by Tamara Hogan
“Bailey?”
His soft murmur skittered straight to her core. “I’m…so sorry.” He was a sex demon; there was no way he hadn’t noticed that his painfully platonic touch had triggered the most rocking orgasm she’d had in years. God, she must reek of desperation. Sweeping up the scattered shards of her courage, she gave a wry, self-deprecating chuckle. “Well, that was certainly embarrassing—”
“Bailey.”
His low, rumbly voice made her stomach leap. Lifting her head from his chest, she saw his clenched jaw, carved cheekbones, and the elegant flare of his nostrils as he inhaled. His tawny, gold-flecked eyes glittered as his long fingers flexed against the curve of her hips.
Subtle as the movement was, she followed its momentum, brushing their hips together. Her breath snagged in her throat.
He was rampantly, outrageously erect.
His fingers spasmed, biting into her ass, pulling her closer. His alluring scent darkened, deepened, drew her in. She couldn’t quite find the muscular will to move.
Alluring…root word ‘lure.’ She’d discovered at least one answer to the question she’d asked herself earlier in the evening. It made sense that the incubus with the most bewitching scent would have more opportunities to breed, to mate, to spread his genetic material. How clever that the prey would nearly die of pleasure in the process.
He stepped away, his hands clenching into fists. “Sasha said the meds are in the medicine cabinet in her office bathroom. Let’s go.”
She could still feel the imprint of his hot, rigid flesh against her stomach.
She wanted to feel it—him—again.
“Come on.” A muscle ticked in his cheek. Taking her hand, he started blazing a trail across the dance floor. The band hadn’t taken the stage yet, but the floor was packed. “We'll get you fixed up in a minute.”
Don’t wanna be fixed up. Wrapping her arms around his body, she burrowed closer, to his height, to his heat, to the protection of his long, lean form as he cut through the crowd. His elegant designer duds disguised a surprising amount of muscle, muscle she wanted to stroke, clutch, test with her teeth. She wanted to shove him up against a wall, slam their mouths together. Taste him, touch him, take him. While she’d certainly had lovers—men she’d shared her body with for a few enjoyable hours, but nothing more—with Rafe, she’d be completely out of her league. She had nowhere near enough experience to handle him, much less please him.
But wouldn’t it be fun to try? If the rumors were true, he had a reputation for hedonism even among his kind, and—she glanced at the erection ruining the drape of his pants—that big boy wasn’t about to go away on its own. Maybe he’d be up for a no-strings encounter.
With her.
Before she knew it, they were clear of the dance floor. Rafe loosened his arm slightly, but didn’t let her go. As they walked past the busy back bar, Flynn, the vampire bartender, smiled at them but didn’t pause as he poured someone a perfect Guinness. Suddenly they were standing in front of the private elevator the Sebastiani family used to reach the building’s business and residential floors. There were no call buttons, but Rafe produced a key card and waved it in front of the matte black pad mounted beside the door. When the doors swished open, he ushered her inside with a light touch to the small of her back.
“We could have used the stairs, you know,” she said. The mirrored walls produced multiple views of his long-limbed clotheshorse frame, each reflected image more delicious than the last.
“This is faster.” He jabbed a button and the doors crept closed, muffling the music to a murmur.
Cocooning them inside together.
The elevator jerked as it started its slow, upward climb, nudging her slightly off balance. She reached for the wall, but he was suddenly there, and she touched his cotton-covered abs instead.
Holy Mother.
“Hang on,” he said. “Almost there.”
His warm, spicy scent beckoned, bewitched, beguiled. Taking him at his word, she leaned against him with her full weight, hanging on, joining her hands at the small of his back.
The erection hadn’t subsided. Rafe wanted her—or his body did, at any rate.
She could work with that.
Rising on her tiptoes, she kissed the bare patch of skin exposed by the vee of his button-down shirt, working her way up to the divot between his collarbones, where his distinctive scent deepened and pooled.
Rafe’s whispered curse blistered the air, but he didn’t push her away. No, that was his hand clamped on her ass, yanking her closer. His palm, stroking her spine. His low groan—
The elevator lurched to a stop. The doors whisked open, flooding it with chilly air. “Come on,” he muttered. “Let’s get those pills.” Taking her hand, he pulled her off the elevator. The pace he set down the hall toward Sasha’s office was so fast she could hardly keep up.
