Vows They Can't Escape

by Heidi Rice

  It was a pertinent question—and one she didn’t have a coherent answer for.

  The rough pad of his fingertip trailed down her neck and into the hollow of her throat, sending sensation rioting across her collarbone and plunging into her breasts.

  She should tell him to back off. She needed to leave. But something deeper and much more primal kept her immobile.

  ‘You know what I think?’ he said, his voice hoarse.

  She shook her head. But she did know, and she really didn’t want to.

  ‘I think you missed me.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. I haven’t thought of you in years,’ she said, but the denial came out on a breathless whisper, convincing no one.

  His lips lifted on one side, the don’t-give-a-damn half-smile was an invitation to sin she’d never been able to resist.

  ‘You don’t remember how good it used to be between us?’ he mocked, finding the punching pulse at the base of her throat. ‘Because I do.’

  His thumb rubbed back and forth across her collarbone, the nonchalant caress incinerating the lacy fabric of her camisole.

  ‘No,’ she said, but they both knew that was the biggest lie of all.

  A wad of something hard and immovable jammed her throat as his thumb drifted down to circle her nipple, the possessive, unapologetic touch electrifying even through the layers of silk and lace.

  The peak engorged in a rush, poking against the fabric and announcing how big a whopper she’d told.

  She needed to tell him to stop. He had no right to touch her like this any more. But the words refused to form as her back stretched, thrusting the rigid tip into his palm.

  He dipped his head as his thumb traced the edge of her bra cup, rough calluses rasping sensitive skin as it slid beneath the lace. His lips nudged the corner of her mouth, so close she could smell coffee and peppermint.

  ‘You were always a terrible liar, Red.’

  She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Certainly couldn’t speak.

  So objecting was an impossibility when he eased the cup down to expose one tight nipple and blew on the sensitive flesh.

  ‘Oh, God.’

  Her lungs seized and her thigh muscles dissolved as he licked the tender peak, then nipped at the tip. She bucked, the shock of sensation bringing her hip into contact with the impressive ridge in his trousers. She rubbed against it like a cat, desperate to find relief from the exquisite agony.

  He swore under his breath, then clasped her head and slanted his lips across hers. She opened for him instinctively and let his tongue plunder her mouth, driving the kiss into dark, torturous territory.

  Her fingers curled into his shirt to drag him closer, absorbing his tantalising strength as the slab of muscle crushed her naked breast.

  Her sex became heavy and painfully tender. Slick with longing. The melting sensation a throwback to her youth—when all he’d had to do was look at her to make her ready for him.

  How can I still need him this much?

  Her mind blurred, sinking into the glorious sex-fogged oblivion she’d denied herself for so long. Too long. Her tongue tangled with his, giving him the answer they both craved.

  He kissed the way she remembered. With masterful thrusts and parries joined by teasing nips and licks as he devoured her mouth, no quarter given.

  The day-old beard abraded her chin. Large hands brushed her thighs, bunching the skirt around her waist until he had a good firm grip on her backside.

  Excitement pumped through her veins like a powerful narcotic, burning away everything but the sight, the sound, the scent of him.

  He boosted her up—taking charge, taking control, the way she had always adored.

  ‘Put your legs round my waist.’

  She obeyed the husky command without question, clinging to his strong shoulders. Her heartbeat kicked her ribs and pummelled her sex as their tongues duelled, hot and wet and frantic.

  Her back hit the wall with a thud and the thick ridge in his trousers ground against her panties, the friction exquisite against her yearning clitoris.

  Holding her up with one arm, he tore at her underwear. The sound of ripping satin echoed off the room’s hard surfaces, stunning her until he found her with his thumb. She moaned into his mouth, the perfect touch charging through her system like lightning.

  His answering groan rumbled against her ear, harsh with need. ‘Still so wet for me, Red?’

