But getting her stripped was like getting past some God-awful chastity belt. Fucking skinny jeans. Wrenching the zipper down, he grabbed two fistfuls of denim and worked the material over her hips, cursing at every yank. At least she raised her hips to help, although he had the impression she was laughing at him. Then the sight of a scrap of pink underwear distracted him. The thing couldn’t cover a flea’s ass. As he curled his fingers around the flimsy lace, it stretched, snapping in his hand.
“Jesus, you’re beautiful,” was all he could say at the sight of her. The battle with her jeans was worth the effort. Even half-stripped, she was exactly how he’d imagined her. Pale and slender, with surprisingly long legs for a woman of barely medium height. A waxed pussy, except for a landing strip. Exactly how he liked them. Hell, he liked every inch of her.
He sat down on the edge on the bed. It squeaked in protest at his weight. This was all he needed. A noisy ride. If her neighbors were home, they were in for a treat.
Leaning over her, he kissed her, slipping his hand between her legs to explore. Dear God, just a touch of her wetness could make him come. He’d happily go down and take a taste of her right now, but every cell in his body screamed for release. Standing, he grabbed a condom from his wallet before shedding his clothes, shoes, and socks, aware of how her eyes took him in. He liked that hungry stare way more than he should.
By the time he’d rolled the condom on, she’d kicked off her jeans and was waiting for him, legs drawn up, knees wide apart. Christ, she was a sexy thing.
He didn’t waste time with his shirt. Or hers. Settling himself between her legs, he ignored the bed’s loud screech and propped himself up on his elbows. He’d thought about her for weeks but held off finding out who she was. Now, he could barely believe she was in his arms.
Sliding his hand down between them, he kept his eyes locked on hers as he notched his cock against her entrance, feeling her wetness opening to him. He closed his eyes, savoring the feel of her before working further into her, loving the sensation of her body closing around him. He withdrew a little, preparing for the slide all the way home, when he felt her tense. Hell, was he was hurting her?
“Are you okay?”
“You’re big,” she whispered.
He rasped a laugh. “Yeah, that’s me.” Even holding himself completely still and only half inside her, she felt impossibly good. Like no woman he’d ever had—and there’d been more than he cared to remember.
Gently, he eased further in, now thankful for the slow pace. He needed slow. But then she suddenly wrapped her legs around his hips and pushed herself up in invitation, so he drove all the way in. She tensed a little, and he held still, waiting until he could feel her relaxing under him. Finally, at his limit, he slipped a hand under her ass and, lifting her hips, thrust hard—maybe too hard, too deep, but her core opened more with every stroke, so he kept going.
Her head hit the headboard. She trembled, huffing against his neck.
He froze. “Sorry, I’m a rough bastard. Are you ... ?”
A firm dig of her heels in his butt was answer enough.
He exhaled with relief. Delicately made, but she could take him.
With a low growl, he gripped her plump little ass again to hold her steady as he bucked into her. The bed sagged and groaned in protest.
He stilled again, hating the loss of momentum. Hell, if the damn thing collapsed, he really would have to take her standing up. Either that, or on the floor.
Pushing himself up to rest his palms on each side of her shoulders, he grinned down at her. “Will you mind if I break your bed?”
Her hands slid up around his neck, drawing him down, matching his grin with one of her own. “If you do, you’ll have to buy me a new one.”
He chuckled, trying to remember when he’d last laughed out loud during sex. It felt good. “Deal.” Angling his head to reach her mouth for a slow kiss, he surged into her heat again, her hips undulating up to him, her heels on his butt urging him deeper into her body. A few hard strokes later and she threw her head back with eyes closed, clawing at his shirt, meeting him stroke for stroke. She was close, and dammit, he was going to look into those eyes when she came.
“Oh God,” she moaned, and he knew she was at the point of no return.
“Look at me.” He didn’t think she’d heard him, but at the exact moment she crested, her eyes flickered open, letting him revel in the dark sapphires locked on his gaze as he felt every muscle in her core squeezing him in waves of exquisite pressure. He tried to hold back, delay the sweet release, but she was too much. Too incredible. A split second later, he exploded into her.