“Rafe—”
“How do you feel?”
She half-trotted to keep up with his long-legged stride, their footsteps silent against the industrial carpet. “I feel fabulous!”
“It’s the pheromones.”
She smiled and shook her head. Now that they were away from the dance floor, her head was already starting to clear, and she still wanted to eat him alive. Rafe Sebastiani made her girly bits tingle; he always had. She looked down at their joined hands, at their twined fingers. His palm and fingertips were callused, surprisingly rough. Who would have thought that sculpting would result in so much wear and tear? How would that rough skin feel, stroking tenderly over her—
Rafe stopped abruptly, and she careened into his back. Wrapping her arms around his waist from behind, she steadied herself, but once she was stable, she couldn’t quite let him go. Delightful body heat bled into hers. “You’re so warm, like a hot rock massage.”
“Well, if you covered up some skin, you wouldn’t get so cold.”
“You and Lukas, both so crabby.” She rubbed her cheek against his back. His dark, musky scent, captured in the fibers, dizzied her, made her weak in the knees.
With a curse, he lifted her wandering hands off his taut stomach. Stepping out of her embrace, he grabbed her by the waist and lifted her off the ground. With an efficient pivot, he set her down again—right next to Sasha’s office door, and well out of arm’s reach.
Did he really think she’d stay where he put her? Poor deluded man. When he reached into his front pocket for the key card, she sidled up to him, looped her arms around his neck like a lasso, and tugged.
He didn’t push her away, but held his body tense and still, like an animal sensing danger. Eyes locked, they stared at each other, barely breathing. When her gaze slipped to his lips, a low, hungry growl vibrated in his chest.
His expression was tight, a rictus of control, but his eyes? They were stormy, seething with frustration. Self-denial. Desire.
Desire.
Time pulsed as he looked down at her, stared into her eyes. Finally, she saw a flick, a flash, something that told her that desire was winning the battle.
He raised his arms slowly, so slowly, skimming her sides, shoulders and neck, hitting some hidden, interior tripwire connecting her nipples to her womb. The forgotten key card he still held scraped against her skin, left gooseflesh in its wake, poked at the underside of her ear when he cradled her face in his hands. He tipped her head this way and that, as if analyzing the optimal angle of approach for his kiss, or assessing her bone structure—
Grasping two fists of hair, she yanked his lips to hers.
If he was surprised, he quickly recovered, suckling at her mouth, sliding his lips against hers. With a low purr, she nudged at the seam of his lips with her tongue, frantic for his taste. He opened his mouth, a slick, dark cave she was dying to explore, and speared his fingers through her hair. The diabolical tugs and pulls sent shockwaves over her skull, down her neck, across her shoulders. He mumbled something against her lips, and then skimmed his hand over the same path, gentling her, inflaming her. The key c
ard fluttered to the floor…
Rafe suddenly stilled. He lifted his head and glanced down. The black plastic square had landed on his shoe.
Not forgotten after all, damn it.
He bent down to pick it up. “Bailey, we have to stop this. You’re impaired.”
Her usual inhibitions, those pesky, worthless things, might have dissolved into mist, but that didn’t mean she didn’t know exactly what she was doing, and with whom. “Come on, Rafe. I’m a woman over the age of consent who wants to have sex with you.”
“Consent’s the issue,” he grumbled, swiping the keycard over another black pad. She heard a series of soft clicks as Sasha’s office door unlocked. “And in this condition, you can’t.” Stepping inside, he flicked the light switch, and held the door open for her to enter.
Rather than harsh overhead fluorescence, the room glowed with warm yellow light. Apparently Sasha collected lamps—Art Deco, if she wasn’t mistaken. The lamp standing next to the lime green couch, a sinuous, chrome nude, was almost as tall as she was, the woman holding a pearly, lit orb in her outstretched hands. On the credenza, a smaller, dual-headed lamp illuminated a professional grade printer and a bowl of Skittles. Over on the L-shaped desk, a miniature metal ballerina stood en pointe, her arms extended overhead, her glass tutu lampshade throwing graceful light on a blizzard of paperwork. Sticky notes, pens, thumb drives and other detritus of business lay scattered around a squat vase of mums, and full set of Buffy the Vampire Slayer action figures guarded the sleek computer from the shelf mounted overhead—all except for Angel and Spike, who were otherwise occupied. Horizontally. With each other.
