by Cara McKenna
“Groping, fondling, friendly game of grab-ass,” he clarified, and Raina laughed. “Hit a few bases before you rush me headlong across home plate? Before I become just another notch in your lipstick case?”
“I don’t wear lipstick.”
“I’m glad.” He smiled, attention dropping from her eyes to her mouth. “Unless that means you don’t plan to remember me at all.”
She bit the inside of her lip, the gesture purely reflexive. “You want to kiss?”
He took another drink, Adam’s apple working; then his gaze rose to meet hers. “I believe I do.”
Raina took his glass, setting it with hers on the table, and the cat hissed its offense as she tossed it toward the far cushion. Duncan grabbed her ankles, hauled her legs across his lap. They leaned in as one and then paused, mouths mere inches apart. Those calculating eyes took her in, just as hers did the same . . . Those little lines she’d grown so enamored of—proof that this man felt things. And his stubble, evidence that his perfect image was a fleeting, demanding illusion. She touched his jaw, the near-blond bristles soft and rough at once.
Suddenly the kiss could wait. She was touching him. Touching him in a way she’d never imagined he might let her—in a tender, curious way she’d never guessed she’d offer.
He touched her in turn, pushing her hair back, tracing her ear with smooth, cool fingertips. He touched her like a man examining a finely cut gem—with fascination, as she’d never been touched or admired before. But she wanted so much more than this clinical approval.
She put her lips to his, surprised at their warmth. Surprised at how they parted, and how they knew at once how to flirt with hers. He pressed his thumb to her cheek and cocked his head, wasting no time in the shallow end. Deeper, hungrier. His tongue stroked hers and the room was burning, this cold-blooded man searing her skin, drawing her breath short.
He kissed the way he dressed. Sumptuously, confidently. Expensively somehow. Yet the deeper they took it, the more tenuous his control seemed to become. His fingers were in her hair, cradling at first, now nearly gripping. She heard his breathing turn shallow and strained between ravenous tastes—needy little gasps. Hot as fuck. What she’d give to hear him moan against her throat—
“Get on my lap,” he said, and his cultured, velvet voice had edges.
Yes, sir. When she straddled his legs, those elegant hands got impolite, tugging her close. Close enough to feel him against the crease of her thigh and hip, stiff and stifled. His mouth was burning, hands cool as they slipped under her tank to palm her waist. Did he feel as she did, as though a floodgate had opened? As if a fence had been torn down and they were finally allowed to do as they’d been imagining for weeks, for a month or more, letting their palms and fingers roam over the skin each felt entitled to? As if the wanting had made it mutually, rightfully theirs?
She stroked his shoulders and upper arms, struck again by the hardness there. Those perfectly cut clothes hid shapes she’d never bothered imagining—sharp triceps, and the firm swells of strong shoulders.
Too many surprises packed into one man. She focused on the one thing she’d accurately predicted about this moment—that their chemistry was bat-shit-crazy hot.
She needed his erection. Needed him to reach down and adjust himself, so she could flex her hips and tease them both into hysterics. Needed him to undo his belt and frame his cock in his open fly. She needed it so bad she’d lose her ever-loving mind if he didn’t give it to her.
Yet he didn’t. He merely kissed her, deep and dirty, his palms growing warmer as he coaxed her motions and kneaded her hips. She imagined these same caresses, only with all their clothes gone, her on top. With nothing between them but the thinnest skin of latex. She grew light-headed, breaking them apart to steal a gulp of air and cool her head.
Letting him see what he did to her, she swallowed and blew out a delirious breath.
He smiled.
“You don’t taste like Duncan,” she said.
“And what should I taste like?”
“Like Absolut and tonic. No ice. Lemon or lime, my choice.”
“You always choose lime.”
Indeed. “You taste like . . . poor-judgment Duncan.”
“You taste precisely as I’d guessed.”
She glanced to the far cushion; the cat had run off.
