Mr. Real

by Carolyn Crane

  She raised her hands to his chest, to his buttons, bracelets jangling. He grabbed her wrists, put her arms back at her sides. “What did I say?”

  She turned wide eyes to the ceiling, let her lips fall open in playful disbelief. “Yeah but…I mean—”

  He clapped his hand over her mouth. “If you cannot be still, my dear, I’ll be forced to tie you up and gag you. Is that what you want?” He felt her lips curl under his palm. She was used to being in charge. Playing the temptress.

  He waited.

  She raised her brows, a look that said, Look at me being still.

  He removed his hand, and, as she watched, he slowly took the halves of her sweater and opened them, like a book, and then paused, staring down at her breasts—perfect teacupfuls under black lace. She swallowed. He let the pause grow; he could feel her nervous arousal mounting.

  When a woman came to him in silk, he liked to put her in leather, and when she came to him in leather, he liked to put her in silk, and when she came to him nervous and kinetic, he did this. He forced her to be still.

  Slowly, then, he slid the sweater over her arms and let it fall to the floor. She broke her stillness to give him a saucy look. He regarded her sternly, and she dropped the humorous face.

  Good lord, could the woman not be serious for one instant?

  Jeans, now. He let her feel his fingers around the snaps—one, two, three—and slid his palms over the lace covering her bum, leaving it carefully in place. He pushed her pants down, lowering himself with them, hands down the backs of her legs, until the stiff fabric was bunched up at her ankles. He urged her to step out of them, and then he rose slightly, kneeling before her, to kiss that quivering tummy. She put her hands on his hair and he removed them and put them at her sides, just as he’d done before.

  “Oh wow,” she gasped.

  He gripped her generous buttocks and drew his tongue in a lazy spiral around her belly button, around and around over silky skin. He slowed as he reached the center, circling the rim, letting her imagine what he might do. The bellybutton was not a particularly sensitive spot on a woman unless you drew every fiber of her keyed-up and kinetic awareness to it. He drew her attention around and around in circles, and then he poked in his tongue; she gasped and clutched his shoulders.

  He grabbed her wrists lightly and put them back, yet again. “Must I start over?”

  A thrill of shock in her eyes. “No!”

  She’d obey now. She was dying for him to move down to her very moist target. He could detect every contour of her tense need.

  He lowered himself, leaving a trail of little kisses, pausing in front of the swell of her crotch just long enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath.

  And then the oven timer went off.

  “Crap!” she said. “Crap.” She didn’t move.

  He smiled into the lace, then composed himself and stood. “Would that be eggplant parmesan, Ms. Gordon?”

  “Yeah, but…” the timer shrilled on.

  In one fluid motion, he picked her up and carried her right into the kitchen, a long galley affair of green tiled surfaces and dark wood cupboards with a table at the far end. He set her on the counter, across from the sink and a wide window. He’d always been partial to kitchen counters.

  She looked at the oven. “Shouldn’t I…”

  “No.” He placed his hands on either side of her thighs. “It’s done, right?”

  “Probably.” Her eyes darted to the left. “If you just—”

  He put a finger to her lips. “I’m running the show here.” He opened the drawer she’d shown him with her big eyes and extracted a pair of oven mitts. “Let’s see, here.” He donned them and moved to the oven, just down from the sink. The door squeaked when he opened it. He pulled out the pan, set it on a burner, and closed the oven door. He stood over the bubbling cheese, perfectly brown in its raised places, forcing her to wait.

  This spy impersonating Alix hated to wait, and hated to be stilled—she always needed to be moving. Constant movement and a lack of seriousness dulled sensation. This was a woman, perhaps, who felt too deeply.

  He would still her movement, dampen her humor, and leave her with no resort but to feel. Sir Kendall preferred it when his lovers and his enemies felt too much. The spy impersonating Alix happened to be both at the moment.

  “Well, this looks delicious.” He smiled casually at her, placing the pan on top of the stove, and, still with the hot pads on, he went to the window over the sink and opened it, letting the cool night breeze flow in. He had always found the cool night breeze a great aid in the titillation of the female species. He turned back to her, placed himself between her knees, and offered her his mitted hands, raised.

