“Miss Wayne. I always finish business.”
Chapter Seventeen
When the long, sleek Tradewinds’ limousine pulled to a stop at the front entrance of the villa, Rafe gave in to impulse. He took Chelsea’s hand, got into the limo, and pulled her in after him.
“Rafe…” She shook her head and held up their still linked fingers. “What are you doing?”
Fair question. Too bad he didn’t have an answer. Last night represented the natural, logical end of their highly entertaining but always temporary diversion. He understood how this worked. He’d turned the whole thing over in his mind more than once, and reached the same inevitable conclusion each time. And yet here he sat, deliberately trying to draw things out. So no, he didn’t know what the hell he was doing, and worse, he didn’t know why. All he knew was he didn’t want to say good-bye yet. The driver’s sturdy frame appeared beside the open door.
“Don’t close the door, Ron,” Chelsea said. “I’m getting out.”
“No, she’s not.” With that, he pulled the door shut.
She swung her head around and gave him an aggrieved look. “I have a conference call in two hours.”
“Plenty of time for a ride to the airport. Keep me company.”
The driver’s door opened and the big man settled himself behind the wheel.
“Ron will keep you company.”
“He doesn’t need distractions while he drives, do you, Ron?”
“No, sir.” The broad-faced native grinned when Chelsea re-directed her aggrieved look. “Just knock twice when you’re ready to go.” With that, he raised the privacy screen and sealed them in a comfortable capsule of black leather and burled wood.
Big brown eyes leveled on him. “I really can’t—”
He used his tongue to sweep all words of refusal right out of her mouth. Triumph surged when she sighed and leaned into him, and flared stronger when she pressed her face to his throat and said, “I guess I could…”
That’s all he needed to hear. He kissed her again and rapped twice on the panel. The limo rolled forward. With the hum of the engine insulating them, he quickly popped buttons on her white blouse, pushing it off her shoulders and down her arms. It landed on the dark carpet like a flag of surrender, but he had a sinking suspicion he was the one giving in, because this wasn’t supposed to be happening. After their week together, he should have been ready this morning with a smile and a wave, and been on his merry way. Instead he remained at the mercy of the same restless hunger that had propelled him all the way to Maui a day early just to be with her. He had about fifty miles to satisfy the hunger once and for all, and he didn’t like his chances.
The clasp of her white satin bra gave way with a little coaxing from his fingers. He lifted her breast, took it into his mouth, and tongue-whipped her nipple to attention. Slender arms wrapped around his head and she arched closer.
Needing to feel her under him, he tugged her down until she lay against the seat. He tore his mouth away and stared at her, mind reeling with possibilities. Apparently her mind rifled through some possibilities as well, because she pulled his shirt out of his trousers and ran her hands over his abs. He let her play, until she glided her palm down the front of his trousers and stroked his cock.
“Don’t. You. Dare. This will be over in three seconds if you keep that up.”
The words brought a slow smile to her lips. She stroked him again. Willfully. Leisurely. “Who’s going to stop me?”
“Me and Victoria’s Secret.”
Now the cocky smile gave way to confusion. Her hand stilled. “Come again?”
“Yes. I guarantee you will.” With that he whipped her bra down her arms and twisted it around her wrists. A quick tug confirmed the restraint would hold. He drew her bound hands over her head and hooked one dangling strap around the door pull.
“Hey!” Eyes wide, she tried to slide free, but with him straddling her hips, she couldn’t get the right angle to unhook herself from the latch.
“Let me go, Rafe.” Her brown eyes remained huge, and locked on him, but no fear lurked in their depths. He saw surprise, and excitement.
“Quiet.” He leaned closer and slid his thumb into her mouth—right past those plush lips—and caressed her tongue. “We don’t want to disturb Ron, right? He might decide to lower the privacy screen and check on you, and, well, beautiful as you look right now, I’d just as soon keep the view all to myself.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but he moved his thumb in a slow circle over the velvety surface of her tongue. A comparatively subtle restraint, but one she accepted with a little moan and a lowering of her eyelids.