  Blunt fingers brushed expertly over the heart of her, then circled the swollen nub, teasing, coaxing, demanding a response. Everything inside her drove down to that one tight spot, desperate to feel the touch which would drive her over. The coil tightened like a vice and propelled her mindlessly towards the peak.

  ‘Please...’ The single word came out on a tortured sob.

  Dane was the only man who knew exactly what she needed and always had.

  Suddenly he withdrew his fingers, sliding them through the wet folds to rest on her hip. Leaving her teetering on the edge of ecstasy.

  She panted. Squirmed. Denied the touch she needed. The touch she had to have.

  ‘Don’t stop.’

  He buried his face against her neck, the harsh pants of his breathing as tortured as her own. ‘Have to,’ he grunted.

  ‘Why?’

  Her dazed mind reeled, her flesh clenching painfully on emptiness. Desire clawed at her insides like a ravenous beast as he left her balanced brutally on the sharp edge between pleasure and pain.

  ‘No way am I taking you without a condom.’

  As the sex fog finally released its stranglehold on her brain the comment registered and horrifying reality smacked into her with the force and fury of an eighteen-wheeler. The nuclear blush mushroomed up to her hairline.

  Did you actually just beg him to make love to you? Without protection?

  If only there was such a thing as death by mortification.

  This was now officially the most humiliating moment of her life. The trashy novel swoon had merely been a dress rehearsal.

  She scooped her breast back into her bra, its reddened nipple mocking her.

  She had to get away from here. Sod the divorce papers. She’d deal with them later. Right now saving herself and her sanity was more important than saving Carmichael’s.

  CHAPTER SIX

  DANE BREATHED IN the sultry scent of Xanthe’s arousal, still holding on to her butt as if she were the only solid object in the middle of a tornado.

  How could it be exactly the same between them? The heat, the hunger, the insanity?

  He felt as if he’d just been in a war. And he was fairly sure it was a war he hadn’t won.

  What were you thinking, hitting on her like that?

  He’d been mad. Mad that he’d shouted at her, mad that she’d collapsed in front of him, and madder still that he cared enough about her to be sorry. But most of all he’d been mad that he could still want her so much, despite everything.

  The come-on had been a ploy to intimidate her, to make her fold and do as she was told. But she hadn’t. She’d met his demands with demands of her own. And suddenly they’d been racing to the point of no return like a couple of sex-mad teenagers—as if the last ten years had never happened.

  ‘Dane, put me down. You’re crushing me.’

  The furious whisper brought him crashing the rest of the way back to reality.

  He drew in an agonising breath of her scent. Light floral perfume and subtle sin. And lifted his head to survey the full extent of the damage.

  Her hair had tumbled down, sticking in damp strands to the line of her throat. A smudge of mascara added to the bluish tinge under her eyes, the reddened skin on her chin and cheek suggesting she was going to have some serious beard-burn in the morning.

  He should have shaved. Then again, he should have done a lot of things.

  She looked shell-shocked.

  He had the weird urge to laugh. At least he wasn’t the only one.

  She pushed against his chest, struggling to g
et out of his arms in earnest.

  ‘Stop staring at me like that. I have to leave.’

  He let her go and watched her scramble away, trying to be grateful that he’d at least managed to stop himself from leaping off the deep end this time. The painful erection made sure he didn’t feel nearly as great about that last-minute bout of sanity as he should.

  She swept her hair back and bent to slip on the heels which must have fallen off at some point during their sex apocalypse, making it impossible for him not to notice how the slim skirt highlighted the generous contours of her butt. He tore his gaze away.

  Haven’t you tortured yourself enough already?

  She pressed a hand to her forehead, glancing round—still struggling to calm down, to take stock and figure out what the heck had just happened was his guess.

  Good luck with that.

  ‘I should go.’ She smoothed her clothing with unsteady hands and brushed a wayward curl behind her ear. It sprang straight back.

  He planted his hands in his pants pockets and resisted the urge to hook it back round her ear a second time. Because look how that had ended the first time.

