Tempting as Sin

by Rosalind James

  She kicked off her slides along the way, and then she did it. Settling in over him on the couch, then kissing him, her own hands wrapped up in his clean hair. She could take off his jeans, but selfishly, she didn’t want to. She wanted to sit here and feel desired while he undressed her, one careful bow at a time. He wanted to do it, too. Wasn’t that wonderful?

  “Was that what you were thinking today?” she murmured into his ear, then bit him gently on the lobe and moved her lips on down his neck.

  “Could be,” he said, and then he was pulling another bow open, all the way to her waist now, and sighing. “And I’m just going to get to untie bows all the way, aren’t I? You showing off the stock, baby?”

  “Yes,” she said, kissing his neck some more. “Showing it off to you.”

  He had the last bows untied, was shoving the dress to the floor.

  When he realized everything she’d chosen, she felt it. His hands had run all the way down her hips and closed over her the curves of her bottom. Where they stopped. He said, “Don’t tell me. Bloody hell.”

  He was looking in the mirror. She could tell. Normally, she’d have been self-conscious about that. He was watching his hands slide luxuriously over the lacing at the back of the high-cut briefs, and she watched his face and couldn’t feel one bit self-conscious. He loved what he saw, and he loved what he felt even more.

  His fingers traced every single bit of lacing, and she forgot to watch his face, because she’d closed her eyes. No words, now. Whatever happened, it was going to be something she wanted.

  He kept one hand on the laces. With the other one, he slid the hook-and-eye closure on a bra cup. Slowly. Perfectly. And when he bent her back over his arm and took that breast in his mouth? Well, yeah. She was making noise, but there still weren’t any words happening. No words at all.

  His fingers traced the edge of the briefs, then slid around to the lacing, again and again, and her attention was all the way split in two. His mouth. His hand. She should participate, but she couldn’t. She was boneless, his to play with.

  All she wanted was more.

  Mirrors were a beautiful thing. That was about the sum total of Rafe’s thought process. That and, Oh, yeah, baby.

  Unfastening the hooks on the cups of that lacy bra—that was special, and so was looking at Lily’s perfect hourglass of a back in the mirror, then doing one last bit of unhooking, the one every teenaged boy longed to practice, watching her bra fall down her arms, and taking it off her while her thighs gripped him harder. And looking at that lacing over her pretty bum, tracing it again and again, watching her hips shift, hearing the moan that escaped her?

  Well, yeah. That was pretty bloody fantastic, too.

  He could pull that final bow loose and take those off her. But she looked so good in them. He had to quit watching, then, because he had to stand up with her, feel her legs wrap around his waist like all she wanted was whatever he’d do next, and lower her to the carpet. Right down onto her back.

  She moaned, and he smiled, then ran his hands from her shoulders to her wrists and back again, making it last. Letting her know he was here, over her, and he was planning to stay. He kissed her neck, her shoulders, her gorgeous breasts, until her thighs were parting wider for him, until she was pulling his head into her, grabbing his shoulders, trying to get more.

  No roughness. No rush. He’d floated in the dark, in the warmth, and had felt her spirit floating right there with him. Now, he felt it again. The strength and the fragility of her, all the acceptance and all the quivering anticipation. How could you not give your best to a woman like that?

  When he finally pulled that strip of material aside and kissed her where she needed him, she called out. And when he settled in to please her, when he rubbed the material into her, kissed her through it, kissed her under it, found all the ways he could make her feel good? She started making some noise.

  She loved his fingers circling low, he discovered, just beneath that most sensitive spot. And when he did that exactly right, then got his mouth going, her back bent like a bow. Luxuriant. Abandoned. She was on the crown of her head and her hips, her arms flung to the side, hands outstretched, palms supplicating, and she was keening.

  He didn’t tease her. He pleased her. She went up and over, wailing all the way, and then she did it again. And again. Three, four, five times, until she was shuddering, until she was gasping. Until she was lying, limp and boneless, beneath him, hauling in air like she needed it, and he was pulling a condom out of some jeans that had long since become much too tight.

  He started to take them off, and she grabbed his hands and said, “Don’t.”

