I follow him without thinking, startled when the door slams shut in my face. The shower turns on a few seconds later.
Nick naked. Nick naked and wet. The adrenaline high I’m riding spikes. Mistakes, regrets, and uncertainty can all kiss my ass. I know exactly how I want to work this off, and dammit, I’m going to get it.
I shed my clothes, peel off the bandages, and open the door quietly before slipping inside and nudging the shower curtain away from the wall.
He’s facing away from me, one hand braced on the opposite wall, head down. I step into the tub and wrap my arms around his waist, yelping as cold water pelts my skin.
“What the fuck?” He spins around and pins me to the wall, the cool tile as much a shock as the water.
“Surprise?” I smile weakly. “I understand the shower, but cold shower?”
He’s not paying attention. Undisguised hunger gleams in his eyes, tracking the length of my body. I glance down.
Oh. Cold shower. I get it.
The water is no match for his half-erect cock, stiffening the longer he stares at me. This is it. This is my moment, my chance, the opening I’ve craved. I reach around and flip the warm tap on, plastering myself to Nick in the process. His dick is trapped between us, and he groans, sinks his fingers into my hair, and kisses me.
Kiss is the wrong word. Assault is more apt the way he storms through my shoddy defenses and past my lips, his tongue demanding I surrender, and believe me, that’s no hardship. Licks, nibbles, the way he slants his mouth at just the right angle to coax a deeper response free, his hands roaming, his tongue flicking and rubbing against mine.
I want everything. I want his mouth on my skin in the places it’s never ventured to before. I want him laid out before me like a feast. I want his hands on my breasts, on my ass, between my legs, his fingers inside me.
He loosens his hold, tilting my head to one side; he moves his mouth to my jaw, tracing the line of it with his tongue, then retracing his path to place searing kisses along my neck. He’s careful to avoid my scar, licking the water from the hollow of my collarbone.
When his dark eyes meet mine, my breath catches and my knees weaken with desire.
I’ve lusted before and have been lusted after. I lost my virginity at sixteen to a boy I was with for a year and thought I loved. Sex has always been an outlet—for joy, for anger, an escape from reality.
Nick’s not just lusting for me. It’s a craving, a twisted, dark thing born of that hidden spot we both don’t talk about. Something in me recognizes the same in him, and he knows it.
And he’s ready to stop fighting it.
He slicks his hands down my sides and up again, cupping my breasts, his thumbs rubbing slippery circles around my nipples. “Ready for bath time?” he asks, arching a brow.
No. No, I am not. Not in the least.
He plucks the bar of soap from the holder and lathers his hands, suds foaming. “Back first. Turn around.” I do as he asks, bundling my hair on top of my head to get it out of the way.
His mouth finds my nape as his hands stroke and glide over my back, teeth nipping at the curve where neck meets shoulder. His hands never stop moving, following the dip of my waist, the curve of my hip, delicate touches as he cleans the wounds on my thighs. He steps aside, allows the water to rinse my skin clean, and then urges me around, lathering his hands once again.
I’m out of my depth here. I’m fumbling this like an innocent, hands trembling, legs trembling, everything trembling hard enough I’m surprised I’m still upright. I dig my nails into his shoulders, desperate to ground myself as he soaps my breasts. The water chases away the soap, and he lowers his head, cleaning forgotten as he latches on to one of my nipples.
Fuck.
He uses everything at his disposal, tongue, lips, his teeth. One hand occupies my free breast so the onslaught of sensation is never ending. Every scrape of his teeth sends a jolt to my clit, and my inner thighs are damp from more than water.
He abandons my tormented nipples and kneels. Water streams over his face as he picks up the soap, and the look he shoots me is so hot I’m surprised I don’t catch fire. Without taking his eyes off me, he runs his hands down one leg, then up the other, inching closer and closer to the maddening ache between my legs.
The first touch of his finger draws a gasp. The contact is tentative, deceptively so because he follows it with a long, assured stroke. He brings his finger to his mouth, his gaze trained on mine, and sucks it clean.
