“What do you like most about it?”
Regina considered her response. “The freedom of it, I think. When I’m riding, it’s like I’m alone and no one can touch me, but I see everything.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, his face thoughtful. “Riding downhill is my favorite. I feel like I’m flying.”
She quirked an eyebrow at him. “Hit some black ice and you will go flying.”
“Unlike some lunatics, I rarely ride in winter.” He paused and seemed to be looking around for something. “I forgot the wine. Hang on.”
The wine was already open on the table, so he quickly poured two glasses and carried them back to her. “For my lady’s pleasure.”
Regina accepted a glass, smiling ruefully at the idea that she would play an evil princess. “I suppose the evil princess thing was your idea?”
He took an enormous bite of butternut squash. He nodded. “Mine and Emily’s.”
“Why was it so important to you that I participate?” She took another bite of her steak. He had an amazing chest, all sculpted muscle lightly dusted with dark hair. He had the body of a real man, like Cary Grant or Clint Eastwood, not those shiny muscles she saw on the covers of some of her romance novels. This was a man whose body would only get harder and stronger with time, not flabby and soft like those puffed-up pretty boys.
He speared a piece of roasted potato and held it up for her to take a bite. “I just wanted you to spend time with me, realize that I’m not an ass, and sleep with me.”
Regina accepted the bite, but she was frowning as she chewed. “Milton, it’s not that I think all rich guys are assholes. I just don’t want to start something with you, get photographed, have everyone at work know about it, and then, when it ends, have to deal with the fallout.”
Milton scowled, looking at her chest. “Why would it end?”
Regina pressed her lips together. “How many long-term relationships have you been in, Milton Shaw?”
Milton’s scowl deepened. “How long is long-term?”
“That’s what I thought,” she muttered.
“Well,” he said, stretching out one leg. “How many have you been in?”
She looked triumphant and gestured with her fork. “Ha. None. So there’s no reason to suppose this is going anywhere.”
His scowl faded, maybe because her breasts had bounced a little when she’d gestured. She’d felt them, and his eyes had followed the movement. “Don’t you believe in true love, happily ever after, all that?”
“Do you?” she asked.
A thought seemed to cross his face, something dark and crushing, the kind that spoke of sorrow, of loss so profound that it cast a shadow over the rest of one’s life. The disappearance of Regina’s father hadn’t been that kind of loss—she’d been too angry—but the death of her grandmother, that had been a soul killer for sure.
He set his fork down. “I want to.”
Regina nearly choked on her potatoes. Regardless of what he wanted—and she couldn’t help but feel that it was just a really good line—she wasn’t about to start counting on fairy tales and girlish dreams come true. Sex, though. Sex sounded just about right.
“I want to fuck you again,” Regina said calmly, and took a long sip of her wine.
Milton’s lip quirked, and he shoved his food aside. “You say the sweetest things.” He reached for her plate, and she protested, “I’m still hungry.”
“Too bad,” he growled. “You can’t say something like that and not pay the price. One of my conditions.”
Regina squealed and tried to stab another piece of steak, but he caught her and removed the fork from her hand deftly, tossing it aside. He kissed her, his lips taking hers thoroughly, and Regina forgot that she was hungry and wrapped her arms around his neck.
“Mmmm . . . steak, wine, and woman,” he said, twining his tongue with hers. “Three of my favorite things.”
Regina chuckled against his lips. “Gross,” she murmured in between kisses, and was startled when he smacked her bare ass. It was surprisingly titillating, and she wiggled her bottom against him. She guessed she did like being spanked. Who knew? Would he spank her again if she turned over, run his hands over her bottom? She wasn’t quite comfortable enough to ask, not just yet.
Wrapping his arms more tightly around her, he stood suddenly and walked her over to the couch, one hand on her ass, the other holding her head still for his deep, slow kisses.