  His heart nearly stopped. He needed to be inside her more than he’d needed anything in his life. And he was going to have to back off.

  He’d barely had the thought, and she was taking the packet from him and clambering to her knees. Still flushed and breathing hard, still dressed in those innocent white undies with the lacing in back, her glorious curtain of blonde hair tumbling around her shoulders. She finished unzipping his jeans, rolled the condom on, then pulled his head down, kissed his mouth, and whispered, “You want to watch again? Watch this.” And then she turned around and dropped to her hands and knees.

  He was still sore, and maybe she was, too. He didn’t care, and he doubted she did, either. Even as he looked in the mirror, she lowered herself to her elbows, her hair falling around her and her face in her hands. And he untied that final bow at last and pulled those undies down to her knees.

  She was swollen. She was wet. She was so fucking hot. He was thrusting into her hard, and she was backing into him and asking for more.

  Too much heat. Too much pleasure.

  Too much Lily. Too…much.

  His hand on her, helping her out. Her noises, the way she shifted under him, and then the way she tensed around him and started coming all over again.

  It was too much.

  Too. Much. Heat.

  Too.

  Much.

  Lily.

  Rafe was driving slowly on the way up the mountain, and Lily knew why. You always felt, after a float, like you were a slow-motion movie in a fast-forward world, and if you’d followed it up with that kind of sex?

  Well, yeah.

  It was only four o’clock. Plenty of time left in the day to do some day-off chores. She didn’t want to, though. She wanted to go back to her house with Rafe, crawl into bed, have him hold her until they both fell asleep, then wake up at six or seven, make a pan of eggs and some toast, and eat it dressed only in his flannel shirt, exactly the way she’d once imagined, with his hand on her thigh like he couldn’t stand not to touch her.

  Maybe she was catching up on some long-overdue decadence, or enjoying a belated post-divorce splurge.

  Or maybe, of course, it was Rafe. Which could be bad news.

  She didn’t have to think about the implications of that now. It was her splurge, damn it.

  She forgot all that, though, because as they passed the turnoff to Rafe’s place, she saw something hanging in the air on the main road ahead of them. Smoke, she thought first with a lurch of fear. Then, maybe not. And felt a different kind of fear.

  She told Rafe, keeping it as calm as she could manage, “That’s either a fire at my place, or there are cars on the road. Too many. Can you go faster?”

  Bailey. She pulled her phone out of her bag and checked it for the first time all day.

  5 missed calls.

  She didn’t look at it anymore, because Rafe had rounded the corner.

  Bailey.

  Cars lined the road on either side, at least eight of them, halfway in the ditch, the hanging dust announcing that they were still arriving. Even as they came into view, a door was opening and a woman was getting out of a black SUV. Blonde and too made up, dressed in a tight skirt suit, her heels awkward on the weedy gravel shoulder. The man who got out of the driver’s side, in contrast, was wearing jeans, bearded, and sloppy.

  A report
er, and a cameraman.

  There were more of them in the driveway, close to the house. Well groomed men and women holding microphones, poorly groomed ones holding long-lens cameras. Clear as day.

  Rafe muttered something under his breath and stopped short of the cars. Short of the driveway.

  The woman who’d just climbed out of the SUV, the latecomer, looked like she couldn’t believe her luck. She hustled over at a truly impressive rate, her spike heels sinking into gravel until she hit pavement. The rest of the group saw her do it and came down the driveway in a pack.

  Lily had forgotten about trying to be calm. “My driveway’s private property,” she told Rafe. “They’re trespassing.”

  Rafe’s face had gone still. Calm, and dangerous. He said, “They may be at my place, too. Do you have a gun?”

  Not at all the answer she’d expected. “No,” she said. “I don’t like them. That’s not exactly the most Australian answer I ever heard, either. But they aren’t driving me away from my own house. I need to see if Bailey’s in there. How scared is this going to make her, being surrounded like that?” She had her hand on the door handle. “I’m going in there, and they are leaving.”