A half-giggle/half-moan escaped. “Oh, yeah…”
Rafe’s warm hands were suddenly on her shoulders, guiding her to the couch. “Sasha said the pills are in the bathroom.”
“So…can I consent after I take one?”
One beat of silence. Two. “Have a seat,” he finally said. The tiny push gave her little choice in the matter. Soon she was sitting on the overstuffed couch, eyes glued to his world-class ass, until sadly, he disappeared into the office’s private bathroom.
Without answering her question.
She glanced down at the couch, at the big pop art pillows in eye-searing colors propped at both ends. The crocheted afghan tossed over the arm looked warm and invitingly rumpled. She unzipped her boots, kicked them off, and lay down, shivering in pleasure as she pulled the afghan up to her chin.
Rafe’s head suddenly popped into the room from the bathroom. “Still okay?”
“Yep.” She wriggled against the cushions. “This couch is awesome.”
A shadow flitted across his eyes, there then gone. “It was my mother's.” He ducked back into the bathroom. “From what my father calls her unfortunate velvet phase,” he called, his voice bouncing off the tiles. “I have the red one in my studio.”
As water filled a glass with a subtle upward slide, she recalled that Rafe’s mother, Dasha Sebastiani, had died when he and his siblings were young children.
Rafe came out of the bathroom carrying a dripping glass in one hand and a sliver of a tablet in the other. “Sit up,” he said briskly as he sat beside her—like they hadn't been plastered together, gulping each other's air, just minutes ago. Like his rock-hard cock wasn’t ruining the elegant drape of his pants.
She stared at it—stared at him—and then laid her hand on his thigh.
“Bailey.” He hesitated slightly before brushing her hand away. “Right now you’re so hungry for touch that anyone would do.”
She shook her head and laughed. He couldn’t know how picky she was about who touched her body, and right now, he was the only man who’d do. “I'm a grown woman who owns her own sexuality.”
He stilled, watching her carefully, like she was a bomb he had to defuse. “Yes, but—”
“I can sleep with whoever I choose. I can have an orgasm whenever I want, with whomever I want.” She tossed her head. “Two orgasms!”
“Right,” he bit out, extending the water glass and the pill. “Here. Take this.”
Every tiny hair on her body stood at attention. “How long does it take to work?” How long could she possibly wait?
“Jack said it takes effect almost immediately.”
Nervous anticipation danced like champagne bubbles as she grabbed onto her courage with both hands. “If I still want you after I take the pill—if I consent—are you willing to continue this?”
His jaw worked and his nostrils flared. But he didn't speak.
He didn’t say yes.
Heat rushed to her cheeks as realization set in. He was as affected by pheromones as she was. That outrageous erection he sported wasn’t for her. What had he just said? Anyone would do.
Mortified, she snatched her hand back. “Oh my God, I'm so sorry.” She grabbed the yellowish tablet, tossed it in her mouth, and swallowed it with a gulp of water. She had to get out of here. “I’ll stop bothering you—”
“Bailey, no—”
She’d pushed so hard, thrown herself at him with such reckless abandon, that she'd given him no choice but to come right out and say it. Setting the glass down, she swiped blindly for her boots, lying on the floor next to the couch. The pill was hitting already—her skin wasn’t nearly as hypersensitive as it had been downstairs—but it wasn’t doing a damn thing to tamp down this outrageous desire. If anything, the medicine was cleaving her frenzied need to elemental bone, honing it with scalpel precision. Focusing it like a laser.
On him.
She pressed a hand below her belt, where a bonfire licked and swirled. She was going up in flames, and the blowback was a bitch—
“Bailey.” Grasping her upper arms, he yanked her upright so they sat face to face. The boot she’d grabbed fell to the floor with a soft rattle of buckle.