  She was right. She should go. Before the urge to follow through on what they’d just started got the better of them.

  Hitting on her had been a dumb move. What exactly had he been trying to prove? That she still wanted him? That he was the one in charge? Or just that he was the biggest dumbass on the planet?

  Because, whatever way you looked at it, that dumb move had stirred up stuff neither one of them was ready to deal with. Yet.

  ‘You think?’ he sneered, because their sex apocalypse wasn’t just on him.

  She’d made the decision to sneak back into his life and poke at something that had died a long time ago. And when he’d made that first dumb move, instead of telling him no she’d gone off like a rocket—giving him a taste of the girl he remembered which he wasn’t going to be able to forget any time soon.

  She glared at him, picking up on his pissy tone.

  Yeah, that’s right, sweetheart. I’m the guy you decided wasn’t good enough for you. The guy you still can’t get enough of.

  ‘Don’t you dare try to put this insanity on me,’ she said. ‘I didn’t start it. And, anyway, we finished it before things got totally out of hand. So it’s not important.’

  Hell, yeah, it is. If I say it is.

  ‘We didn’t finish it,’ he pointed out, because scoring a direct hit seemed vitally important. ‘I did.’

  The flush scorched her skin and she blew out a staggered breath. ‘So what? I got a little carried away in the heat of the moment. That’s all.’

  ‘A little?’ Talk about an understatement.

  Her lips set in a mulish line, the blush still beaming on those beard-scorched cheeks.

  ‘It was a mistake, okay? Brought on by stress and fatigue and...’ She paused, her gaze darting pretty much everywhere but his face. ‘And sexual deprivation.’

  ‘Sexual deprivation?’ He scoffed. ‘How do you figure that?’

  She was going to have to spell that one out for him.

  ‘I’ve been extremely busy for the past five years. Obviously I needed to blow off some steam.’

  He should have been insulted. And a part of him was. But a much larger part of him wanted to know if she’d really just told him she’d been celibate for five years.

  ‘Exactly how long has it been since you got to “blow off some steam”?’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘That’s none of your business.’

  ‘That long, huh?’ he mocked, enjoying the spark of temper—and the news that he’d been her first in a while—probably way too much.

  He’d never sparred with her when she was a girl. Because she’d always been too cute and too fragile. It would have been like kicking a puppy. He’d always had to be so careful, mindful of how delicate she was. Back then he’d been terrified he’d break her, that his rough, low-class hands would be too demanding for all that delicate, petal-soft skin. So he’d strived hard to be gentle even when it had cost him.

  But she’d given as good as she’d gotten a minute ago. And damn if that didn’t turn him on even more.

  The flush now mottled the skin of her cleavage, and suddenly he was remembering gliding his tongue across her nipple, her soft sob of encouragement as he captured the hard bud between his teeth.

  His blood surged south. And he got mad all over again.

  She’d been so far out of his reach that summer. But somehow she’d hooked him into her drama, her reality, made him want to stand up to her daddy, to fight her demons, to brand her as his and follow some cock-eyed dream. When she’d told him she was pregnant he’d been horrified at first, but much worse had been the driving need that had opened up inside him—the fierce desire to claim her and their child.

  She’d convinced him she wanted to keep his baby. And that was all it had taken to finally tip him over into an alternative reality where he’d kidded himself they could make it work. That she really wanted to make it work. With him. A British heiress and a nobody from Roxbury. As if.

  He’d spent years afterwards dealing with her betrayal, determined that no one would ever have the power to screw him over like that again—even after he’d finally figured out that she’d probably just been playing him all along so she could stick it to her overbearing daddy.

  The thought that he could still want her so much infuriated the hell out of him. But he’d just behaved like a wild man, making it tough to deny.

  He’d ripped off her panties, damn it. When was the last time he’d done something like that? Been so desperate to get to a woman he’d torn off her underwear? Hadn’t even taken the time or trouble to undress her properly, to kiss her and caress her?