  “Then let’s make a plan,” Rafe said. Still calm, while she was the last thing from it. This rage—it burned so hot. She was done with this life. They weren’t dragging her down into it again. She refused. And Bailey.

  The reporters were in front of the SUV now. Microphones thrust towards them, cameras aimed, voices shouting.

  Rafe backed the car up, and the crowd followed. “Let me out here and go on to your place,” Lily said. “I need to get in there and find Bailey. Why are they here anyway? How am I news? Don’t come. Don’t give them a picture. Don’t give them a story.”

  The crowd of reporters kept coming. Rafe said, “That’s not a no, it’s a hell, no. I’m going with you, but first, we’re getting prepared.” He reversed down the hill like a race-car driver, much too fast and absolutely precise, overshot the road to Jace’s place, then slammed the car into Drive and headed up the road fast enough to cause him nearly to fishtail on the gravel before he turned into Jace’s driveway.

  “Why aren’t they here?” Lily asked, scanning the empty yard. “Why? I don’t get it.”

  “Come on,” was all Rafe said. When she jumped down, he took her hand and hustled her into the cabin, then locked the door.

  She wanted to say something. She wanted to say more than something. But first of all, she pulled the curtains shut. Those cameras could see right through windows, and they would.

  Behind her, she heard Rafe’s steps on the stairs, and sixty seconds later, he was coming down again, taking two steps at a time, as lithe and assured as he’d ever looked on screen.

  With a shotgun.

  She said, “We’re not shooting anybody. We’re not shooting over anybody’s head or at their feet or any other crazy thing, either. Absolutely not.”

  “Do me a favor,” he said. “It’s unloaded. I’m Aussie. So is Jace, which is why this was locked in a gun safe in the back of the closet. I knew he’d have it, though, and a key right there on the ring for me, because I know Jace.” He was already at the door again. “Come on.”

  She came. They got back in the car, and Rafe didn’t stop at her driveway this time. He drove straight through, all the way up past the shed, where Tinkerbelle and Edelweiss peered out curiously, then ran around kicking up their heels and bleated up a storm. The reporters and camera people followed the SUV, a dozen or more of them, the sound-muffling boom mikes overlapping like some weird, gray, horizontal bouquet, and Lily had had enough. She grabbed her bag, and Rafe grabbed the shotgun and said, “Wait. I’m coming around to get you. Do not argue. Wait.” And did it.

  She knew this scenario, but it had never been this bad. She’d never been the news, and as for Antonio—he’d complained, but had so clearly loved the spotlight. Now, the reporters were shouting at Rafe as he stalked around the front of the SUV, looking every inch the werewolf. He opened her door, put out a hand, helped her out, then headed up the brick walkway with her as the crowd surrounded them. His hand was around hers, and he faced into the onrush and pushed it backward, the shotgun over his shoulder.

  There was something blue on the ground. Bailey’s helmet, but not her bike. That was odd, but the next moment, she forgot it.

  “Rafe. Have you spoken to Kylie Jordan?” a brunette asked. “Are you expecting her to file charges?”

  A man’s voice. “How long have you been involved with Lily Carrera? Were you two together while you were engaged to Kylie?”

  “Are you aware that Antonio Carrera is saying that he had an affair with Kylie, too, during your engagement?” That was a woman. Lily couldn’t tell who. Rafe still had her hand, and they were almost at the porch.

  “Did you and Antonio wife swap?” That one hit Lily like a club, and she stumbled. Rafe had his arm around her, and his face had lost the cold, closed expression. She saw fury, and there was nothing controlled about him as he turned to face the crowd.

  “Get the hell off this property.” It was full-on Australian, and it was impressive. He lowered the shotgun from his shoulder and laid it across his forearm. “And stay out, or you won’t just have a trespassing charge to deal with. This isn’t California. This is Montana.”

  They fell back, but they didn’t run. They didn’t even walk. She could hear Chuck barking from inside the house. Barking and barking and barking, an endless, hoarse chorus. And then she forgot to notice it, because she saw something else.

  There was a man in her porch swing. A man who stood up now. Slowly. Insolently. White dress shirt. Black trousers. Black custom-made boots. Dark hair. Every inch of him impeccable.