“Lie down,” she said, and moved off his lap. Duncan reclined. She planted her knees on either side of his hips and studied him. She’d fantasized about each and every button she’d undo on his crisp dress shirt, each and every inch of pale skin she’d uncover as she went. This wasn’t what she’d pictured, but his body looked beautiful under the gray tee.
“What’s your shirt made of?” It was far too soft to be plain old cotton, and clung far too nicely to his contours.
“It’s a merino blend. Outrageously overpriced.”
“Of course it is.” She ran her hands up his middle, his hem rising to reveal a trail of golden brown hair leading to his navel. Another thing she’d not imagined. She’d pictured him smooth. Hair seemed somehow uncivilized . . . but she liked it. His fingers were restless, cradling her ribs, thumbs tracing the cups of her bra. Her nipples tightened in anticipation, but he was in no apparent hurry. She didn’t blame him. They’d been waiting an eternity for this—why rush? Instead she surveyed his abdomen with curious, grazing touches, then his chest. Not bulky, but come on—did Fortuity have a gym no one had told her about?
He cradled her head, drawing her down to kiss him. As she settled on her forearms, her breasts glanced over his chest. Duncan drew her wild hair back, holding it as their mouths danced and flirted and made the dirtiest wordless promises to each other.
She tucked her hands beneath him to feel the restless muscles of his back flexing. She freed her lips. “How the fuck’d you get this body?”
Between kisses he whispered, “Pilates,” and Raina was too horny to care if it was a joke, or to roll her eyes at the Duncanness of it, or to do any other thing except taste his mouth and imagine what he must look like naked.
“Get on top of me.”
They wrestled around until the cushions were under her, Duncan’s hips spreading her thighs. She wrapped her legs around his waist, willing their clothes to vaporize. No such luck.
“What you said before,” he murmured, thrusting faintly now, excitement stroking hers. “If we should find ourselves in bed together.”
“That’s not what I said. I said if we wind up fucking.”
“I was paraphrasing.”
“And I hadn’t pictured a bed.”
Finally he smiled. “What you said. About us fucking.”
“Yes?”
“Why?” His body went still above hers, and he sounded a touch incredulous. “Why would you want that, from me? Knowing how I am?”
She shrugged against the cushion. Had none of his lovers known about his compulsions? A live-in girlfriend would’ve noticed, surely . . . provided he’d ever had one. But no matter.
“You think any of the men I’ve been with haven’t been crazy, in some way or other? You’re still gorgeous. We still have this thing between us, same as always. I’m not looking to marry you, so what more would I need?” And in all honestly, if anything, she wanted him worse. The more she knew about him, the less she understood him, and the more he fascinated her. She wanted to know how he fucked, because she couldn’t for the life of her guess.
“What are you like in bed?”
He smiled again. “What do you think I’m like?”
“I have zero fucking clue. That’s why I’m asking.”
“I’m . . . vigorous.”
A little laugh escaped her lips. A word choice as silly as it was incendiary. “I’d like to see that.”
“Perhaps some night you will.”
“Per-haps.”
With an impressive show of st
rength, he sat up, scooting the both of them back so he was upright, Raina once again in his lap. His kisses intensified, tongue sweeping deep, hands possessive as he cradled her head. Every second, they burned brighter and hotter. With every fidgeting motion of their overheated bodies, their collective breath grew more shallow and gasping. She needed his excitement, against her. In her hand. Anywhere. Raina slid her palm down his chest and belly, fingers finding the cool metal of his buckle.
“No,” he said softly, and plucked her hand away.
“No?”
“Not . . . not yet.” He swallowed. “I like to be the one doing.”
Ah, the control freak. Of course. Didn’t stop the curiosity from eating her alive, though.
