by Anne Malcom
My heart didn’t exactly listen.
I fastened my hand around the polished bronze handle, chasing away thoughts of broken hearts and emotionlessly flipping through the memorized e-mails.
Duke, he was deployed with him. Keltan mentioned punching him for something called Marmite.
I hoped Marmite wasn’t a stripper name.
Cool air that smelled like fresh linen in a pleasing and crisp way met me as I stepped onto dusky gray carpet in the foyer of the building.
The walls were painted a dark slate gray, the decorating simple and masculine like I’d expected. Two black couches sat on either side of the foyer, expensive but not ostentatious. Ditto with the framed art on the walls and the sleek black desk embossed with the same logo from the door.
An older woman with black hair peppered with gray piled atop her head smiled at me. Her eyes were kind and framed with what I knew immediately were laugh lines. You could tell that on older women, whether their life had been full of smiles or sadness. Those lines weren’t etched quite as deep when they were from smiles.
I knew that because the ones surrounding my own mother’s violet eyes were both deep and shallow. Thankfully, after Dad, life gave her enough smiles to outweigh the sadness. But the evidence was there on her face. In those ghosts, both living and dead.
“Let me guess. Polly?” she asked warmly.
I smiled warmly back, although I didn’t usually do that so genuinely with strangers. It just wasn’t me. With my family back in Amber, I did, but mostly I kept those smiles to myself. However, it was instinct to do it when someone smiled so easily, without reservation and malice.
Not enough women smiled at each other like that.
I hadn’t felt the urge to smile like that in six months. Not just because of Keltan, but also because I was missing my friends. And my family.
And Rosie.
Maybe I could hire the services of Greenstone Security to find my AWOL best friend.
Rosie could wait. I hoped she wasn’t in the middle of the ocean surrounded by Columbians again. Or at least I hoped they were a little friendlier.
I shelved that for later. For now, I had a story to crack.
“Yes, that’s me,” I lied. I was not getting any awards for being a good person. But I was getting the story, and very rarely did the two go together.
It wasn’t exactly lying. My sister’s name was Polly. Close enough. Plus, my name possibly would have alerted some badass silent alarm, the same one that had Keltan knowing I’d gone to the office the day before after the murder scene. I made a mental note to check my purse for bugs, or tracking devices.
“I knew it. You sounded pretty as a bell on the phone, and was I right? Yes. I’m always right.” She gave me a warm smile as her eyes sparkled with mischief that was a lot younger than the lines around her eyes. “Heath will be a lot happier with me once he sees you. In fact, I might even get a smile from him, and that’s something I can store away for later, if you know what I mean.”
I blinked at the woman who was at least fifty and dressed in a cable-knit sweater in the middle of California summer saying a thing like that.
Then I grinned wider.
I knew I liked Rita.
“Oh yes, I know what you mean. I’ll be happy to be of service. But I’m not sure he’ll be smiling once he makes this meeting,” I told her, sitting on the leather sofa.
Yeah, I doubted Heath would be happy at all.
Rita waved her hand. “Honey, he’s a hot-blooded man starting his morning with a woman who looks like Victoria’s Secret lost a model. He’s gonna smile.”
I didn’t reply, not wanting to dash Rita’s hopes just yet.
Boots echoed from a hallway off to the left of Rita’s desk, which I guessed led off to the badass lair.
“Oh, and he’s on time. That’s a disappointment. I was quite looking forward to going and wrangling him.” She gave me wink.
I suppressed a laugh. “Maybe next time.”
She gave me a look before glancing at a ringing phone. “One can hope. Lovely to meet you, dear. I hope Heath can help you. Come and have a chat when you’re done.”
“I will,” I lied. I was so hoping to slink off somehow before I had to disappoint Rita with her knowing I lied to get in. But then again, if I knew Rita, and I did—you recognized the good kind of crazy in people—I was sure she’d understand. Most likely approve.