The cool leather of the couch hit the back of her thighs, and she gasped. He released her and stepped back, his dick hard and pointed toward his stomach, the tip already purple and engorged.
“Go to your knees and turn around.” His fingers were twitching, like he was about to perform a trick. Regina licked her lips. If she went to her knees and turned around, she’d be facing the back of the couch. What did he intend to do, fold her over the back of it and take her from behind? The thought made a rush of liquid heat flow between her legs. Fuck, yes. She wanted her ass in the air, wanted him to take her like that.
“Is this another condition, that I let you do what you want to me?”
His eyes gleamed. “Yes.”
She did as he asked, keeping eye contact with him as she turned around. She used the back of the couch to help her go to her knees and spread them, just enough to let him take her easily, but not so much that she was uncomfortable. Delicious anticipation rose inside her in little waves of pleasure.
Bending forward and gripping the top of the couch, she let herself hang over it, just a little, just enough so that her ass tilted upward, spread and ready for him.
She could hear the slow slap of flesh on flesh that said he was preparing himself again, and then he was talking in a voice that sounded husky and slightly strangled. “God. I want a picture of you like that. I’ve never seen anything so fucking amazing in my life.”
Regina groaned, feeling the heat of the fire on the bare cheeks of her ass, the exposed flesh between her legs, and she had to fight to say, “No pictures.”
“No pictures,” he agreed, but his voice sounded closer. Regina expected him to come behind her and mount her, take her quickly and roughly. She didn’t care, she was ready. She wanted him to take her as roughly as he wanted.
Instead she felt the brush of his hair against the cheeks of her ass, felt him press his face against her, burying himself in between her legs in the earthiest display of lust she’d ever experienced. She gasped, bending further forward, and felt the probe of his tongue just at the top of her ass and then lower, stopping briefly to probe the dark rosette hidden between the taut globes of her buttocks. She inhaled sharply and tensed, but his hands came up and gripped her, his thumbs delving deep to stretch her open and vulnerable to him. She’d never imagined he’d do something like that, never really considered what it would feel like.
He used his thumbs to lift the cheeks of her ass, lifting her further forward, and his hot mouth slid down to the wet, hot entrance that was weeping for him. He stabbed his tongue inside her, bending down to worship her with his mouth. Hot. Wet. One thumb pushed into her entrance while one of his fingers began probing at her ass, where his tongue had made her wet.
“God,” she gasped, gripping the couch so hard her fingers turned white. “God, yes. Do that.”
He did, probing gently and then pushing forward, until he’d thoroughly penetrated her. His left hand slid around the front of her hips and down between her legs, sifting through the wet curls to her swollen clit. He teased it gently with his fingers while he gently squeezed and released with his other hand. Not hard, but she felt stretched, pierced more deeply and thoroughly than she’d ever been before.
She could feel her climax rising immediately, brought on by the feel of his finger deep inside, the ruthless massaging of her clit, the sound of his voice as he murmured, “Come for me.”
She did, clenching down s
o fiercely that she wondered how she didn’t bruise his fingers, but then he was removing his hand even as shudders still racked her, and his dick replaced his thumb. He took her, removing his left hand from between her legs to press between her shoulder blades, holding her hard against the back of the couch while he rode her ruthlessly, pounding between her legs until she shuddered and came again, gripping him, making his hipbones jerk, bruising her ass as he came.
Regina’s hair was in her face, sweat collected on her temples, and she’d never felt so deliciously fucked in her entire life. She lay there, unable to move, while he pulled out of her gently. She heard him remove the condom, and after a few moments he came back.
“Regina, are you okay? I’m sorry if I hurt you.” He brushed her hair back away from her face. He seemed concerned, his blue eyes worried.
Regina smiled a cat-in-the-cream smile at him and said, “I’m fine. I just can’t move.”
He chuckled and lifted her gently, turning her so that he was carrying her in his arms. Regina had never been carried in her life, at least not that she could recall, but he was managing it easily, leaving the library behind, and walking naked down the hallway.