  He ignored the crowd. He ignored the shotgun. He absolutely ignored Rafe. He fixed his gaze on Lily and headed down the stairs, every step perfect, like a dancer.

  All the glossy perfection, in fact, that was Antonio Carrera.

  Lily was still standing beside Rafe. Still holding her bag. But she’d gone somewhere else. Behind the curtain.

  At least he knew why none of the reporters were at his house. This was where the story was.

  Let it be here, then. Let it. He was more than ready.

  Carrera was clearly choosing his moment, stretching things out for dramatic tension, so Rafe upstaged him. He stepped in front of him, blocking the cameras’ view, and stepped on his line, too. “I know your box office is rubbish just now, mate,” he said just as Carrera was opening his mouth to speak. “Always a pity when your star starts falling and you can’t seem to push it back up again. This isn’t any kind of way back, though. Pure tabloid stuff. Yeah, we have a film coming out, but that’s only going to take you so far. Scorpio’s never going to get you more than Best Supporting Actor, and probably not even that. Superhero movies are for the paycheck, not Oscar love. You’re not getting a feature, either. The character’s too cold to begin with, and you’re too good at playing cold. A superhero can be tortured. He should be tortured. But he can’t be cold. Sorry and all that.”

  It was casual. It was light. It was no kind of news to anybody in this business. And, he saw with satisfaction, it had worked. Carrera had been going for a pissing contest, and he wasn’t getting it, because Rafe had cut him off at the knees. Meanwhile, Lily had found her voice. Unfortunately, what she said was, “Why are you here?”

  “Nah,” Rafe said. “Not worth the conversation.” He still had the barrel of the shotgun across his forearm, and Carrera was eyeing it. Good.

  “You can only talk to me holding a gun?” Carrera said, rallying again. “Not quite a superhero, then.” His dark voice was tinged with the Italian accent that Rafe would swear he practiced in front of a mirror.

  Rafe set the shotgun down against the steps. Carefully, as if it were loaded. “Now I’m not holding anything,” he said. “All I can do is kick your arse the old-fashioned way.”

  “With your stunt double?” Carrera said with a perfect vi
llain’s sneer, Best Supporting Actor all the way. “Pity I don’t see him.”

  Rafe looked at him, and Lily asked again, “Why are you here?” Rafe wanted to tell her to stop asking that, not to give Carrera the confrontation he was so clearly itching for, but then, you couldn’t always get what you wanted.

  “I bought this land,” Carrera said. “It was mine, remember, until you took it? Maybe I wanted to see it again. Maybe I wanted to see my wife, too. Kylie says hello,” he told Rafe. “At least I think that was what she said. She was breathless at the time.”

  “Right,” Lily said flatly. “Because you’re such a great lover. Try again. Poor Kylie, going downhill like that.” She held up a hand, away from the cameras, moving fingers and thumb delicately apart. Measuring off, Rafe judged, about five inches.

  Oh, bloody hell. He was going to have to fight the bastard in front of half the tabloids. Which meant he couldn’t hurt him nearly as badly as he wanted to. Carrera had better not actually have taken up with Kylie. Rafe was going to have to ring her up and warn her. Damn it.

  “This is my land,” Lily said while Carrera was still doing some nostril-flaring. Rafe had a new saying for that, courtesy of his new role. All hat, no cattle. “This is my house, too,” she went on. “My land, and my town. My name, and my body. All mine. None of it has anything to do with you. I can’t imagine why you’re here. What could you possibly be thinking? Camera time? Really? Surely you’re not that desperate.”

  Rafe saw the flash of something hot and dark in Carrera’s eyes. Nothing that went deeper than a narcissist’s rage at being mocked, but that could be a powerful motivator.

  “None of it has anything to do with me?” he asked. “You could be right. Perhaps, though, I didn’t come to fight for you. Perhaps I don’t care about you at all, and merely came to warn Rafe. Out of fellow feeling, one man to another.”

  Rafe eyed him. “Perhaps? Nice accent, mate. I’ve got an accent as well.”

  “Australian,” Antonio said. “Convict.”