She gave a cheerful greeting to the person at the other end of the phone at the same time a motorcycle boot stepped into the foyer. Followed by the rest of the rather impressive man from the day before.
Now without the distraction of things like a dead body and all the blood and the terror of thinking I may become a bloody dead body myself, I could fully appreciate him in all his badass glory. He was wearing all black, from his heavy-duty kickass motorcycle boots to the long-sleeved black Henley, pushed up at the sleeves to expose his muscled forearms.
Does no one in this office feel the heat?
Maybe these New Zealand men had some kind of mastery over temperature control that we in the Northern Hemisphere had yet to fathom.
I didn’t usually like shaggy hair or beards on men—it made them look dirty—but this one was well-showered and I knew he’d smell great. The beard was long but trimmed perfectly, and the inky hair that brushed his shoulders was also groomed in a “manly” way. Plus, whatever ‘dirty’ he was, it was totally in all the best ways.
But I was ruined. Though my loins appreciated him for the fine male specimen he was, they didn’t burn hot the way they had against the hood of my car the night before. Nor in the early hours when I’d had to use B.O.B to ease the frustration that built up after the hood incident.
Plus, he was even hotter once his carefully blank expression turned into a glower as he spied me on the sofa.
Men couldn’t really blame women for making them angry. It was their fault for being so hot while they were fuming that it was almost mandatory to make them that way on a regular basis.
I darted up and crossed the distance before he could run.
But badasses didn’t run from a challenge. Or a woman. I’d spent enough time around them to know that little gem.
It’s what I was counting on.
My theory proved true when I met his motorcycle boots with my pointed black patent leather heels.
He crossed his arms and regarded me.
“Polly?” he asked with dry accusation.
I shrugged, fluttering my lashes. He didn’t blink, though I didn’t expect him to. It was worth the try. “Would you have met with me otherwise?”
He gave me a look. “I’d rather my boss didn’t try and shoot me, so no.” His eyes roved over the tight-fitting halter I’d tucked into my slacks and the slew of necklaces tangling down my mid-section. “Though I’m thinking the view might be worth it. He’s a shit shot anyway.” His accent was like Keltan’s but his voice was rougher, raspy. That coupled with the faint smell of tobacco communicated he was a smoker.
The smell was enticing and pleasing to me considering it beckoned me to come back to the dark side of yellowing teeth and premature wrinkles. Plus, it was radiating off a hot guy.
“What do you want? If it’s getting shot, it better be worth it.”
Okay, Heath was more than hot. He had a way of communicating heat and sex without changing his tone or expression. I idly wondered how that translated to the bedroom. I bet he was a total whips and chains kind of guy.
But that was my sexually deprived mind thinking.
I shook myself out of that particular fog. “Well, I’m here for work, actually. Specifically to see if I can ask a favor.”
He continued to regard me. “A favor?” Again, the flat voice held undertones that would have made my downstairs react had it not been for his infuriating boss.
I nodded. “We could discuss it in your office?”
He laughed that time, a short bark that was not entirely displeasing, if a little unexpected.
<
br /> I tilted my head. “That’s funny?”
His face returned to normal. “Yeah, babe. That’s hilarious. I may enjoy takin’ risks, but I’m not suicidal. Taking Keltan’s girl into my office when she asks a ‘favor’ is nothing short of.”
I frowned. “I’m not Keltan’s girl,” I argued.
He didn’t respond, just stared.
I invented that response, so it pissed me off. “I’m not Keltan’s girl,” I repeated. His eyes flickered to the door, but I was rather impatient to get this point across. “I’m so far from being Keltan’s girl that the concept is out of this realm. I’m here for work.”
There was a long pause, silent enough for me to hear the swinging of the door.
I had a bad feeling about the swinging of the door, and the sudden energy in the room.
“Work? And what work would have you coming to the very place of work of the man who you not only accused of stalking you, but just said isn’t yours, despite what your mouth said on the hood of your car two nights ago?” an even voice asked.
The corner of Heath’s mouth twitched.
