You fucking pussy. Don’t go getting soft now.
Nah, there was no chance of that. No chance in hell.
He reached into his pocket and grabbed out his phone, checking the time. She’d be here any minute.
He’d gotten her number without any trouble from the receptionist at the Duchess Bail Bonds office, and when he texted her his address, he found himself almost relishing the thought of an argument about where to meet. Yet the text he’d gotten in response was muted, merely an “Ok. Fine.” He’d then pushed his luck by instructing her on what to wear—something tight and no underwear. But even that hadn’t drawn anything from her except a one-finger emoji.
He’d expected more of a fight than that.
The doorbell rang, a stupid-sounding chime he hadn’t yet bothered to replace since construction had finished on his house a couple of months back, and anticipation coiled tightly inside him.
He could still taste the kiss he’d given her yesterday, a test and a tease both at once. He’d wanted to see what she’d do, how she’d respond, whether she’d taste the same as she had all those years ago. And she had and her response had been everything he could have hoped for.
The way she’d melted against him as he’d cradled her head in his hand, her eyes closing, the whispered sound of his name…He’d had to force himself to hold back, to not take her mouth the way he’d wanted to, hard and possessive and deep. To only give her the lightest brush of his lips, the lightest taste.
He’d been glad he’d gone slowly as he lifted his head after that, to see the instinctive disappointment in her eyes and know she wanted more. Better to leave them hungry, right?
Tonight, though, no one was going hungry, not if he could help it.
Leaving his beer on the countertop, he moved out of the kitchen and into the hallway, going to the massive oak front door and pulling it open.
Nora stood on the step outside, not, sadly, wearing a tight dress like he’d hoped. In fact, she looked pretty much the same as she had when she’d walked into the Rusty Nail the day before, except instead of the bulletproof vest she wore a black tank. Her hair was still in that tight braid down her back and his fucking cowboy hat was firmly on her head. She wasn’t carrying, though, at least not that he could see, so maybe that was something.
However, her pretty face had fuck you written all over it and the tension in her shoulders was obvious. She had her hands in the pockets of her jeans and when she met his gaze, he could see the little specks in her eyes glittering like gold dust.
Clearly, she did not want to be here.
It made his own anger tighten. Because what the fuck right did she have to be pissed with him? She’d been the one who’d stayed silent when her father had leveled all that shit at him. She hadn’t protested, hadn’t backed him up, hadn’t said one goddamn word in his defense, not one. She had no right to be angry with him, no fucking right at all.
“No dress,” he said, unable to keep the growl out of his voice no matter how hard he tried.
Her chin came up. “A dress wasn’t part of the deal, asshole.”
“Doesn’t matter, you won’t be wearing it long enough anyway.” He stood aside. “Come in.”
Her eyes flicked him a glance as she moved past him and into the entranceway, but apart from that she didn’t speak. Her boots echoed on the polished wood floor as she took a couple of hesitating steps then stopped, looking around her, eyes wide.
He almost smiled. His house would not be what she was expecting.
He’d inherited some money when he was eighteen, from his maternal grandparents, squirreling it out of reach before his old man could get hold of it and drink it away. Then he’d kept it in the bank, not thinking much about it.
Until he met Nora.
The gorgeous only daughter of Donald Sutcliffe, all of eighteen years old in her little white bikini. He’d held out against her for weeks, trying to be professional, trying to be good. And then she’d stolen a kiss from him one afternoon and he’d been lost.
The first night they spent together, he decided. She was going to be part of the new life he was in the process of building for himself, away from the dusty trailer park and the run-down single-wide he lived in with his alcoholic dad and beaten-down mom. A life where he had a good job, and a nice house, and a beautiful wife who loved him as much as he loved her.
Nora could be part of that. Nora was the one.
He’d kept that to himself at first, because she was young and he didn’t want to scare her by coming on too strong. Instead he’d talked about the house he was going build one day, and she’d joined in. They spent hours discussing that house, lying in that half-finished pool house together. Hours spent designing it, what it would look like and what materials they’d use. And then how they would decorate it. Soon enough it wasn’t only his house, it had become their house.
A construction of boxes, built out of wood and glass and stone. With massive windows that looked out onto a lake or the woods or the desert, that made it feel like there weren’t any walls at all, no boundaries or separation from nature. There would be a soaring entranceway and fireplace in the living room. A big outdoor area and a grill. High ceilings to give a feeling of spaciousness and plain white walls to better display the art Nora insisted he collect.
This house was exactly that. Exactly what they’d planned together.
Except now, it was his house, not hers. Built with the money he earned after he got back from Afghanistan and the Ministry took him in. He’d worked hard for that, gradually accumulating the cash and scouting for the perfect location, talking to architects and builders. Eventually he’d found a great bit of land on Lake Austin, with a view over the water and lots of trees. Fucking expensive, but by then he was on his way to doing very well indeed and he could afford it.
So he built it. And he could feel a part of him waiting for her shocked reaction, her awe, her startled exclamation. Wanting it and not really knowing why, because what the fuck did it matter to him what she thought of the house? It wasn’t hers anymore, it was all his.
