by Naima Simone
By sheer force of will, she swallowed and held off the overwhelming surge of nausea. But the effort left her trembling, shaking.
“I didn’t know,” she rasped, voice hoarse from the silent sobs that had torn at her throat. “I swear, I didn’t know.”
No wonder he hated her; in his eyes, she was complicit in the vile threat against his mother. To him, she was the selfish bitch who used any means necessary to marry a man for his connections. He couldn’t know she was as much a hostage to her father’s schemes as he was—and she couldn’t tell him.
But would it even matter? She was the daughter of the man who was blackmailing him. She was stealing his future with a woman he could truly love.
“Easy, sweetheart. Just breathe. Follow me.” He bent his head over hers, his mouth brushing her cheek. “In and out. In. And out.” He inhaled and exhaled several slow, deep breaths. Without a conscious decision, she followed his lead. In. Out. In. Out. Eventually, her tempo matched his, and she calmed, relaxing back against him.
Only their breathing punctuated the air. Seconds passed into minutes. And at some point, as the back of her head rested against his collarbone, the cyclone of pain, anger and disillusionment segued into another kind of storm. One where she became aware of the carefully leashed power in the arm wrapped around her, just under her breasts.
One where she noticed how his long, hard legs surrounded hers. Where she noted how his chest rose and fell on a slightly faster rhythm, matching the hot blasts of air that grazed Devon’s cheek.
Where the steely length of his cock nudged the rise of her behind and small of her back.
Where she fought not to arch and rub against that length. Fought and failed.
Tempting the beast was an act of lunacy. And yet, as his low rumble vibrated in her ear and against her back, she couldn’t bring herself to give a damn.
The arm around her tightened and his free hand caressed her shoulder before trailing over her collarbone and then necklacing her throat. She gasped under the weight of that big palm and those long fingers, a thrill spiraling through her at the heaviness of his hold—at the possessiveness. He didn’t squeeze, but he didn’t have to. Soft pants broke on her lips as the flesh between her legs swelled, moistened, pulsed.
Like prey, she arched her neck, exposing her throat to him. Exposing her vulnerability to him.
Her lashes lifted and her eyes clashed with his sharp wolf’s gaze. Unmistakable lust burned bright and the hunger there stoked the needy flames leaping and dancing inside her. And when he leaned his head down, she tipped her head back farther, rising on her tiptoes to meet the carnal beauty of his mouth.
Unlike the kiss during the engagement shoot, this one lacked gentleness. It was fury. Wild. Raw. So wet. A clashing of tongues, teeth and wills. Though she’d surrendered, she was not meek.
With a lick against the roof of his mouth, she dared him to duel with her. With a thrust and slide of her tongue she ordered him to give her more. With a hard suck she showed him she could take all that he dished out. That she wanted to take it.
His long fingers splayed higher on her throat, tilting her head to the side so he could dive deeper, claim all of her. She opened wider, offered him...everything.
She lifted an arm, grabbed the nape of his neck even as she arched like a tightly strung bow and rubbed over the thick column of flesh branding her. In answer, his grip tightened a fraction and his hips ground into her, enflaming the hot, grasping need inside her. She whimpered into his mouth, and he swallowed it, exchanging it for a groan.
The arm banding her torso loosened, but before she could object, his hand cupped her breast, molding it, plumping it. The material of her dress proved an inadequate barrier to his bold, questing fingers, and when he pinched her nipple, the electrical current jolted from her breasts to her sex. Her whimper morphed into a cry. But not one of pain. God no. One of pleasure. So much pleasure. Almost too much. How was that possible? His thumb swept across the tip, circling, then tweaking. And as another bolt of ecstasy ripped through her, she didn’t care about the logistics of how and why. Just that he. Didn’t. Stop.
“Cain,” she gasped against his lips. “Please.”
He stiffened behind her, his hands on her, freezing. Silently, a wail of protest screamed in her head, momentarily deafening her. And she wanted to demand—hell, beg—that he continue what he’d started. To not leave her aching. Hurting.
But as if his name on her tongue had shattered their sensual haze, he snatched his arms away, leaving her adrift, confused by the sudden lack of contact. She shuddered, the cool air of the room reaching her now that the furnace of his body no longer surrounded her. In defense—in self-protection—she wrapped her arms around herself.
“That shouldn’t have happened,” he rumbled from behind her, and the words struck her like an icy blow. She should’ve expected his regret; she was the enemy, and unlike the engagement photo shoot, there were no witnesses here to convince. Of course, he wouldn’t be thrilled about kissing her, touching her. And yet... A wounded throb pounded inside her chest, her stomach.
What was it about her that made it so hard for others to want her? Made it so easy for them to reject her? To leave?
A sob lodged itself in the base of her throat, but she refused it passage. With that kiss, she might have betrayed her attraction to him, but damn if she would hand over her pride, too. If he could be unaffected, so could she.
So would she.
Schooling her expression into an aloof mask, she turned to face him.
“A mistake on both our parts,” she said, proud how her voice didn’t reflect the pain that still trembled inside her. “We’ll both make sure there’s not a repeat performance,” she added, beating him to the “this can’t happen again” speech.