“Keltan may not be a good shot, but trust me, I am,” I muttered to him before turning.
Keltan was mirroring his buddy, his arms crossed, legs wide. I was in a masculine stance sandwich, and I wasn’t even enjoying it.
Okay, I was enjoying it a little.
But that was the problem.
“I was here to talk to Heath,” I stated.
“No, she wasn’t,” the traitor said from behind me.
Keltan was still for a beat, and then he wasn’t, his hand fastened around my bicep. He didn’t stop or slow his stride, which meant I had to move my feet if I didn’t want to get dragged along behind him.
“Let me go, Keltan,” I requested in an even voice. I wasn’t going to embarrass myself by shrieking or shouting even though I itched too.
Keltan ignored me, my heels clicking as I transitioned from the plush carpet to hardwood floors. We passed a variety of doors before he opened one and yanked me inside, slamming it behind us.
I didn’t have time to even look at the office I had been manhandled into, on account of being pressed against the door, Keltan’s hands on either side of my face, body against mine.
“Keltan,” I warned icily. “Step back.”
The strength I had originally hoped for in my tone fell a little short thanks to my quick breaths cutting through the words. Despite the anger, the fury at his caveman actions, it was a lot more complicated when his body was pressed against mine, his scent everywhere as fury mirroring mine danced in his eyes.
“Not mine?” he clipped, his voice dangerously low.
I stared at him. “What?”
“That’s what you said, Snow. You’re not mine.”
The words were empty in the same way mine were. Still on the surface. Flat to the outside observer.
But I knew better.
I could taste the storm that lingered beneath the still.
Chaos recognized chaos, after all.
And I had a feeling the storm was about to blow through and level anything and everything in its path.
The worst thing was I wanted nothing more than that.
“Because I’m not,” I told him.
His eyes flared. “Yeah? I don’t own this?” His hand trailed down my neck, ghosting over my collarbone, then across the side of my breast and down my hip.
The trail of fire left in the wake of his touch had my breath already coming in strangled pants. My panties were utter history. Had been the moment the door slammed.
“No, you don’t. No one does,” I whispered, eyes never leaving his. “People can’t belong to people.” If there ever was a time to quote Holly Golightly, it was in that moment.
His jaw hardened. “You think that, babe. But I owned this—” His hand trailed up, brushing my breast once more before settling over my collarbone where my pounding heart vibrated against his hand—. “—from the fuckin’ moment my lips touched yours outside that coffee shop.” His eyes were anchors, pulling me under. “People may not belong to people, but you’re not people. Never were. You were always more. Always mine.”
His breath hot on my face, I was drowning in everything that was his presence, but sense still filtered to the surface. “I didn’t know you then. You didn’t know me. How could you own me? That’s insane,” I panted.
His eyes searched mine. “What’s insane is you owned me from the moment you said you could protect your own honor. That made me want to make sure that job was mine and always mine,” he rasped. He didn’t relinquish his hold on me, with his hands or his eyes. “Being owned by someone isn’t a death sentence. Being owned by me means I’m gonna make sure you have the best life anyone can give you. ‘Cause that’s all I’m gonna give you—the best.” His hand flexed at my hip in a way that sent rockets of pleasure through every inch of my body. “First I have to fuck the sense into you.”
The last words were so brutal, the desire in his eyes so inky black, I barely noted the actual meaning behind them. I didn’t have huge amounts of time considering his hand moved from my collarbone to tightly—bordering on delightful pain—circle my neck and yank me forward so our mouths clashed together.
His kiss wasn’t tender, or full of the love that he so brutally alluded to. No, this was anger, passion. Everything that was between us and everything that wasn’t, packaged into a kiss.
My hands snaked up the back of his tee, frantic for contact with his skin. I sank my nails into the ridges of his muscle, reveling in his hiss of pleasure and pain against my mouth. He fisted my hair, yanking my head back so my eyes met his.
“Want to play it that way, baby?” he growled. “Want the fight?”