The anticipation gathered tighter as he watched Nora tip her head back and stare up at the soaring ceiling above them, then take in the flowing staircase to their right that led up to the second floor.
He hadn’t put anything on the stark white walls, because art had been her thing, not his. Was she noting the absence? Did it hurt her?
You want to hurt her?
A thread of something else wound through his satisfaction, something he wasn’t prepared to acknowledge quite yet, not when he was still so goddamn angry with her.
Reluctance.
He shook it off before it could take hold.
“This is…” Nora’s voice was a little hoarse as she trailed off.
“Remind you of anything?” He stood behind her, watching the evening sunlight catch the threads of gold and toffee and platinum in the braid that hung down her back. Would she remember? He fucking wanted her to remember.
There was a long silence. Then she lifted a shoulder, keeping her gaze on the ceiling. “Should it?”
Anger prickled through him, overwhelming that small curl of reluctance.
Jesus. Calm the fuck down. What are you? A kid? So she didn’t remember that house and she isn’t on her knees in awe at what you created? Big fucking deal.
Smith gritted his teeth. “You don’t remember the house we talked about building?”
Her shoulders hunched imperceptibly, but she didn’t look at him. “Not really.” She sounded so casual, as if she truly didn’t remember.
The feeling in his gut, the one he didn’t want to acknowledge, twisted hard.
Why the fuck are you bringing that up?
He couldn’t really say. Only that those lazy, heated afternoons with her had meant something. They’d mattered and he hated the thought that she’d forgotten.
Unable to stop himself, he said, “The pool house. You and me. We talked about it, remember?”
The te
nsion in her posture increased, her shoulders hunching even more, as if she was bracing herself for a blow. “Oh yeah, maybe I recall something like that,” she said in that same casual voice. “Anyway, it’s very nice.” Then she turned to face him. Her expression was hard, warm brown eyes dark, the look in them flat. “Let’s get started then.” Her hands went to the hem of her T-shirt. “You want to do me here or would you prefer a bedroom?”
Oh, no, that wasn’t happening. She couldn’t just dismiss the past like that, all those conversations they’d had, all the dreams he’d shared with her. And if she thought she could just lie down, spread her legs, and the past would all go away, she could fucking think again.
He wanted her to know how badly she’d screwed up his life.
And he wanted her to be sorry.
She was pulling her tank out of her jeans, slowly peeling it up, and he reached out and gripped her wrists, stopping her.
“No.” He didn’t bother hiding how pissed off he was, his voice rough with anger.
Nora eyed him warily. “What? I thought this was what you wanted.”
“Sure. But first we’re gonna have a little chat.”
Her expression hardened. “That wasn’t part of the deal, Smith.”
“I don’t give a shit whether that was part of the deal or not.” He stared at her, letting her see his anger. “You owe me, golden girl. You fucking owe me. And you’re gonna come into my kitchen, have a goddamn beer, and we’re gonna talk.”
He didn’t wait for her to respond, turning on his heel and going through the doorway to the left of the front door, stalking down through the light-filled hall to his kitchen, taking the extra couple of seconds to get a grip on himself.
Jesus. You need to calm the fuck down. It happened a long time ago. Why are you still holding onto this shit?
Because she’d ruined his goddamn life, that’s why.
And then you built it again. So what’s confronting her going to change? Apart from making you feel better? Fuck her and forget her, that’s what you need to do.
Smith stalked into the kitchen and reached for the beers he’d left on the counter, ignoring the voice in his head. Sure, he was going to fuck her and forget her. But after they had their conversation.
“Here.” He turned, leaning back against the kitchen island, holding out the other bottle. “You want one?”
Nora stood uncertainly in the doorway, her gaze darting around at the kitchen then coming back to him again. Was she impressed? What did she think of it? Why the fuck did he even care? Jesus fucking Christ. He was crazy.
She took the bottle from him, attention flicking to the long counter on the other side of the kitchen island, the big, massively expensive stove he’d had brought in, the expensive red tiles of the backsplash, the row of halogens set beneath the cupboards on the wall and above the kitchen island so he could see without ineffective ceiling lights. He hadn’t spared any expense on the kitchen, buying only the best materials and appliances, while at the same time keeping it completely functional.
“You use this?” She gestured around at the room with her beer bottle and, yes, this time her surprise was actually obvious.
“Do I use the kitchen? Yeah, of course I use it.” He lifted his bottle and took a sip of his beer. “How else would I eat?”
Color had crept into her cheeks and he suddenly realized that she’d been quite pale before and he hadn’t noticed. Why? Was she scared?
Of course she’s scared, asshole. You blackmailed her into sex and now you’re acting like a self-righteous douchebag.
He didn’t like that thought. Didn’t like it one bit.
She was scared back then too, the night they first made love, all nervous and awkward and timid despite the fact that she’d been the one to convince him it was a good idea. He’d asked her a dozen times whether she was sure, and she’d gotten that look in her eye, the first glimpse of just how stubborn Nora Sutcliffe could be when she wanted something, and told him of course she was damn sure. So he took things real slow and gentle, soothing her, calming her. She’d been so fucking beautiful as her fear had fallen away, so fucking passionate. She wrapped her arms around him and looked at him like he’d gift-wrapped the moon and the stars and handed them to her…
An old, half-forgotten feeling caught inside him. Something like regret.