“If you give me five minutes, I can walk,” she said against his neck. Unable to resist, she bit gently at the salty-slick flesh.
He grunted, “Don’t do that or I’ll drop you.”
Regina doubted it. His arms were rock steady beneath her. He reached the staircase and began climbing, the wood creaking with every step.
“I like your house,” she said. It had a kind of old-fashioned ornate detailing in the woodwork and the crown molding that reminded her of ghost stories and eighteenth-century novels.
“Me, too,” he agreed.
The staircase curved and Regina glanced down to see the front door below. It seemed like a long way down, and she tightened her grip around his neck.
His arms gathered her closer as he stepped onto a long, narrow landing lined with doors. Footfalls muffled by a deep blue Persian runner, he walked to the very end, to a set of double doors. He pushed them open with his foot, and turned so that he didn’t hit her feet or head on the door frame.
The room was enormous. Big enough that she suspected he’d combined two smaller rooms—the historical society had probably had a fit—and tall ceilings with more ornate crown molding. She had a sense of rich, dark wood furniture, and lots of blue. She was about to compliment him on his taste when he suddenly tossed her on his bed.
She bounced against a wall of pillows that smelled crisp and clean, as if they’d been freshly changed, and she was reminded of her childhood, when she would come home from school and run to her room to find the bed freshly made and flowers in a vase on her dresser. She pushed the memory away—she had no time for remembering.
She propped herself up on her elbows and looked around while he went to a huge chest of drawers and began rummaging for something. His room was interesting. Clearly a designer had taken creative control—everything was just a little too precisely put together for it to be otherwise, but he’d definitely left his stamp on the room. There were two brightly colored comic book drawings on the wall, one that she recognized as Loki from the Thor movies, and the other seemed to be some kind of magician—there were cards flying from his fingers. Perhaps to balance the bright colors of the drawings, everything else was done in muted shades of blue and gray.
He’d put on a T-shirt and a pair of basketball pants with “MIT” printed all over them. He padded across yet another gorgeous Persian to hand her a soft T-shirt in dark gray and a pair of boxers.
“I get the picture of the magician,” she mused, pointing in the direction of the art even as she tugged the shirt over her head. “But isn’t Loki a bad guy?”
Milton was watching with interest as she drew the T-shirt over her head. “The magician is Gambit, from X-Men.”
Regina gave him a forbearing look. Did he think she spent a lot of time watching X-Men? She couldn’t even remember the last time she went to a movie. Celeste had made her watch Thor when it came on TV because of a scene with the big blond actor in nothing but his jeans. Regina had been forced to concede that the two hours of monsters and magic and weird costumes had been worth it for that little scene.
“So why Loki?” she pressed.
He shrugged and absently whacked the pillows next to her to make them stand upright. “Same reason I like Khan in the Star Trek movie. They’re bad guys, but they understand the world around them in a way that the good guys just don’t. They make choices that I wouldn’t make, they make the wrong decisions, but they don’t just trip along expecting the world to go their way. They make things happen.”
Regina considered that. She thought she knew what he meant. Until her father had disappeared, she’d just gone along, expecting that world would fall at her feet because it always had, and then suddenly it didn’t anymore and she’d had to fight to make her way in it.
“And you like that better than the good guys, who have to make a mistake, get crushed, learn from it, and rise triumphant?”
Milton shrugged. “I don’t know, but I like the Hulk, too, he’s actually my favorite. He’s a good guy with a control problem.”
Regina felt her lips quirk. “A control problem, huh? So why isn’t he on the wall?”
“He’s upstairs in my workroom, for inspiration. Maybe I’ll put you up there, too.” He wiggled his eyebrows at her.
“Your workroom?”
“Yeah,” he said, grinning a little sheepishly. “I converted the attic.”
Regina couldn’t help but think that he was absolutely gorgeous, standing there, his dark hair a mess from her fingers, his body relaxed for once. What did he have up there to put that look on his face?