He stroked her bare thighs, and she stole a glance, memorizing his skin against hers. Manicured fingers traced the hems, then slipped underneath, teasing her hips, surely feeling the lace trim of her underwear. She moved in time with those stroking fingertips, in tiny undulations that put spurs to the excitement already humming in her clit. The room went fuzzy when he reached back, palming her ass through her shorts, squeezing softly, short nails dragging against cotton. They weren’t even kissing anymore, merely breathing together with their noses touching, Duncan’s chin rasping hers.
She was aching for him—physically hurting—and wet. From kissing, and yes, petting. Nothing more. He hadn’t touched her between her legs, not even her breasts.
“Take this too far,” she murmured, nearly begging.
He did. The edge of his hand rubbed her through her shorts, stroking that entire crazy nerve-rich zone, along the cleft of her ass and all the way around, fingertips glancing her clit. The pleasure drew taut, a grasping fist.
“That,” she panted. “Do that.”
He changed, swapping cool control for something greedier. Needier.
“Christ,” he muttered, his hand working quicker. “You couldn’t wear a skirt, could you?”
Not for years. She arched her back, and Duncan eased his thighs wider, forcing hers to do the same. His mouth was hungry at her throat, breath scalding. She threaded her fingers through that soft hair, lost to the maddening friction he was giving.
“How long have you wanted this?” he murmured, lips teasing her damp skin.
“Wanted what?”
“My hands on your body.”
She shivered. “Since maybe the third time you showed up at my bar. When I first saw some cracks forming in all that ice you keep stacked up around you.”
His breath steamed her neck, teeth rasping softly. “I’ve split straight down the middle now. You must be positively overwrought.”
“You talk like a robot butler,” she said, stroking his hard chest and arms. “Why the fuck does that get me so wet?”
His free hand slid up between them, cupping her breast, and she decided the why of it was moot. “Let’s go to my bed.”
He spoke against her throat, a single, neat syllable sweetened with unmistakable cruelty. “No.”
“I’m going to die if I don’t get you inside me.”
“What a shame,” he murmured. “You’re so young.”
“You want me to beg, don’t you?”
“I want you to come,” he corrected, fingers stroking deep and quick, his other thumb toying with her nipple. And she could do just as he wanted—she could come, just from this. She was smelling him now, his skin and his hair, a hint of sweat and that goddamn glorious cologne. Worth every fucking penny.
“I don’t need any man, ever,” she said, practically moaning against his temple, “but I need you. Inside me. Tonight. Right now.”
“That’s terribly flattering, Ms. Harper.”
Christ, that nickname. “If we don’t fuck, I’m going to murder you.”
“That would be ironic, given the entire purpose of my stay.”
“Shut up, Duncan.”
“Come, Ms. Harper.”
And she was—she was already there, her sex hurting, taunted and teased and hounded by this wanting. All she could think about was how badly she wanted his body, surging in and out of hers. At the image, pleasure crested to a hard, angry edge, surrender inevitable.
“Fuck.”
“Good.” Those fingers kept stroking, stroking. “Let me hear.”
Her arms wrapped around him as the orgasm peaked, her fingers grasping at his hair. The release was quick, searing—a combustion, not a crashing wave. She growled his name, hips riding his caresses, still begging for his cock. As she stilled, so did his hands, until his palms slid along her sides to settle at her waist. Mild gray eyes studied her face, his fascination quiet, almost wondrous.
“Jesus,” she mumbled, drawing her hair off her sweaty neck. A calm came over her muscles—everywhere but between her legs, where the pleasure still ticked, pulse slowing as she came down.
He smiled, and the way his eyes crinkled just about unwound her heart.
She did something she normally wouldn’t do at such a moment with a new guy, during an impulsive encounter—she kissed him. Slow, and nearly tender. And is this really so impulsive? Ditching her shift, getting drunk, yes, those were a touch reckless. But being here, with this man? Practically predestined.
She pulled away and licked her lip, studying his face. Possibly the best-looking man she’d ever been with . . . though Duncan and Miah looked so unlike each other, she really couldn’t say. But the most lavish man she’d ever been with, no contest.