For minutes they lay still, their erratic breathing the only sound between them. He broke the silence first.
“You need a bigger bed.”
“It belongs to my grandmother. A family heirloom.” She sighed against his neck.
“Oh.”
“Your tattoo. What is it?”
“Celtic dragon.”
“It’s nice,” she murmured.
He kissed her hair, surprised at how much he liked her interest and the feel of her face snuggled against his throat. He could happily stay like this, but even on his elbows, she had to be feeling his weight. So he rolled out, disposed of the condom, and then made himself as comfortable as he could in her grandmother’s ridiculously undersized bed.
“Sorry about your underwear.”
She didn’t answer—just nestled her face into his shirt, her fingers drawing a pattern around each button before undoing it to explore his chest. That he was enjoying her so much worried the hell out of him. Years of intelligence work had taught him to be cautious. Never trust. Never get involved. He’d broken every rule in the manual with her. This wasn’t even a one-night-stand situation. Those he could deal with. His choice of job made it impossible for him to have a woman in his life. But for the first time, a woman had caught his interest to the point where he wanted more than just the sex, as good as it was. He wanted to know her. What made her tick. Why would she get involved in an art fraud when, at twenty-five, she was near the top of her career ladder and still climbing? It didn’t make sense.
He sucked in a sharp breath as her small fingers fluttered down over his belly, then slid along his still half-erect cock, gently teasing it back to hard. He closed his eyes and sank into the pleasure of her soft hand.
“You’re beautiful,” she whispered, tracing a fingertip around the ridge before slipping her hand down the shaft again. “You like that?”
Oh yeah, he liked it.
“Uh-huh,” he managed to answer, closing his eyes again as she built a steady rhythm. Whatever her past, she sure knew how to pleasure a man. With this excuse for a bed, he’d assumed she hadn’t seen much action in it.
But silky-warm hand or not, he needed to finish what he’d started. Sliding his hand up under her shirt, he worked his fingers under her bra to cup a breast. His fingers told him she had the kind of breasts he liked. Not big, but curvy. Just right for a slender thing like her. Tweaking at the tight bud of a nipple, he felt her bow up to him, her hand slipping off his cock. At least he could concentrate now.
“Take off your shirt.” No way did he trust himself to do it. He’d already ruined her panties, or thong, or whatever the hell it was.
Sitting up, she obediently unbuttoned her shirt, tugged it off, and tossed it over the end of the bed, all the while watching him from under a screen of dark lashes. It was hard to tell what she was thinking, but she was ready for more of him—that much was obvious. He dragged his own shirt off, sending it in the same direction.
“And the bra.” Pink. Lacy. Hell, ordering a woman out of her bra had never been so sexy. She undid the hook between the cups, now staring hard at his abs and everything below, while he enjoyed his own view. But mutual admiration would have to wait. With a grunt of satisfaction, he laid her down, sparks going off in his brain when she stroked his cock again. Man, she was made for him. And right now he was going t
o taste her. Every inch of her.
“Do you work for Philip Taurel?”
His mouth had only just found a nipple when her question stopped him in his tracks.
“No.”
She squirmed as his tongue went back to work on the rosy peak. “McCallister’s?”
“It doesn’t matter who I work for.” Definitely not when his cock was iron and his balls ached for release again. He kissed his way across to the other nipple, gently drawing the nub between his teeth, enjoying her small moan of pleasure as she rose up for more. That should keep her preoccupied until he was ready to give her more answers.
“Why don’t you believe me about the Bonvalet?”
Shit. He looked up. Her face was flushed with her arousal, but her eyes were keenly focused on his reaction, rather than where he’d prefer them to be. He didn’t need this. Not with her spread out for him like this, testing him to the limit.
“Do you want to talk about paintings, or do you want to do this?” Hell, he knew what he wanted. He wanted to investigate that landing strip and everything below. With his mouth.