“Maybe you could show it to me?” His eyes lit up, but she held out a hand. “After you finish feeding me.”
“Stay here. Don’t move. I’ll be right back,” he said and dashed from the room with more energy than Regina could have mustered after three cups of coffee. If he could manage that, he could probably manage to fuck her a couple more times before morning. Regina sank backward onto the pillows with a satisfied smile.
MILTON HURRIED DOWN THE STAIRS and to the right into the kitchen, looking for the trays that he knew Mrs. Beechum had made him order when he’d been buying dishes for the kitchen. At the time he hadn’t understood why he needed trays, but now that he had a chance to bring the beautiful woman in his bed flowers, he was thrilled that he had dark wooden serving trays with inlaid mother of pearl and enamel in a Japanese design.
He wished he’d thought to order flowers with dinner as well, but since he hadn’t, he fashioned one out of a napkin and some wire that he kept in his junk drawer. It looked similar to the one he’d pinned to her scrubs a few days earlier. He wondered if she’d remember. She hadn’t mentioned it.
Once he had the tray, the flower, and a clean plate and silverware, he went back to the library to make her a fresh plate, or mostly fresh.
He liked the way she looked in his clothes. It had been a shame to give them to her, but he felt like if he didn’t cover her up, he’d go after her again and he didn’t want to hurt her.
He found himself half running, excited to see her again, excited to watch her eat, and talk about comics, and see her look at him with that speculative look, the look that said she liked fucking him, that she’d liked what he’d done to her. He kind of couldn’t believe he’d done that. He’d just . . . wanted to. He’d wanted to take all of her, experience everything there was to experience with her, make her come so hard that she would want to stay and fuck him again and again.
“Cold, but still edible—” he began as he came into the room, coming to a stop almost immediately.
She’d fallen asleep in the middle of his bed, her legs sprawled out and her arms thrown over her head. She was snoring lightly.
Milton stared and felt an odd little kick in his chest, like a muscle spasm, and he walked over to the corner of the room and set the tray down on the chaise. Sitting down next to it, he began to methodically eat the steak. Asleep. In the middle of his bed. He wasn’t sure why he found the idea so astonishing. He knew she’d gotten up early and ridden her bike to the hospital. He knew she’d been on her feet all day and that she’d spent the evening fucking him like a champ. Still, she was sleeping. Snoring. It was so weirdly normal. He didn’t think he’d ever had a woman snoring in his bed before.
He looked down, realized he’d finished the plate, and drank the glass of wine for good measure. Setting the tray aside, he picked up the gray throw and walked over to the bed. Jesus, she was beautiful.
Covering her gently with the throw, he paused for a moment, admiring her, and then went back downstairs to put the tray away in the kitchen.
Glass of wine in hand, he went back to the library and sat on the couch—grinning suddenly at the idea that he would think about tonight every time he sat on this couch. The fire had burned down, but it was still glowing red and hot.
Somewhere in the room, a phone beeped, and it wasn’t his. Locating her backpack, he found the phone in the outside pocket and pulled it out. There was a text from her sister showing up that read, “Hope you’re having fun! Fed the cat.”
He supposed she’d told her sister she was coming over while he’d been in the limo.
Out of habit, he logged onto his computer, reading absently through his emails. There were two from Roland, one asking him for help with a bug in the new system for the government, the other reminding him that the company was receiving an award for philanthropy from the Boston Business Journal in two weeks, but there was also one from Burris, the private investigator he’d texted a few days earlier.
“Have a lead on Burke. Want me to continue?”
Milton glanced up at the ceiling as if he could see all the way through the plaster to the woman who lay asleep in his bed. Her father was a bad guy, a guy who’d hurt a lot of people, including his own daughters. He could find Carter Burke, bring him to justice, maybe give her some closure.
The Lady Vanishes Page 13