“That’s a good girl. Here’s how this is going to work. I’m going to do the touching. All I want. Anywhere I want. You’re going to sit back and take it. Understand?”
Not entirely, if the way she closed her lips around his invading thumb and sucked him deeper served as any indication. Christ, she killed him. Until Chelsea had blundered into his life, he hadn’t known it was possible to want to groan with pleasure and laugh at the sheer stubbornness of a woman. He had her half naked, trussed up, totally at his mercy, and still she challenged him. Apparently for the fun of it. And it was fun, damn it. Whether shoving him into a supply closet, walking out on a very promising dinner just to teach him a lesson, or swimming with sharks, Chelsea always entertained. Knowing he would soon board a plane and put thousands of miles between them brought an uncharacteristic sense of emptiness, followed by a harsh slap of irritation. People envied him, for fuck’s sake. A few more weeks of focus and patience separated him from his most ambitious professional goal. On a personal front, he’d never lacked for amusements. His life was anything but empty. He could, and would, walk away from her. As soon as this ride ended.
He withdrew his thumb and swept it over her lips. “I’m going to abandon your wicked mouth, Miss Wayne. Please try to control your volume without my help.” He ran his hands down her calves to her ankles and flicked her shoes off.
“Mr. St. Sebastian.” She tried to sound forbidding, but he ran his hands back up her legs, separating them more, and her tone softened. “Oh, God…”
He retraced his route, palms smoothing behind her knees, under her slim black skirt, until he hooked her panties. “Quiet, please.” Her breath hitched as he swept the scrap of satin down her legs and pocketed it for safekeeping.
“Are you planning to keep me tied up the entire time?” She tugged her wrists.
“Yes.” Then he lowered his head and trailed his mouth up the same territory his hands had just traversed. When he reached the hem of her skirt, he pushed it to her waist to give his mouth and hands access to everything he wanted.
“That’s not very…fair,” she whispered. “Ohhh…”
Her complaint trailed off when he lifted her long, gorgeous legs skyward, and crouched low, one knee on the floor, the other on the seat. His breath fanned her as he spoke. “Now that’s a very pretty picture.” He placed his thumb at her threshold.
“Rafe!”
“Quiet,” he reminded her, and teased her clit with the very tip of his tongue. At the same time, he eased his thumb inside, using the pad to trace a slow circle along her inner wall in a move that mimicked what he’d done in her mouth moments ago.
She shivered around him and her moan filled the back of the limo. He would have teased her about the volume, but the need to hear her uncensored moan again enslaved him as powerfully as the craving to taste her one last time. He should have been the one in control, but she seduced him with her hands tied. Literally. All she had to do was breathe.
Need brutalized him, but he kept his touch on her gentle. Punishingly gentle. The impatient edge to her moans told him she expected—demanded—he plunge her into ecstasy as hard and fast as possible. He refused. They’d have time for hard and fast, right after he shattered her so slowly, thoroughly, and irrevocably, her lips would instinctively form his name every single time she orgasmed for the rest of her na
tural life.
He closed his mouth around her clit, kissing her, rewarding each delicate pulse with a light, devastating lick. He kept the sweep of his thumb teasingly shallow, even when those low, husky moans turned to pleas. Her heels dug into his shoulders. Her hips rocked in a rhythm he recognized. He allowed her three hard, purposeful pumps before he pulled away.
The sudden move wrenched a very heartfelt, “God damn you,” out of her, which coaxed a smile out of him. “I’m certain he does, Miss Wayne.”
Stormy brown eyes locked on him. He rolled the condom on as quickly as possible, because although he enjoyed toying with her, he had sympathy for the condition he’d left her in. His cheek would be sporting her palm print by now if she had use of her hands. Perverse as he was, the thought of her slapping his face and ordering him to fuck her made his already stiff cock swell to new dimensions, and turned the process of rolling the condom on into a form of torture.
With the job done, he ran his hands along the backs of her thighs, spreading her legs, and guiding them higher, until her toes touched the upholstered ceiling of the limo. “Right there. Don’t move.” He leaned in, using his body to help support hers.
