Sinner (The Hades Squad Book 1)

by Jianne Carlo

  Satisfaction had his lips curving.

  Ah, sweet Destiny, the things we're gonna do.

  He straightened, slurped the liquid off his forefinger, and then murmured, “Delish. What is it?”

  Linc bent over and dipped into the stew again. He laid a hand on her left shoulder, touched the tip of his forefinger to her lips, and lowering his voice, ordered, “Taste.”

  Destiny opened her mouth. He guessed she intended a sarcastic retort, but before she could utter a word, he slipped his finger between her soft, plump lips.

  Her mouth closed over the thickness of his thumb, and he couldn't stifle a groan, picturing his dick sliding back and forth over her clit, grinding through hot pussy lips. It'd been a long time since a woman fired him up like she did.

  “Suck,” he coaxed. “I taste thyme, garlic, onions. Something else. Hmm?”

  As he spoke, Lincoln glided his finger in an almost-imperceptible in-and-out movement, slow, insistent. The rhythm of her breathing changed, small hitches telling him she fought for control, her reactions fueling the sensual frenzy building in his groin.

  She'd clipped her hair up while he'd been in the bedroom. Fine raven curls escaped the attempted discipline, slipping and sliding across her exposed, vulnerable nape. Destiny smelled like manna from heaven, a hint of lavender limning images in his head of him buried between her thighs, inhaling her arousal.

  “Ouch,” he blurted. She'd bitten his finger. “Why'd you do that?”

  She swiveled around to face him, poked his naked chest, drew back, and spoke through clamped teeth, “Contrary to whatever is on that puny brain of yours, I am not up for a roll in the hay. I may have a stripper name, but I am not one.”

  Leaning into her so his erection brushed her pelvis, he held up his finger and commanded, “Kiss it better.”

  “No. And stop smiling like you've won the lottery.” She reached behind her, grabbed the spoon, and held it up. “You're invading my personal space. And unless you want to forgo eating, because I can empty this whole salt shaker into the bourguignon in one second, you'll bring the bowls and behave like a civilized person.”

  “Yes, ma'am,” Lincoln replied, nipping the insides of his cheeks to suppress his victorious grin.

  Methinks my Destiny's protesting too much.

  Her throat worked and he drank in the sweet dishevelment she presented, face flushed, a thin film of sweat dampening the curls escaping from hair piled high on her head. The spoon's velocity increased. She swept him quick side-glances and chewed her bottom lip, until he couldn't resist tracing the outline of her mouth. She jumped, and her eyebrows climbed. The spoon dripped liquid onto the floor.

  “What…what are you doing?”

  “This,” he answered, holding her chin. He brushed his lips against hers, a languid, electrifying contact. He held her gaze, drowning in the black lagoons of her eyes, tasting the wine gravy she'd sucked off his finger, feeling the way her nose vibrated when she inhaled and exhaled. Her pupils widened, and something flickered in her eyes. Fear?

  Lincoln retreated, relinquishing her flesh. “I'll bring the bowls.”

  Destiny spun around to face the stove, her hand jerking a trail of red-brown gravy on the range's stainless steel surface.

  Suppressing a victorious yes! Lincoln moved over to the table. Stage one—accustom her to his touch—complete.

  He'd set up his rechargeable iPod mini sound system on the counter before alerting her to his presence in the kitchen. Destiny had a tendency to withdraw into a dream world, he noted. She hadn't heard his footsteps or his movements as she stirred the pot and sighed, tilted her head to one side, and hummed under her breath.

  After she filled the wide bowls he brought to the stove, Destiny shifted and attempted to take one.

  “You sit.” Lincoln smiled. He issued the command in a gentle tone. “You did all the cooking.”

  He inclined his head and waited for her to precede him. He let his eyes rove over her ripe curves, her mouth-watering hips, cinched waist, and Jesus Murphy, breasts made for fucking.

  When she sat in a prim little black-spectacled-librarian manner, he choked back a guffaw. Destiny acted as if she’d spent her adulthood trying to deny a sexuality seething and threatening to boil over. He unfolded the cute envelope-shaped-napkin, and draped the linen across her lap, deliberately trailing his fingers across both thighs.