“I guess I didn’t imagine you cooking,” she said, interrupting his thoughts. She hadn’t taken a drink, holding the bottle in one hand while she hooked her thumb of the other through her belt loop.
He shifted against the counter, those old memories still replaying in his head, right where he didn’t want them. Because, Jesus, he didn’t want to feel regret or sympathy, or any of the stupid, soft emotions he’d cut out of his life the moment he got back from Afghanistan. They belonged to a different man. A man he no longer was.
“What?” It sounded belligerent but he didn’t care. “You think I sit around all day eating pizza and burgers and shit?”
Her gaze dropped down his body as if she couldn’t help herself and for some reason that made his anger fade a little. “I guess not. You’d probably be a lot bigger if you did.”
“There’s a lot about me you don’t know, golden girl.” He took another sip of his beer, watching her. Hunger pulsed inside him, made sharper by the memories of that first night they spent together. Of how good it had felt to calm her fears, to be the one to hold her, to show her the pleasure her body could give her, to watch passion unfurl over her lovely face.
You could have that now, make you both forget about the past.
No, fuck that. He wanted a reckoning and he was goddamn well going to have it.
Nora’s gaze flickered away again as she lifted her bottle, finally taking a small, nervous-looking sip. Her throat moved as she swallowed and he watched that, too, almost mesmerized by the long, elegant line of it.
“So…,” she said into the silence, shifting on her feet. “Apparently I owe you. Are you going to tell me what that’s about or are you just going to stand there glaring at me, expecting me to guess?”
His muscles tensed, anger twisting in his gut. Did she really not have any idea? Not one fucking clue? “I don’t expect you to guess, I expect you to know,” he said flatly. “I expect you to fucking remember.”
She didn’t look away. “You’re angry about that stuff that went down with Dad.”
“ ‘That stuff’?” he echoed, keeping his voice deceptively mild. “You mean him calling me a rapist and you not saying one fucking word? Is that the ‘stuff’ you’re talking about?”
She paled, though the red in her cheeks remained. “So, I made a mistake. I’m sorry. Are you happy now? Can we get on with this, please?”
Jesus. What kind of fucking apology was that?
“Say it again,” he growled. “And this time like you goddamn mean it.”
“I did mean it.” She let out a breath then, slowly, came toward him, her hips swaying as she walked, stopping right in front of him so they were almost touching. “Shall I show you how much?” She stared into his eyes, putting her beer bottle down on the counter, making a production of brushing against him as she did so. “Like this, maybe?” And she slid a blatant palm down over the zipper of his jeans.
His stupid dick hardened immediately, the predictable fuck, a fire beginning to blaze in his gut. She was very close, the soft curve of her tits brushing against his chest, her heat seeping into him, the tantalizing scent of her curling around him.
So easy to reach for her, to pick her up and set her on the counter, pull her jeans down, and spread her thighs. Slide right into the tight, liquid heat of her pussy, and forget all about the past. So easy…
Then again, this wasn’t her show. It was his. And he knew a diversionary tactic when he saw one. She didn’t want to talk, she’d made that plain. She wanted to get to the fucking, get it over and done with, get Dust and fuck off, no harm, no foul.
Not gonna happen.
No, it god
damn wasn’t.
Smith looked down into those pretty brown eyes of hers and didn’t move, ignored the warmth of her palm seeping through the denim of his jeans, ignored the throbbing of his dick. Instead he took another long, slow sip of his beer, as if none of that touched him in any way. “You think that half-assed apology is gonna work? That all you need to do is put your hand on my dick and I’ll forget everything else?”
She blinked, an expression he couldn’t read flashing in her eyes before disappearing. “I…I guess not.”
“Goddamn right. Don’t worry, I know you want my cock and you’ll get it, I promise. But we’re gonna do what I said we’re gonna do first.” Smith put down his beer, leaned back on his hands as if he had all the time in the world, and gave her his very best feral smile. “Let’s talk about what happened after you let your fucking dad accuse me of being a rapist.”
—
Oh no. Hell no. He couldn’t do this to her, he couldn’t.
Tension pulled in Nora’s shoulders, fear crawling down her spine, and she had a sudden vicious urge to squeeze the hard ridge pressing against her palm. Not that it would do anything. Hell, he’d probably like it, the contrary bastard.
She didn’t move her hand, though, kept it there, trying to detach herself from the effect of his hard-muscled body brushing against hers. Trying not to pay attention to the clean soap smell of his skin, the warm, spicy undertones that were all Smith.
He’d taken her breath away when he’d opened the door, in worn jeans that sat low on his lean hips and a plain white tee that showed off his tan and his tattoos and clung to the cut lines of his chest and shoulders. His hair had been damp from the shower he’d obviously just had and his black eyes were brilliant, and she’d been flooded with memory about everything he’d once been. He was more than that now, though, because now he had that danger, that menace he wore like a second skin.
Make It Hurt (Texas Bounty) Page 7