Her eyes went round and innocent-looking. “Why can’t we do both? Who do you work for?”
“Hey, I think maybe we’d better call this quits.” As much as he hated to admit it, she was getting way too clever with her questions.
She pushed up on her elbows, a small, coquettish smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “I’m sorry. Please don’t stop.”
“Right. Well, where were we?”
Slipping down the mattress, his legs went over the end of the bed, jamming his feet against the wall. Pushing her legs up over his shoulders, he kissed his way along the inside of each soft thigh before drawing his tongue slowly along her sex, keeping it gentle, knowing she’d still be sensitive from her orgasm. Sensitive and begging for more, by the way she was trembling under his mouth. So wet and beautiful. Man, he was going to enjoy this. Keep her coming until he couldn’t stand it for another moment and he’d have to climb back up her beautiful body and fuck them both to oblivion.
His mouth had barely gotten busy when the next question came.
“Who do you work for?”
Okay, that was it. She might be made for him, and he might be hornier than he’d ever been in his entire life, but enough was enough. He was being played.
Pulling himself up, he wedged himself between her and the wall, slipping an arm under her to make more room for himself.
“Who do you work for, princess?” He tried to keep his voice even, but a mix of irritation and lust had made him hoarse.
He felt her sigh against his shoulder. “I answered your questions, Perses. Now answer mine.”
When she tried to reach down and stroke his cock, he grabbed her hand and held it firmly. No way did his dick need more stimulation.
“But you didn’t answer my questions, Dr. Gilmore. When you do, maybe we can get back to other matters.”
“But I can take you or leave you, Perses.” He felt her lashes fluttering against his chest. “So I don’t need your ... other matters.”
He laughed at that and released her hand to lightly caress a breast. She had plenty of spirit for sure. He liked it.
“Yeah, you do. You’re just dying for me to get back down there and give you the best orgasm you’ve ever had.” Jesus, he meant it. He’d give her twenty orgasms. Right now. Once she’d told him what he wanted to know.
“You mean better than the last?” She slid down his chest, kissing her way over his pecs, her fingers slowly tracing around each abdominal. “If you insist. But first, tell me what you know about the Bonvalet fraud.”
Reality hit him like an out-of-control freight train. This wasn’t some game where they could play-fuck information out of each other. In some strange way, she’d done him a favor with her questions.
Climbing over her, he got to his feet and started dressing, aware that she hadn’t moved, except to pull a corner of the sheet over herself. She was clearly confused about what had just happened, but that wasn’t so bad. In the next three minutes, she’d think him a complete bastard—and she’d be right.
He was dressed when he sat down on the edge of the bed to talk to her. “I want you to listen to me carefully. We know there’s an American link to the fraud. It’s you.” He saw her mouth open to protest, but he kept going before she could speak. He needed her scared and vulnerable again. “Our informant told us about the connection to McCallister’s.” He paused, letting the words sink in, seeing the fear creep back into her eyes.
“You didn’t mistake that forgery for the real thing. You’re up to your neck in this, and I’m going to get the truth. If you think a roll in the hay changes anything, it doesn’t. It was nice, but that’s all it was. No, the best thing you could do is give me the name of the forger you met in Venice, before the police, FBI, and whoever else comes after you. And they will come after you.”
She didn’t confess. She didn’t even shout a denial. She just looked stunned, like she had in Stonebridge’s office. Sliding herself down in the bed, she turned to face the wall, curling her legs up against her body.
Her voice was small when she finally spoke. “Go away.”
He took a card from his wallet. “Here’s my number, Gemma, when you’re ready to talk. Make it soon. My name’s Mack Buchanan, by the way.”
At the door, he turned to look at her. She hadn’t moved, except to scrunch the sheet up to her face. Maybe she was crying.
Not the first time he’d felt bad about doing his job. But this time it hurt.
Hurt like hell.
CHAPTER FOUR
She’d had sex with her enemy, and his name was Mack Buchanan.