  He might not be a master of small talk, but he had some moves. Moves women generally appreciated and which he’d worked at acquiring over the last ten years.

  Until Xanthe had strolled back into his life and managed to rip away all those layers of class and sophistication and bring back that rough, raw, reckless, screwed-up kid. The kid he’d always hated.

  She made a dash for the elevators.

  ‘Hey, wait up!’ He chased her down, grabbed her wrist.

  She swung round, her eyes bright with fury and panic. ‘Don’t touch me. I’m not staying.’

  He lifted his hand away. ‘I get that. But I want to know where you’re going.’ He scrambled for a plausible reason. ‘So I can get the papers delivered tomorrow.’

  In person.

  ‘You’ll sign them?’

  She sounded so surprised and so relieved he wondered if there was more to those papers than she was letting on. Because she had to know there was no way on earth he would want to contest their divorce—no matter how hot they still were for each other.

  Focus, dumbass.

  He shook off the suspicion. His objective right now was to make sure she didn’t hightail it all the way back to London before he was finished with her.

  This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. But he’d learned the hard way that it was better to retreat and work out a strategy rather than risk riding roughshod straight into an ambush.

  Her old man and his goons had taught him that on the night he’d come to collect his wife—believing he had rights and obligations only to discover that promises meant nothing if you were rich and privileged and already over the piece of trash you’d married.

  The anger surged back, fresh and vivid, but he was ready for it now, in a way he hadn’t been earlier.

  So had he been kidding himself that he was over what she’d done? That didn’t have to be bad. As long as he dealt with it once and for all.

  ‘Sure, I’ll sign them,’ he replied.

  Once I’m good and ready.

  She’d stirred up this hornets’ nest, so he wasn’t going to be the only one who got stung.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, and the stunned pleasure in her voice crucified him a little. ‘I’m glad we finally got the c
hance to end this properly. I didn’t have—’ She stopped abruptly, cutting off the thought, her cheeks heating.

  ‘You didn’t have what?’

  What had she been about to say? Because whatever it was she looked stricken that she’d almost let it slip.

  ‘Nothing.’

  Yeah, right. Then why was her guilty flush bright enough to signal incoming aircraft?

  ‘I hope we can part as friends,’ she said, thrusting her hand out like a peace offering, the long slim fingers visibly shaking.

  Friends, my butt.

  They weren’t friends. Or their marriage would not have ended the way it had. Friends were honest with each other. Friends were people you could trust. And when had he ever been able to trust her?

  But still he clasped her hand, and squeezed gently to stem the tremor.

  She let go first, tugging free to press the elevator button. She stepped into the car when it arrived, her eyes downcast. But as she turned to hit the lobby button their gazes met.

  The muscle under his heart clenched.

  ‘Goodbye, Dane.’

  He nodded as the doors slid shut. Then he pulled out his mobile and dialled his PA.

  ‘Mel? Ms Carmichael—’ he paused ‘—I mean Ms Sanders, whose real name is Carmichael, is going to be stopping by any second to collect her briefcase. I want you to book her a suite at The Standard for the night and bill it to me. Then arrange a car to take her there.’

  The place was classy, and only a few blocks away on the High Line. He wanted to know exactly where she was.

  He didn’t want any more nasty surprises. From here on in this was his game and his rules. And he was playing to win.

  ‘Okay,’ Mel said, sounding confused but, like the excellent assistant she was, not questioning his authority. Unlike his soon-to-be ex-wife. ‘Is there anything else?’

  ‘Yeah, if she kicks up a fuss...’ He wouldn’t put it past the new, improved kick-ass Xanthe to do the one thing guaranteed to screw up his plans. ‘Tell her taking care of her accommodation is the least I could do...’ He paused, the lie that would ensure Xanthe accepted his offer tasting bittersweet. ‘For a friend.’