“I can’t,” she said, but held the position nonetheless. Sweat slicked her skin. Her cheeks flushed from the strain of complying.
That kind of effort deserved encouragement. “You can and you will, Miss Wayne.”
He braced a hand on the ceiling, hooked the other under her ass, and hitched her up another crucial inch. The glide of his cock along her center had her groaning, and him biting back a curse, because Miss I Can’t suddenly had the strength to fidget her hips all over the damn place. Eventually, he got them lined up. He felt huge and ruthlessly hard against her soft, giving center.
“I can’t do it. I’m going to scream.”
“No,” he managed, and eased his thumb into her mouth again. She moaned as he stroked her tongue. “Nobody’s going to scream.” He nearly broke his own rule when she sealed her lips around the base of his thumb and sucked as if the motion of her lips could somehow pull him into her…fill every void.
And maybe they could, because the next thing he knew, he was thrusting deep. Over and over. Through sweat-stung eyes, he watched her arch up to meet him, felt the pinch of her teeth as she locked her jaw. The hot, tight channel cradling his cock contracted, pulling him into a sudden, almost painful climax. And all the while a single thought repeated in his mind.
More…
Dammit.
He opened his eyes, blinked down at Chelsea, and froze. She’d turned her face away, but even with her eyes closed he could see tears leaking from the corners. Heart in his throat, he quickly reached over and unhooked her wrists.
“Jesus.” He pulled her into his lap, smoothed her skirt down, and cupped her wrists. His thumbs swept over the soft, pale skin. “Did I hurt you?”
She buried her face against his throat and shook her head. Not a tremendous relief, because he could feel her hot tears on his neck.
“Talk to me.”
“I’m okay.” The words tickled his skin. “Just a little overwhelmed. Can you give me a minute?”
He tried to pull back and look at her, but she dug her fingers into his shirt and held on. “Chelsea—”
“Don’t,” she said, but let go of his shirt and gave a small, uneven laugh. “I’m the world’s ugliest crier.”
Relief washed over him, so profound he almost laughed. He had enough experience with women to concede he might never understand what he’d done to bring her to tears, but this reaction, at least, he understood. Arden always insisted the ugliest crier honor belonged to her. “You’re beautiful.” He kissed her temple. “Always.”
But sitting here, watching her, would only add to her discomfort, so he handed her a fistful of tissues from the box tucked discreetly in a side console, and then occupied himself untangling her bra and helping her into it.
By the time she finished wiping her tears and aimed her doe eyes at him, he’d gotten her blouse on and his own clothes in reasonable order.
“Sorry.” She tucked her blouse into her skirt, sniffled, and offered him a tenuous smile. “I guess I had some kind of orgasm-induced tear duct flush.”
“Don’t apologize. I’m flattered. I think—”
She held up a hand and cut him off with a soft, “We’re here.”
He jerked his head around and looked out the window. Sure enough, there sat his jet.
A moment later, the limo rolled to a stop. Soon the impact of the driver’s door closing buffeted the car.
“Good-bye,” she whispered.
Ron would be around to open the door in a few seconds. Say good-bye. Get out of the car. Instead, he hauled her into his arms and kissed her. Quick. Hard. Deep. And pulled away just seconds before the back door opened.
He stepped out of the limo without taking his eyes off her. Then three very strange, completely impulsive words crossed his lips. “I’ll call you.”
Where the fuck had that come from?
Chelsea sat motionless, looking up at him like he’d sprouted a second head. “No you won’t. No promises, remember?”
Shit.
Ron closed the door.
Rafe walked onto the plane.
It wasn’t until the jet cruised at thirty thousand feet that he shoved his hand in his pocket and touched something slippery. He pulled out a bundle of satin and stared at Chelsie’s panties. She’d left a pair for him when he’d arrived, and he’d taken a pair when he left. He was amassing quite a collection. A smile threatened, until his better judgment kicked in. Playtime’s over. She’s right. Don’t call her.
He shoved her underwear back into his pocket.
