she mumbled, her head moving side to side then up and down in response to his kneading hands. "My stylist can't even compare."

  He chuckled. "Do you get naked with your stylist?"

  "Hardly. Mmm. I'm not so sure her husband would go for a threesome. He's pretty possessive. Not to mention old school when it comes to relationships." She quivered with sensation as suds ran down her neck and over her breasts in a sensuous trail. "They make an interesting couple."

  "How so?" he asked, holding her now with a forearm to her chest while massaging the base of her skull. And he ex­pected her to carry on a lucid conversation when she was melt­ing faster than any wicked witch.

  She cupped her hands beneath the water and splashed her face free of lather. "Ione's as punk as it gets. Piercings, tattoos, leather. Hair that's a different color every week. And Rey's a circulation assistant at the city library. Very brainy and book­ish-looking in his oxford shirts and sweaters. Not that Ione's any less intelligent. It's just strange seeing them together."

  "You don't believe that opposites attract?" he asked, turn­ing her to face him and backing her under the spray.

  She held her breath and squeezed her eyes shut as he rinsed the soap from her hair. When she came up sputtering, she wrapped her arms around his waist, pressed her cheek to his chest, and sighed. "Nothing about attraction surprises me at all. It's totally unexplainable, the emotion or experience or events that draw two people together."

  His hands settled in the small of her back. "Are you talking about Rey and Ione? Or you and me?"

  "Oh, the you and me is obvious. You wooed me with your Ferrari." She chuckled, then yelped when he smacked her on the ass. "No, I'm not into spanking, thank you very much."

  He grabbed her by the bottom and hauled her as close as he could. His erection, having softened, settled into her belly and started to throb. "What are you into, Natasha? Tell me what turns you on."