  She looked confused. “You want them off?”

  “We could proceed with them on, if you’d prefer.”

  “Oh.” She pulled them off, and then she simply held them in her hands, staring at them, looking befuddled. “This is just so crazy, that’s all,” she said. “That you’re here, and we’re doing this.” She looked up at him, as if she expected him to agree that it was indeed crazy, that this should stop. Apparently, the spy impersonating Alix had glimpsed the folly of letting him have her so completely.

  Well, that wouldn’t do.

  “Yes, Alix,” he said with a wicked smile. “It is, isn’t it?”

  Interest danced in her eyes. She hadn’t expected him to go that way. He lit his hands gently upon her cheeks, slid them back to cradle the back of her head, and then bent in to capture her mouth, kissing her roughly.

  “It’s crazy,” he said into the kiss. He broke off to press soft kisses down her neck. “The very lewd things I aim to do to you. Crazy.” Down, down, down he kissed. “The way I plan to make you feel.” She gasped as he hit the most tender part of her neck.

  He slid his hands down her shoulders to her chest. Lightly he dragged his fingernails over the lace that covered her nipples.

  A sharp inhale.

  She was flowing back into his grip. A bit of a hedonist, this Alix.

  He said, “It’s crazy that we’ve only just met each other, and we’re taking our pleasure when others might do some tedious getting-acquainted dance.” He pulled back, looked into her eyes. “What do you really know about me? But of course that’s half the fun, isn’t it? Daring to take our pleasure where we will.”

  Her lips quirked.

  Still holding her with his gaze, he curled his fingers over the top edges of her bra. Her breath came quick and shallow as he pulled down the lacy fabric, exposing the soft flesh of her breasts above. “Taking our pleasure in the delicious, the forbidden,” he whispered.

  Her eyes drifted closed as he ran his fingertips over one nipple.

  “Sanity,” he continued, “is for the timid.”

  A smile. “You do make a good point, Sir Kendall.”

  And then he closed his mouth over the other nipple and sucked. Hard. With just a touch of teeth.

  She squeezed the mitts, bracelet jingle muffled for the moment. He should’ve made her take them off. Never mind.

  He slid his hands to her panties as he kissed her neck, snaking in over the elastic top of them, grazing her pubic hair as he used his fingertips to locate an opening in the lace. He set his other hand to work below, creating a tear.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered.

  “An alteration.” He gripped and yanked, short and sharp, tearing a gaping hole, nearly taking the whole crotch panel out, exposing her most sensitive flesh.

  “Oh my god.” The oven mitts dropped to the floor. “What did you just do?”

  “I’ve destroyed your panties, my dear,” he said, drawing his finger through the silky folds of her sex, now fully exposed to the air. He drew close and nuzzled her neck. “Never fear, I’ll get you new ones.”

  He backed away and unbuckled her sandals. They clattered to the floor. Ever so gently, he pushed her knees apart, allowing the cool breeze to blow onto her wet nipples and wet crotch
. “Though I may see fit to destroy those, too.”

  She watched him, appearing not to breathe. She thought he would fuck her now. Instead, he took two small toes into his mouth, invading the tender nooks between them with his tongue.

  “Oh, man,” she said. Her entire being seemed to tremble.

  Ah, the treasure trove of lewdness to be wrung out of the untouched spot between the toes. She’d be desperate for him to kiss and warm and cover her, but he’d take his time. It would be like a gift to her, this heightening of sensation. Casually he inched a finger up her thigh.

  A sigh. Then a clunk as her head lolled back onto the cupboard behind her—a sign that she’d given over to him completely—a rather overly dramatic sign. She would be still now. More or less.

  The crotch-ripping was a Hyko trick. He’d heard about it through the grapevine. Bloody brilliant.

  The breeze, however, was all his.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Alix inhaled sharply as Sir Kendall moved his finger up the tender underside of her thigh. The breeze kicked up, and her skin pulsed and spangled. Oh, she was all wires, exposed, electric, fully and excruciatingly alive.