Cain stared at her, and she couldn’t keep her gaze from dipping to his swollen, damp mouth. Swollen and damp from her kiss. Despite the hurt pumping through her veins, lust stirred low in her belly. Dammit. She knew not to invest more into a relationship than the other person. That deficit had nearly destroyed her confidence, trampled her pride, battered her heart.
Texans remembered the Alamo. She remembered Donald.
Desire didn’t equal affection. Didn’t even equal like. And as hard as Cain’s dick had been when pressed against her, he didn’t care for her. Quite the contrary. If he had a choice—if her father granted him the choice—he would want nothing to do with her.
“Is that what that was? A performance?” he asked, and the rough texture of his tone rasped over her skin. “With no audience?”
“You’re here, an audience of one. Besides, what else would it be? You’re the one who told me to make my supposed love for you believable,” she lied. “Consider that a dry run.” She smiled, and it felt brittle and stiff. “We should return to the party. Any longer and people will wonder where we are.”
But he didn’t move. Just continued to study her in a way that threatened to carve away her emotional shield facade by facade, lie by lie.
“Right, we can’t allow people to start gossiping about us,” he drawled. “But do me one favor.” He stepped forward and pressed his hard chest and thighs to hers, and his erection... She locked down the moan that rose within. His erection, still hard, still insistent, prodded her belly. Pride refused to let her shift backward. Refused to let him see how his aroused flesh had need clawing at her.
Before she could ask about the favor, he brushed his thumb across her bottom lip. Once, twice before pushing down on it.
“Don’t replace your lipstick. One look at this swollen mouth and people will know I fucked it. That, too, is good for the validity of the performance.”
His callous words had a dual effect—they angered her...and they had her sex tightening so hard, she squeezed her thighs against the erotic pull.
He dropped his hand and stepped back, placing distance
between them. “After you,” he mocked, sweeping an arm toward the library entrance. “We don’t want to keep the masses waiting.”
She ordered her legs to move, and thankfully, they followed her command. Not glancing at Cain, she strode toward the door, deliberately keeping her pace steady and casual.
Priority number one. Get through this farce of a party.
Priority number one-point-five. Patching up her defenses against Cain. That kiss had shaken them like boulders catapulted against stone barricades.
Because if she didn’t, the consequences terrified her.
Not that he would get in.
But what she would let escape.
Her heart.
Nine
Cain pulled into a parking spot in front of the East Boston community center. Frowning, he nabbed his cell from the dashboard console and brought up Devon’s text. He glanced at the address, then shifted his gaze to the GPS dash. Yes, it was the correct address.
Shutting off the engine of his Lexus RX 350, he exited the vehicle and surveyed the large red brick building set in the middle of the residential block. A couple of apartment buildings rose behind it and a city park sat across the street. A fenced-in playground, a couple of basketball courts and a paved lot painted blue with hopscotch blocks and a four-square game fanned out from the center. With it being well after dusk, no kids climbed the jungle gym. From the equipment that appeared old but well tended, the care and pride the administrators took in the center was apparent.
Still... Why did Devon ask him to meet her here? Was this a pet project and she intended to hit him up for a donation? At least the avarice would be for a good cause. He couldn’t really fault her. When it came to obtaining funds for the charities she supported, his mother had been known to be rather cutthroat as well.
He held up his wrist and peered down at his watch. A little after six. If they were going to be on time for this dinner party her father was hosting—one Cain was attending only because several businessmen he knew were also going to be present—then they had to leave in the next twenty minutes. Which meant her pitch would have to wait for another time.
He approached the entrance to the building and, pulling the door open, stepped into the lobby. A semicircular desk manned by a security guard claimed one corner and a couple of tables cluttered with brochures took up another. A large corkboard took up one wall and artwork that ranged from childlike to more mature drawings covered it. The effect was professional yet welcoming. And warm. He could see only a corridor past the security desk, but the muffled sounds of voices and laughter echoed from that direction. There was happiness here, and safety.
“Can I help you, sir?” the older guard asked as Cain neared the desk.
“Yes, I’m here for Devon Cole. She’s expecting me.”
A smile brightened his face, as if just the mention of her name brought him pleasure. “Yes.” He lifted a sign-in book and set it on the desktop. “You must be Mr. Farrell. Devon let me know you would be stopping by. Please log in your name and the time, and here’s your visitor’s badge.” He slid a laminated card with a silver clip attached toward Cain.
After he finished entering his information and picked up the badge, the guard smiled once more. “She’s in classroom number seven. Take this corridor to the end, go up the stairs and it’s the last room on the right.”
“Thank you.” He nodded and started down the hall.
A sliver of anticipation slid through him, and he resented the hell out of it. But he couldn’t deny it. It’d been a couple of weeks since the sham engagement party—and that incendiary kiss in the library. A couple of weeks since his body had been his own. Every night he went to bed, she owned him. Because it was images of her in his mind as he stroked himself.
They’d made several public appearances since then, and each time he had to circle her waist, hold her to his side, pretend to be one half of an adoring couple. It was torture. That probably made him a masochist because every hit of her honey-and-citrus scent, every brush of her hip, every glance at that wicked mouth... Yeah, torture of the sweetest, dirtiest kind.