  The hue of the stain flaming across her cheeks triggered a memory of his mother setting a pair of cushions she termed “damask rose” into each corner of the living room sofa. Destiny blushed damask rose.

  Linc grabbed the wine bottle and edged closer to the table so his knee brushed her hip.

  Damask rose deepened into a ripe cherry, the color tinting every inch of exposed flesh.

  Ten to one her pussy lips turn that shade after I've licked and suckled them swollen.

  Damask rose. Jesus, he was getting soft in his old age.

  His brain restarted before he overfilled the wine goblet.

  An enchanting picture met his gaze when he sat. Destiny's black curls tumbled loose from the clip, her olive skin glowing, midnight eyes wide and a tad unfocused, nostrils flaring when her lungs expanded. Jesus. His mind faltered. The slight bounce of her breasts as her small pants stammered and stuttered drew his nuts tight against his perineum. Christ, he had to speed the pace of this seduction before he lost control.

  “Cheers.” He lifted his glass.

  Her hand shook when she reached across to clink his crystal goblet.

  “Cheers,” she echoed, then gulped down a third of the glass before setting it on the table.

  Lincoln figured she'd be a lightweight drinker, so he made a note to monitor her consumption. He wanted Destiny to remember every millisecond of their first time together. First time? Would there be a second time after he taught her how he liked his sex?

  “So, you're a big-time New York editor.” He loaded a spoon with meat and peered at the carrot and potato that came along for the ride. “Did you cut these into logs?”

  Damn, her cheeks covered every shade of pink-red on the color spectrum. How could a woman who traveled with whips and cuffs blush so innocently?

  “I like to cook.” She ducked her head. “I took—am taking—classes.”

  “What kinds of classes?”

  “I started off with pastry, then I went on to cakes.” Her face lit up, eyes sparkling in the golden candle radiance, succulent lips curving, dimples doing a slow two-step when her smile widened, showcasing perfect, even teeth.

  Bite me, she'd said earlier. A suppressed fantasy?

  “My mom used to make this fantastic devil's food cake when I was a kid. Ever heard of it?”

  “That was one of the first cakes I ever made.” She blindsided him with contagious enthusiasm. “I could probably make it for you, but it would be in a loaf pan. I didn't find any cake pans.”

  “I'd never say no to chocolate. Don't forget there's no juice, so you can't use beaters or anything like that.”

  “Juice? I don't…oh you mean electricity.” She smirked. “Ha! I learned to make cakes from scratch and manually. I beat them by hand. I don't need electricity.”

  Beating? Spanking? Focus, focus.

  “No kidding—why?”

  “It's a basic technique. At first it was tiring, but now I can whip one up just like that.” She snapped her fingers.

  “You must have strong biceps and forearms, then,” Lincoln commented, the sinner in him going in for the kill. He reached across, nudged her sleeve above her elbow and ordered, “Flex.”

  Destiny didn't know where to look, how to respond. Flustered, rose ebbing and flowing across her flesh, she was adorable.

  An ache started in Lincoln's chest, mirrored by a burning in his groin.

  “Pretty impressive.” He trailed his fingers over a bunched forearm and a taut bicep. “No wonder you were able to cut me down and drag me inside. You're not just beautiful. You're strong too. I never did say thanks fo
r rescuing me, did I?” Touching her cheek, he added, “I owe you, baby.”

  “Oh.” She gave a little shake of her head, as if clearing mental cobwebs. “It was nothing.”

  “Now, you know better than that. If you'd left me out there, I would've succumbed to the cold. It took a lot of guts and courage to do what you did. Not to mention brains. Very clever using the sheets. Kudos, baby.”

  Her gaze skimmed the table, settled on the basket of bread, and she lifted it. “Bread?”

  “Thanks,” he replied, taking a couple of slices.

  She reset the wicker basket back on the table and tore a slice of bread into four quarters, her movements jerky and jagged.

  Baby Doll's unhinged and nervous.

  “When did you start taking cooking classes?”