Chapter Eighteen
Chelsea watched Rafe’s plane lift off the runway, and tried to tell herself the sight didn’t put the hollow ache in her stomach. She shouldn’t have skipped breakfast. Of course she’d skipped breakfast because the thought of saying good-bye to Rafe this morning had killed her appetite. Then she’d cried all over him, which only succeeded in making him so uncomfortable he’d resorted to platitudes they both knew weren’t true. Dismaying behavior, considering she was supposed to be evolving into the kind of woman who didn’t crave promises. She was guarding her heart, damn it, and letting Rafe slip past her newly erected defenses would be an exercise in self-sabotage. She’d already sabotaged herself enough for one lifetime.
The buzz of her phone interrupted her moment of self-discovery and personal growth, and she fished it out of her purse while ignoring the thirteen-year-old girl in her head who squealed, OMG! He really is calling.
She hit the talk button, and mentally braced herself for the sound of his voice. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you this soon.”
“I’ll bet you weren’t. Listen to you, so sweet and innocent. Save it. I know what you really are.”
The cold, hard¸ undeniably female voice definitely did not belong to Rafe. But she recognized the icy tone. “Cindy?”
“You walk around with your guileless smile and nauseating, how-may-I-help-you attitude, but underneath the nice girl exterior, you’re a vindictive, home-wrecking bitch.”
If voices could cut, she’d be bleeding out right now. Even long distance, Cindy’s words brimmed with enough venom to have her hands shaking. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“A lying, home-wrecking bitch. I know you’re after Paul, trying to win him back. I’m not about to let that happen. I don’t pretend to be a passive little good girl. You come after what’s mine, you’ll have a war on your hands.”
Mustering up her calmest voice, the one she used with unhappy guests or frustrated staff, she replied, “Cindy, I’m sorry you’re upset…”
Shit, Chelsea, you did not just apologize to the woman. Don’t default to customer service mode. Stick up for yourself! She certainly didn’t owe Cindy any apologies, or explanations, for that matter, but self-respect forbade her from meekly accepting accusations an
d threats. She’d taken the high road, for God’s sake.
“Perhaps nobody shared this with you, but I relocated to Maui last year. I haven’t seen or spoken with Paul since the holiday party, and I don’t wish to. I’ve moved on.”
The truth of the words settled on her as soon as they left her lips. Maybe she could still use some practice guarding her heart, but the wounds Paul had inflicted? Gone, and, in retrospect, completely superficial. Unfortunately, Cindy wasn’t so easily reassured.
“I don’t care where the hell you are. I know you’ve been communicating with him. He mentions you constantly. I’ve seen your number on his phone. If I see it again, or an email, a fucking text, you’re going to wish—”
She hung up. Silence swelled in the interior of the limo, broken only by the sound of her shaky exhale. What a nightmare. Laurie had warned her—
Her phone hummed again. Uh-uh. I’m not playing this game. She thumbed the screen, intending to hit disconnect, when she noticed the name on the display. Larry Sizemore, one of the attorneys representing Tradewinds in the deal. Right. She had a job to do, and when someone who charged five hundred dollars an hour called, the job involved taking the call. Time to pull up her big-girl panties—had she been wearing any—and put her head on business.
“Hello?”
“We have a huge problem.”
Larry’s Kermit-the-Frog voice assailed her from the other end of the line. “I’m staring at a contract between Tradewinds and the Maui Indigenous Landowner’s Consortium. Are you familiar with the document I’m referring to?”
She’d reviewed a ton of documents over the last week, but did her best to pull the terms of the one in question into focus. “I think so. I don’t have it in front of me at the moment, but I don’t understand the problem. It grants Tradewinds some sort of an easement, correct?” Between the cumbersome legalese and anachronistic land rights, easement was about all she’d gotten from the contract.
“Here’s the problem. Tradewinds doesn’t own the strip of land providing the beach access for the resort. A critical piece of land, I think you’ll agree, because a resort in Maui with no beach access is like a Vegas hotel with no casino.”
Compromising Her Position Page 13