“Yes?” he asked when her study became scrutiny.
“Just looking at you. How old are you?”
“Thirty-eight.”
She couldn’t say if that was older or younger than she’d expected, but now that she knew, the number felt exactly right.
“I daresay you’re quite a bit younger.”
“By six years. Casey and I graduated together.”
A faint smile. “I trust your wayward upbringing leaves us on par.” He’d cooled, she realized. Not cooled to her—cooled his lust. Nothing save for the pulse winking at his throat gave away how eager he had to be for his turn.
She moved against him, brushing his still-hard excitement with her mound. “You’ve been patient.”
“That implies I haven’t already gotten exactly what I wanted.”
She blinked. “How so? Did I not spot the camera? Was this all a ploy to score a sex tape, something to counter my little extortion offensive and win you your freedom back?”
“No ploy. Merely pleasure.”
“Mine, anyhow. But the night’s still young . . .” She ran her palms over his chest, drinking in hard flesh through the softest fabric. “Tell me what I can do for you.”
“Nothing,” he murmured. “Not this time.”
What a tease this man was. She’d complain, claim he was torturing her, but it was more twisted than that. He was in charge, the bossy one in bed, it would seem . . . yet she was the one who’d just come. Duncan hadn’t so much as gotten his cock stroked through his jeans.
“You sure?” she said, mouth at his throat, hand sliding down the hot planes of his chest and belly. “You must be hurting—”
He caught her wrist as her fingers found his belt buckle. “Of course I am.”
“I could fix that for you.”
His smile was cold and cutting, and infuriatingly sexy. “No.”
All at once, she wanted to see him come ten times worse than she’d needed to get there herself. Needed that mouth open and moaning, those eyes shut tight with concentration or disbelief. Maybe that manicured hand stroking, forearm flexing. “You could fix it yourself,” she teased, “and let me watch.”
His smile softened and, oddest of all gestures, he planted a patronizing kiss on the tip of her nose. “There’s nothing I crave more than control just now. Not even relief.”
His grip had loosened, and she slid her palm g
ruffly between his thighs, cupping the stiff length of him through the fine denim. His jeans fit perfectly, practically tailored, surely binding him up against the brink of madness now. But in a blink his fingers were wrapped around hers, holding them still.
“There’s nothing you crave more?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“Not even a nice, tight, slow hand on your dick?”
He swallowed, eyes shutting for a breath. “Nothing.” His voice was thick and incriminating.
“Or a nice, warm mouth, maybe?”
He fanned his long fingers over the back of her hand, squeezing it to his excitement for just a moment before stilling it again. “Nothing.”
She was burning up herself, so bad it was as if she’d never come at all. “Maybe there’s something I crave, then. Maybe you could let me help you out, just as a favor.”
“You’ve watched me fall apart in enough ways, these past few days.”
“So let me see this, too.” She wanted to see everything. Wanted to watch him give in to his basest, most animal nature, see that gorgeous face pained, hear that velvet voice reduced to pleas and moans, and taste the evidence of his humanity on her tongue.
He moved her hand to his waist, the taut flesh there rising and falling with racing breaths. “You’ve gotten enough of me.”
More than you’re used to showing to a woman? A few scraps of his mysterious childhood, the knowledge that his cultured façade was just that—a façade. A fabrication, albeit one he owned as truly as he did his own skin. More, perhaps, than he’d ever let anyone know of him before? Goddamn, why did that idea get her so hot?
He shifted her to the side, standing with the quickest, most dignified adjustment of his cock behind those binding jeans.
“Off to fix what I’ve done to you?” she asked, lounging back against the couch’s arm.
“No, I’m not.” He gathered their glasses. “I could use the discomfort, frankly. It’s a welcome distraction.”
“Well, I hope maybe I’ll be there when you finally crack under all the pressure.”
The driest little smirk, and he didn’t meet her eyes. “Of course. Because you haven’t seen enough of my helplessness already.”