Gemma still couldn’t get her head around the fact that she’d done it. By giving into her desire for him, all she’d gotten was an orgasm. Nice, but not very useful when it came to finding out what was going on. She should have realized the man wasn’t the pillow-talk type. Of course he wouldn’t have fallen for her obvious “please tell me everything, Perses” routine. She’d made a mistake. But then, she’d never experienced such an incredible sexual chemistry with anyone—and if she were being totally honest with herself, she’d do it again in an instant. There had to be something wrong with her.
“Sorry I’m late.”
Gemma jumped, nearly spilling her coffee across the café table. It was Lucy—grinning from ear to ear, her dark blonde hair dragged into a rough ponytail, sunglasses perched on the top of her head. There was something comforting about the sight of Lucy. As if the world hadn’t turned upside down after all.
“So did he arrest you, GG?”
But there was no doubt about it: The girl never felt a sliver of sympathy for the plight of others.
“That Mack Buchanan is huge,” Lucy breezed on, flopping down in the chair opposite and signaling for the waitress. “God, when he dragged you into the elevator, I thought you were a goner for sure. But what a way to go. So seriously drop-dead gorgeous.”
“How on earth do you know about that? Were you watching?” A dumb question. The girl could run a five-star detective agency with her surveillance skills.
From Lucy’s exasperated expression, Gemma’s IQ had just dropped fifty points. “Of course! Cappuccino, please,” she instructed the waitress before leaning over the table, her brown eyes round with interest. “So, where’d he take you, GG?”
“Home.” That was all Lucy was going to get by way of information. As it was, that was probably too much.
“Is that all? Well, anyway, let me fill you in.”
Gemma sat back and waited. No doubt Lucy knew something useful. In fact, that was the reason Gemma had texted her to meet after work in the café, two blocks from McCallister’s. Her banishment from the office meant she needed a source of information. And what better source than an inquisitive, gabby teenager? The only problem would be keeping Lucy quiet about their meeting. Lucy’s mouth didn’t do discreet.
“Okay, so what’s going on at the offic
e?”
“Well ... the thing is—jeez, you look awful. There are, like, huge shadows under your eyes.”
Lucy didn’t do tactful either.
“Rough night, sweetie. Go on.”
Rough night indeed. After Mack had left, Gemma barely made it to her bathroom before throwing up from guilt and shame and every other raw emotion left in her. Crawling back to bed, she’d spent hours reliving the nightmare of the whole day, until finally she took an Ambien that knocked her out for what seemed like ten minutes but was instead a few hours. Then, at four in the morning, it had started again. The swarming memories, the terror that seemed to come out of the very walls of her bedroom, sabotaging her every attempt to understand how she could have authenticated a forgery.
But the humiliating memory of letting him play with her had been almost as bad. Oh yes, he’d had his fun with her, his roughness morphing into one big, erotic turn-on. The kisses, the touches, the weight of his powerful body, his—
“Of course he was back in the office this morning.”
Gemma blinked. “Who?”
Lucy shook her head impatiently. “Pay attention. Sex-on-a-stick Buchanan, of course. Went straight to John Allen’s office and closed the door. I think old Stonebridge is sick or something. He wasn’t in today, and Cruella is so grouchy. You know, she actually ordered me off the executive floor. Can you believe it?”
Gemma briefly closed her eyes, trying to filter out Lucy’s ramble from the important fact that Mack had been at McCallister’s talking to John Allen. Presumably, that meant John knew something, whatever that was.
Lucy’s voice prattled on. “It’s not like I report to her or anything. She knows that.”
“Sweetie, no one knows who you report to.”
Lucy’s chin shot straight out with indignation. “That’s not fair!”
“Listen, Lucy, I want you to do something for me. But ... ” She paused; this could be a mistake. The trouble was there was no one else to trust with the job, or, for that matter, anyone else prepared to do it. Well, she would just have to risk asking. “I need the Bonvalet notes from my workroom. They’re in the filing cabinet under the window. Do you know the one?”
Whirlwind Romance: 10 Short Love Stories Page 8