  He heard her soft exhale and noticed the relaxing of her shoulders.

  “After I moved to New York. Takeout's expensive on an assistant editor's salary.”

  “This”—he flicked a finger at the bowl—“is based on that recipe from Julie and Julia, isn't it?”

  “No, it's not,” she retorted. “This is based on Julia Child's recipe. That movie didn't do homage to her culinary skills. It concentrated more on Julie's life.”

  Destiny has a protective side. She'll make a great mom.

  He choked and gulped down half his glass of wine.

  Frick. Where'd that come from?

  “I've taken most of the classes the Culinary Institute of America offers. It's a good thing they keep adding new ones.” She wrinkled her nose. “I think I'm addicted to their classes.”

  “How'd you get into editing?”

  “I love to read. Once, I dreamed of writing.” Both shoulders rolled. “After a while you have to face reality. I'm good at finding the holes in a story, at making someone else's words string together better. I like editing.”

  You're protesting too much.

  Making a conscious decision to keep the conversation nonthreatening, and therefore nonsexual, during dinner, he asked, “What's the name of the author whose work you came to fix?”

  All the elation drained from her face and her lips squished into a tight purse. “Angel Robinson.”

  “Never heard of her. She's not cooperating?”

  “Angel's been on the romance best-seller list forever. She's a Princeton graduate. Thinks no one can improve her work and the world should be grateful she deigns to gift them with a novel once every two years.”

  “Ouch. She sounds like a handful.”

  A Bach fugue, “The Musical Offering,” one of his favorites, weaved into a momentary conversational lull as they spooned the cooling stew into their mouths. The basket of bread Destiny had placed on the table now held only two slices. Lincoln offered her one, making sure he touched her wrist and palm as he did so.

  “You have an amazing voice.” She turned a hundred shades of pink from forehead to the hint of cleavage escaping the confines of her ivory sweater. “I heard you singing in the shower.”

  “Sang in the church choir.” He flashed her a grin. “Probably the only reason they let me into church. Catholics don't have that Protestant knack for singing.”

  “I can't carry a tune. But I love music.”

  “What's your favorite piece?” He mopped the bowl with the last slice of bread.

  “You mean song?” She cocked her head to one side and met his stare directly, the first time she'd done so without prompting or insistence on his part. “I'm not sure I could narrow it down to one. I love Norah Jones, but I like Nickelback too.”

  “No classical in the mix?”

  “I like Beethoven's Fifth Symphony.” Her mouth quirked up on one side. “Probably because it's the only classical music I can recognize.” Comprehension widened her black eyes to Bambi size. “You like classical music.”

  “It's a bit of an obsession. I'm guessing you're not an opera fan.”

  “I've seen Figaro.”

  The skin covering her forehead creased into three tiny horizontal lines, and for a crazy moment he wanted to lick them smooth.

  “How…how did you get into classical music?”

  You're all confused. Can't figure out the big bad SEAL paratrooper, and had me lumped into the brainless category.

  Lincoln swallowed more wine than he intended.

  Hadn't he done the same with her?

  So far her story held up, but anyone who used an alias triggered an ingrained suspicion, and until he uncovered the truth, he had to maintain an emotional distance.

  “My mom says I used to scare people as a toddler with my booming voice. Mom actually entered me into a local talent contest. I still have the video of me singing ’Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.’”

  “Did you win?”

  “Third. I won a dollhouse, which my sisters promptly appropriated.”

  She studied him. “Are you from a big family?”

  “Big Heinz 57 family. My dad's from Jamaica. My mom's from a small village in Ireland. Mom lives by the pope's decrees, so there're eleven of us.”

  “Eleven?” Mouth plumped into an O, Destiny stared at him, brows hiking to her hairline. “Eleven. I can't even imagine that. How many brothers and sisters?”

  “Five boys, five girls.”

  “Where're you in the mix?”

  “Smack-dab in the middle.” Ah, he liked her like this—relaxed, curious, intelligence sparking and dancing and animating her whole face. “What about you?”

  “Only child.”