And yet, he held back. Didn’t even try to cross the line they’d crossed that night. Finding her with her father—with Gregory looming over her like the bully Cain knew him to be—had triggered Cain. His memories. Those age-worn but still sensitive feelings of rage, helplessness, fear. Her assurances that Gregory had never physically abused her had mollified the anger, but comforting her, holding her, had transmuted the emotion to a ravenous need that incinerated his control. Burned through him with the speed and destruction of a forest fire.
God, she’d been sweet. And potent. And lethal to his resolve. To his vow never to be under the thumb of another person. To never be weak.
Devon might not have known what her father had used as a threat—he believed her about that; her reaction had been too real, too visceral—but lack of knowledge about the details didn’t absolve her of responsibility. She was still a willing participant in her father’s blackmail. Like he’d told her weeks ago, she could refuse to participate and the scheme would end. But she didn’t. And so, giving in to the undeniable desire between them—her hungry mouth and taut nipples hadn’t lied about that desire—would be akin to capitulating to manipulation. To once more submit to someone else’s control, when he’d promised himself it would never happen again.
He would never be powerless again.
Barron Farrell had taught him early on that love was a convenient excuse to cuff another person’s will, to strangle their individual and emotional freedom...to steal their choices.
Cain wanted no part of the promise of pleasure in Devon’s eyes or the vulnerability she stirred in him.
The rise of voices behind a closed door dragged him from his thoughts, and he zeroed in on the number above it: 7. He grabbed the knob, and after a brief pause, twisted it and pulled the door open.
Desks that wouldn’t have been out of place in a high school were arranged on either side of the classroom and Devon stood in the middle aisle. Neither she nor the kids—ranging from early teens to young adults—noticed him standing just inside the entrance. One half of the room celebrated with high fives and fist bumps while the other side groaned and yelled good-natured gibes.
“Okay, okay,” Devon said, pushing her hands down in a “shush” motion. “Team Come At Me Bro, this is your chance to tie the score. Answer this question correctly or Team It’s About to Go Down will be ahead by three hundred points.” The kids quieted, and she faced the catcalling side. “Ready?” She held up a white card. “For three hundred points in the category of music. What is the name of the most famous left-handed guitarist?”
That’s easy, Cain silently scoffed. Jimi Hendrix.
But the teens didn’t immediately shout out the answer. They huddled together, furiously whispering. Then a young girl wearing a Hobbits Run Middle Earth T-shirt and beautiful dreads leaned in and murmured something to her team with an adamant wave of her hand. The other kids glanced at each other and shrugged.
Turning to Devon, the girl stood and stated loudly, “Jimi Hendrix.”
Devon stared at her, letting a dramatic pause fall over the room. “You’re correct.”
Stunned, Cain found himself smiling and mentally cheering with the team as they broke out in loud victorious shouts and some kind of dancing that looked both jerky and coordinated.
His bark of laughter took both him and the others by surprise. The room fell silent as all eyes swung his way. For the first time in years, a bout of self-consciousness swelled inside him, but he met the thirty or so gazes fixed on him. One thing he remembered from high school—never show weakness. Thankfully, curiosity and surprise filled their stares instead of the calculation and pettiness he recalled from his younger years at the exclusive prep school Barron had insisted his son attend.
“Cain,” Devon greeted, and t
hen reached behind her to remove a cell phone from the pocket of her entirely-too-tight-for-his-sanity skinny jeans. Peeking down at the screen, she winced. “I’m sorry, I lost track of time. We were just finishing up here...”
“Uh-uh,” a tall, blond boy from the opposing side objected. “We still have two more rounds to go. You can’t just quit in the middle of Trivia Titans! This is war! And there’s a pizza party at stake!”
Cain smothered a snort at the exaggerated protest and the outrage coloring the kid’s declaration of battle.
Devon glanced at him, uncertainty flickering in her eyes. “Could you give me a few minutes to finish up here?”
“Yes.” And then, before he could ask himself, “What the hell?” he shrugged out of his suit jacket and laid it across an empty desk. “Which team should I join?”
Shock widened her eyes and parted her pretty lips. With effort, he dragged his inspection from how soft and giving he knew that mouth to be and arrowed in on the team that included the Lord of the Rings fan. “Do you mind?” he prompted.
The teens stared at him in disbelief, some of them surveying his white shirt, blue-and-gray-striped tie, black dress pants and shoes. But in the next moment, almost to a person, they broke out in grins. “Hell no!” one boy yelled, waving him over.
“Justin,” Devon reprimanded with a frown.
The boy shrugged, offering her a sheepish smile. “My bad, Ms. Cole. I mean, yes, sir. Please do join us.” He threw the overdone invitation at Cain, who didn’t bother to contain his chuckle.
Cain slid into a desk next to Justin, and a series of objections and boos rose from the other side.
“No fair,” a younger teen girl yelled, eyes narrowed behind her bright blue eyeglass frames. “That means you have to play for us, Ms. Cole.”