  Part of her felt a little guilty, like she really was going too far with all this. Yet it was so dirty and exciting. And fun. And Sir Kendall was right there and seemed to be enjoying himself.

  She loved the way he looked at her, the way he’d unwrapped her, the reverence with which he touched her. How much of Paul the martial arts teacher was in Sir Kendall?

  She wiped that thought from her mind. Sir Kendall was the man in front of her. And he knew how to have a good time. He really was her people.

  Sharpness on her toe—a bite. Her eyes flew open. “Fuck!”

  He regarded her coolly, blue eyes rimmed with coal-black lashes. “What was that?” He trailed his fingers along her calf.

  She breathed heavily now. “Fuck,” she said.

  He tilted his head, dark brows raised. “I don’t know if I quite got that.” He touched her pussy, drawing his finger lightly over the pulsing center of it. She nearly melted. “Please.” She grabbed his shirt.

  He drew a finger up, down around, making her shimmer with pleasure. He was driving her mad. “Please what?”

  Hah! “Please fuck me.”

  He gave her a look of mock surprise, lips zipped, cheekbones prominent—sheesh, he was hot! “My goodness, Ms. Gordon.”

  She pulled him to her and kissed him, fumbling with the buttons on his deep blue shirt, barely able to work her fingers. “Please, please, please fuck me, okay?”

  He stepped back, drinking in her body with his gaze. “Since you ask so nicely, the answer is yes, Alix.” Casually, he lowered a hand to his wrist and undid his left shirt cuff, then the right cuff. “I most definitely intend to.”

  She smiled, pulse racing. Most guys acted as if fucking just happened, the outcome of a chain of events they had gotten swept into, typically by her. But Sir Kendall had intent and power. Sir Kendall created the goddamn chain of events.

  “Good,” she said, a little bit saucy.

  Cuffs flopping loose, he grabbed his shirt at the center, where it buttoned together, and then—watching her in that smoldery way that thrilled her down to her toes—he ripped the shirt open. Buttons pinged to the corners of the kitchen.

  She laughed, half in shock.

  He gave her a warning look and she shambled on a serious face. He didn’t seem to like it when she thought things were funny, but, well, this evening was fun. And hot. And crazy, yes.

  He shrugged the now-buttonless garment from his shoulders and arms and cast it aside, leaving only a T-shirt, which he pulled over his head in an action that transformed his chest into a fluid symphony of muscles.

  Then he undid his pants, letting his magnificent cock spring free.

  Her heart slammed against her chest as he stepped in close to her, claiming her thighs with his big rough hands, pushing her legs apart. Oh, she liked the way he did that, the way he took control. She sighed as he drew close, strong and warm. His cock tipped sternly at her belly as he kissed her.

  She fisted his hair, kissing him back, banishing all second guessing from her mind. Because, why the hell not fuck the Denali man? Why not?

  Should she ask the Denali man to use protection? Everything else about him seemed real. Maybe she should.

  His kisses became invasive. She sucked in his tongue, wanting more of him. More.

  She heard something crinkling—he had a condom. He opened it, put it on handily. Could a man who didn’t truly exist father a child, or have a disease? But here he was, a man who expertly took care of things.

  With one hand, he gripped her thigh. She felt his cock at her opening, probing, excruciatingly near to entering her.

  “Yes,” she breathed. “Yes.”

  Slowly, then, he pushed in. She sighed at the delicious feel of the tip of his cock in her, and then a little more, in and out, thick and slow. She rocked against him, needing more, more. But then he pressed his hands down onto her thighs, stilling her.

  And pulled out.

  Her eyes flew open.

  “I’ll do the fucking tonight,” he said calmly. “If you don’t mind.”

  She snorted happily. “Whatever you want.” She closed her eyes and the back of her head hit the cabinet for what seemed like the tenth time. She’d never been so horny in her life. “Anything. Everything. You can do whatever you want.”