  All the vibrancy drained from her face. She swallowed, avoided his eyes, and dropped her spoon into her bowl. Her luscious mouth settled into a flat line. Lincoln guessed family issues existed. “Are you a born New Yorker?”

  “I wish. No, I was born in Derby, Connecticut.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  She snorted. “Believe me, no one has.”

  “From your expression, you didn't enjoy Derby.”

  “No.” She gulped down the rest of the merlot in her glass. “So what happened to your musical career after you won the contest?”

  “By the time I was five, our local parish priest had roped me into the choir. Most young boys have a high soprano voice and mine tended to be more alto, so I was in high demand.” Lincoln topped up Destiny's wine. “Of course, a ton of sissy jokes go along with being a soloist in a church choir when you're that young. I was the only choir member who sported black eyes on a regular basis.”

  “Kids jumped you at the age of five?”

  Her eyes flashed. His lips twitched at the indignant expression she wore. She feels protective of me. The boy me, anyway. Progress.

  “That stinks.” One fist met the tabletop.

  “We lived in a tough neighborhood. Didn't do me any harm, Destiny.”

  “Your mother didn't do anything?”

  Destiny would be an overprotective mom. It was written all over her face.

  “She knew we had to learn to fight our own battles. ’Sides, Dad would never have let her interfere.”

  “But you continued singing?”

  “Couldn't stop, especially after my voice deepened into a basso profundo when I turned thirteen. Aside from when my chute opens and that first shock of silence reigns, singing, especially in a chorus, is the closest I ever feel to a certain level of spirituality.”

  Lincoln stifled a curse. Aside from his family and friends, he never discussed religion. Never opened up with a stranger. He'd sideswiped her with his last remark; her spoon halted its climb to her mouth, which dropped open, and astonishment shone from her great big eyes.

  She clamped her lips together, scrutinized the almost-empty bowl, and swallowed a couple of times before lifting her head and asking, “Basso profundo?”

  Lincoln stood, collected her plate and spoon, and continued as he strode to the sink. “According to my mom, I memorized songs before I learned all my colors.”

  She joined him at the sink, carrying an empty wineglass in each hand. “And the basso profundo?”
>
  “You're like a cat chasing a rat, aren't you?” He deposited the dishes in the sink and flashed her a broad grin. “'S okay. I like tenacity in my woman.”

  Destiny's eyes gave her away every time. He could hear the thought, “my woman?” echoing in her brain.

  Focus, Chapman. Stick to the plan.

  “A basso profundo is the lowest male voice on the scale.” He relieved her of the crystal, half turned, and leaned a hip on the counter's edge. “You've heard of a baritone, right?”

  Lincoln set the glasses on the counter on the far side of the sink; he didn't want any potential accidents.

  “Of course.”

  He heard the peeved, defensive note in her voice.

  “There's only one way to explain it, and it's more of a show-and-tell.” Giving her time to back away, he curled his fingers around her small wrist. “Place your forefinger here”—he held the digit on one side of his throat—“and your thumb here.”

  Wariness showed in how she held her lips closed and in the fluttering of her eyelashes.

  Black eyelashes tickling his belly as her mouth moved closer and closer to the head of his dick. His balls ached so hard, the loose sweats felt like skintight jeans.

  Linc released her hand and shifted a tad nearer so their big toes touched.

  Her fingers trembled, prickling his heating skin with each slight flutter.

  “This is a baritone.” He sang the scale made famous by Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music. “Do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, ti, do.”

  Impossibly her black eyes widened, her pupils so dilated, he couldn't tell where the irises began or ended. For a second he couldn't remember what to do next.

  “This is a basso profundo,” he murmured, singing the scale he still practiced twice a day.

  “Oh.” A tremulous smile played at the corners of her mouth. “I think I get it. Do it again.”

  Sheer piercing desire trebled the blood flowing to his groin when she unconsciously moved closer, her hot exhales raising the hair on his chest, adding pulse beat on pulse beat to his racing heart.

  Lincoln sang the scale six times, and when he finished, curved one hand around her waist and cupped her bottom with the other.

  “That's marvelous,” she exclaimed, her voice breathy and her words rushed. “What amazing control. I wish I could do that.”