I sank my nails deeper.
He grinned. “That’s my fuckin’ girl.”
His mouth went to my neck, grazing it with his teeth before fastening his lips against the skin while yanking my hair back, the pain from the grip and the pleasure from his mouth on my neck mixing to a crescendo of brilliance.
“Mine,” he growled against my throat, his hand flexing slightly so I cried out.
The sound shocked him into movement. Movement that had him releasing my hair only long enough to yank my halter top down, taking my bra with it.
Cool air barely had a chance to circle my exposed breast before his mouth it was on it.
I rested my head against the door, muffling my sound of pleasure at the last minute as I remembered, vaguely, our surroundings.
Keltan’s mouth worked relentlessly, building the pressure between my legs in a way that told me I’d climax from that alone if he continued for much longer.
I knew he was good with his mouth—this wasn’t my first rodeo with him, after all—but something was different that time. Something had been unleashed that hadn’t been there before.
I made another, louder sound as his teeth grazed my nipple.
Obviously Keltan was too aware of our surroundings, as he moved a hand to cover my mouth, stroking my bottom lip with his thumb before he did so.
“You know I love hearin’ you, but you gotta be quiet, baby,” he ordered, releasing my nipple. He straightened, his hand still on my mouth, eyes on mine. “’Cause I’m gonna make you come harder than you ever have before. You’re gonna wanna scream, but you’re not allowed, okay? Your screams are for me and for me only. This is going to stay here.” He increased the pressure on my mouth slightly, but not so I couldn’t breathe. “Unless you have any objections?”
The feminist in me surely did have objections to the man she shouldn’t even be talking to, let alone fucking in an office at ten o’clock on a Monday morning, muffling her with his hand while he fucked her.
Said man slipped his hand into the waistband of my pants as my mind worked.
My eyes slipped to the back of my head as his thumb stroked my magic spot.
“You got any objections to me fuckin’ you on that desk, silencing your screams with my hand, Snow?
” he repeated, that time nodding to the large oak desk in the middle of the room.
I shook my head rapidly.
As did my inner feminist.
He grinned. His hand left my mouth, only to be replaced by another brutal kiss.
I responded eagerly, melting against him. His hands went to my ass, kneading for a moment before yanking me up. I immediately wrapped my legs around his waist, moaning into his mouth as my burning core pressed against the bulge in his jeans in exactly the right place.
I moved against him to gain friction as the kiss continued, and he moved us across the room.
Too soon I was lowered onto a desk and lost purchase on his hardness.
His mouth left mine. I met his eyes, half blind with the most frantic desire I’d ever felt in my life.
I expected words. More filthy promises. Or kisses. Or proclamations of ownership. I got all of that, just not in words. I got it in that simple, still gaze that had the storm underneath it.
He kept that look while very slowly, very purposefully, undoing the button on my pants. One hand went to my ass as he lifted me, somehow using the other to roll my pants down.
His biceps flexed slightly with the movement, but nothing else betrayed any kind of exertion at this.
He took my panties as well, so when he lowered my torso back on the desk it was bare skin against the wood.
I doubted it was sanitary, but I couldn’t bring myself to care.
“Keltan,” I whispered on a plea against the slowness, especially compared to the frantic movements of before.
“No words from you,” he ordered on a thick growl.
I pursed my lips, immediately obeying and growing more turned on with the harsh command.
My pants finally floated to the ground, leaving me naked from the waist down, apart from my heels.
Keltan’s eyes were almost black, his entire body rigid with need. He stepped forward, yanking my legs apart with his hands on either side of my thighs. I immediately complied, despite being exposed and vulnerable in such a position.
His eyes met mine.
“I’m gonna fuck you. But first I’m gonna taste you. ‘Cause I only have the memory of you on my tongue. And that memory ain’t good enough for a second longer. And for the rest of the foreseeable future, I’m making sure that I get a fuck of a lot more than a memory. Every single day I’ll make sure of that.”