His face stark and taut. His nostrils were working overtime, and his eyes, oh his eyes…they were positively molten. A bolt of sexual power slammed into her, streaked down her spine. The air felt…combustible.
All it needed was a spark.
She shook her arms free. Crossing them, she grabbed the hem of her T-shirt, whipped it over her head, and threw it across the room. Bare-breasted, hands on hips, she glared at him.
Dared him.
He crashed his lips to hers, jamming his fingers through her hair. His momentum bore her back onto the couch, crushing her into the soft cushions, pinning her down with his heavy, perfect weight. His hips nestled in the cradle of her thighs, the hard swell of his cock separated from her empty, needy core by maddening layers of fabric. His eyes blazed as he devoured her mouth with no finesse, no attempt at smooth seduction, just a frantic, searing hunger. She felt like she was feeding a starving beast his last meal on Earth. Burying her hands in his hair, she tugged him closer, twined their legs together.
His mouth was perfect, and he kissed like her darkest dreams: firm, mobile lips, and a slick, clever tongue, tangling with hers in a perfect ratio of pressure to moisture, consuming her, yet not swallowing her whole. She wallowed in textures, in the smooth Egyptian cotton caressing her bare breasts, in the nap of crushed velvet dragging against her shoulder blades as he shifted his weight, in the sandpaper scrape of his chin against her cheek. She dragged her hands over his body, over his wide shoulders, the shifting muscles of his back, skating down past his belt to clutch the ass that made his basic black pants so damned extraordinary.
Her fingers clenched. Bit in. With a growl, his hips rolled in response, nudging her with that thick ridge of flesh.
She wanted…so much more.
She almost whimpered as he lifted his upper body off hers. Definitely whimpered when he lightly—oh so lightly—stroked the lower curve of her breast with his rough, callused fingertips. Delight streaked through her body, every hair standing on end, and her core gave a voracious, greedy clench. She watched his hand as it molded, weighed, learned her shape. She could almost feel his artist’s eye taking in the precise curvature of her flesh, c
ataloging the gradations of pink in her crinkled areola as he strummed her nipple with his thumb.
As he slowly lowered his head, took it in his mouth, and suckled.
She arched off the couch, her nails biting into his scalp. His hips rolled again, and his face tightened with voluptuous pleasure. His nostrils flared—like he should have the slightest doubt about her emotional state. She wanted to see him, learn him. Touch his skin as freely as he touched hers.
Reaching up, she unbuttoned his shirt—slowly, like she was unwrapping a Christmas gift—finally pushing the fabric back to reveal his chest. His pecs were lightly dusted with tawny hair, swirling around tight, caramel-colored nipples she couldn’t wait to taste. The hair narrowed to a silky trail as it ran down his abdomen and disappeared behind his waistband.
He caught his breath as she stroked her hand down the route she’d just mapped with her gaze. Groaned as she laid tiny, biting kisses on his chest, as she lost herself in his dark sandstorm scent. Without quite knowing why, she opened her mouth and bit.
A groan ripped out of his throat. Suddenly, he sat up, his warm weight gone and cold air filling the void. “Rafe…” The protest died as she watched him wrestle with the buttons at his wristbands. A button popped off, clattering against the coffee table, as he tore the shirt off with rough, careless motions.
She laid her hands on his thighs, reveling in the shift and clench of muscles under the ultra-fine fabric, and in the thick thrust of his erection, straining behind his zipper. She bracketed it with her hands.
His luscious scent deepened, intensified. His wild eyes promised utter sensual mayhem.
The couch cushions shifted as he stood. Leather creaked, the metal buckle clanked, and teeth quietly gnashed as he unzipped his pants, exposing a tidy nest of tawny pubic hair and an extravagant, rosy erection that danced against his stomach.
No underwear. The sex demon went commando. Why should she be surprised?
As he doffed his pants, it was all she could do to keep from drooling. Holy Mother, if his body was beautiful when it was covered by clothes, it was a revelation when he was nude. Lithe and lean, not showy with muscle but unmistakably strong, his build reminded her of a long distance swimmer’s. He looked like he could cut through the water swiftly, smoothly, with minimal effort.