  “That’s my girl,” he whispered, warm and breathy on her neck, and then he entered her again, this time filling her completely. It was like her whole body went still for a second, resting on a plateau of perfect fullness. And then he thrust, slowly. That felt even better. She wrapped her legs around him, moved with him. Time transformed into an endless cycle of compression and release, marked out in breaths, and toe-curling sensations that had her on the edge of an orgasm for what seemed like hours. He remained in perfect charge at all times.

  And just when she was going mad and grindy, he slid down his fingers, pressing her in the most perfect spot, and he gave her a stern look. It was the stern look that really sent her off—off into a powerful climax that went on and on, like the bottom fell out of the world. Was she making sounds?

  She became aware of him driving into her one last time. He stilled, emitting a low and breathy moan. Orgasming suavely. So very Sir Kendall.

  “Oh my god,” she breathed.

  Sir Kendall lifted her off the counter and pulled the remaining bits of underwear off her, everything so swift and efficient. She didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t keep saying Oh my god, but those were the only words that formed in her mind.

  She hadn’t had so much fun in...forever. Had he enjoyed himself? She picked up his button-less shirt, held it up. “LOL,” she said.

  “A decent dry cleaner can handle that.” He discarded the condom.

  “Sounds like the voice of experience.”

  He pulled his T-shirt back on and grabbed his pants. It was here that she noticed his ankle holster—with a gun in it. “Oh!”

  He smiled. “Come now, Alix. A man can’t vanquish his opponents through charm and ravishment alone.”

  It was weird how he always figured out what she was thinking. She stared at the gun, feeing unusually naked. She picked up her jeans and her top and clutched them to her chest. “Well, you sure vanquished my panties. I’ll be right back.” She turned and strutted off, pretending a confidence she didn’t feel.

  Upstairs, she washed up and put on new underwear and pulled on her jeans and sweater, then splashed water on her face and stared incoherently into the mirror.

  She’d just fucked Sir Kendall Nicholas the Third. And he was downstairs in her kitchen.

  The Denali man. With a gun.

  She was seized with the impulse to laugh, even though it wasn’t technically funny.

  The gun bothered her. But of course he would have a gun. What kind of spy wouldn’t carry a gun? But the thing was—it was a real gun.


  The Denali man.

  She smoothed a bit of shiner onto her hair and applied a fresh coat of pink lipstick. What the hell; the Denali man was fun. Sexy. And certainly seemed to be enjoying himself. She thought about the appreciative way he’d run his hand over the Italian leather chair, his jokey thing with the oven mitts. His sanity is for the timid bit. She was so going to use that line—maybe on Karen. Yeah, obviously he was a bit of an operator, but in another way, Sir Kendall really was her people, and they were having a lovely evening. She texted Karen a quick update: everything a-ok.

  A clink of glasses down below. Sir Kendall fixing them a drink? He would think of that. He was so funny. Probably going for the Denali.

  Shit!

  She raced back down to find Sir Kendall holding the Denali bottle she’d set out earlier. She lunged for it, grabbing it by the neck and yanking it away from him. In one swift, powerful movement, she smashed it over the stone counter. Glass flew everywhere.

  Quick as lightning, Sir Kendall had her wrist in his hand, and her other arm uncomfortably twisted.

  “Ow! What are you doing?” she cried.

  “I was wondering the same thing.” He glanced at what was left of the Denali bottle, the neck ending in jagged glass.

  “Oh.” She let the bottle drop and break; he thought it was a weapon. “I just don’t want you to drink the Denali.”

  He released her wrist and eyed her for a long moment, head tilted. “Why don’t you want me to drink the Denali, Alix?”

  She searched his eyes. He’d come, he’d spied, he’d romanced. But he’d been so good to her, and they’d had such fun. She didn’t want their night to end. She couldn’t let him drink the Denali and dissolve into nothing. It seemed…wrong. Should she warn him? But how to explain?

  “I’m waiting,” he said.

  “You want to know why I don’t want you drinking it?” She screwed up her mouth, wrinkled her nose, and plunked her fists on her hips. “‘Cause Denali sucks!”

  “But you set it out on the counter.”