His challenge demands a response, a quip, some snarky remark, but he beats me to it and eases my legs apart, the teasing portion of this little display over. He dives right in with a flat, broad swipe of his tongue. I swallow the first moan, and the second. The third one breaks free, followed by whimpers and pants, his tongue doing wicked things, circling my clit, fluttering over it, tracing random designs. Everything in me compresses and arrows in on that taut, tiny bundle of nerves. His clever fingers get in on the action, and my whimpers morph into a high keening sound, taking all the air in the room with it.
The orgasm is so strong it about knocks me over, robbing me of strength. Wave after wave of it breaks over me, and I struggle to remain upright. He lets me fall, catching me as I crumple to the floor of the tub, his smile smug. I want to wipe it off his face. I want to see him delirious with pleasure. Narrowing my eyes, I give him a once over. “Your turn.”
We switch places, and I lather up, then skim my hands over his back. The muscles twitch and shift under my touch, and I follow it up with my mouth, licking the water beading on his skin, scratching my nails over his ass.
My knees protest as I kneel on the floor of the tub, soaping his legs, my hands wandering up his inner thighs. I brush the underside of his cock with my knuckles. “Turn around.” The command comes out husky, the voice not mine.
It’s there, right there in front of my face, so I do the smart thing. I kiss the head of his dick and grasp the base, uncertainty elbowing its way in. I want so badly to do this well, and I’ve never been concerned with technique before. It’s never mattered before, either.
Shoving the doubts aside, I treat it like my toy, flattening my tongue and running it the length of him, licking the tip before sucking it into my mouth. I trace every vein I can find, pump him slowly, swallow him inch by yummy inch. He’s quiet, the thrust and jerk of his hips doing the talking for him.
Why does this feel new and powerful and right? I never saw oral sex as a display of dominance. I do now. For once, Nick’s completely at my mercy, and he’s enjoying it.
Not for long, though. “Enough,” he growls, hauling me to my feet. But I’m not done. He’s got this nicely defined chest I have yet to explore, and I’m not leaving this shower until I’ve learned every inch. Rubbing the soap over his abs to his pecs, I lean in and flick my tongue over a nipple.
He nudges me away and shuts off the water. I squeak in surprise as he picks me up and carries me into the bedroom. Skin wet, hair dripping, he lays me on the bed and stretches out above me, his jaw tight with desire. Lust like thick, molten honey slides through my veins. That quick display of strength silences the last of my qualms; he wants this as badly as I do.
“Someone’s impatient.” I stretch up and suck more water from his throat, smiling against his neck as he curses and fumbles with the bedside drawer.
He sits back and rips open the condom, then rolls it down his length. Braced on one forearm, his eyes locked on mine, I spread my legs wider and hold my breath.
That first moment, the first push of entry, especially the first time with someone, is my favorite part of the whole act, and with Nick it’s the same and different. It feels incredible, and it feels more: harder, thicker, a tighter fit. When he’s seated to the hilt, I wrap my legs around his hips, pressing him closer.
“Fuck, Cass.”
Yes, please. Please fuck Cass. Fuck her now. “Move.”
The perverse bastard moves, all right. He moves
slower than slow, withdrawing, then pushing in, each stroke taking an eternity. “Faster. Nick, move faster.”
“No.” He takes my mouth as he rolls his hips forward, and I fall into his rhythm, a sinuous, filthy dance made dirtier when he picks up my hand, sucks on my fingers, and works them between our bodies, finding my clit and pinching it.
I bow up, the jolt of electricity stringing me taut. Our hips rock faster, jerking out of time, as he pinches my fingers around my clit a second time. “More,” I whine. I’m chasing that elusive unicorn—the female orgasm during sex. It’s going to happen, the pressure building to the shattering point. Not much longer.
Not.
Much.
Longer.
I throw my head back and see spots, my heels digging into his butt, muscles locking into that painful pleasure of release. He goes rigid above me, tendons standing out on his neck as his face twists with the climax pulling him apart.
I’m useless. Boneless. The only thought in my head is again. Bodies sticking together, I tangle my fingers in his wet hair, pressing my lips to his roughened jaw.
He pushes himself up, stares down at me, and rolls off, off the bed and onto his feet, retreating to the bathroom. I wait, shivering as the flood of heat from sex dissipates, the damp sheets uncomfortable under me.
Right about the time my stomach grumbles with hunger, I realize he’s not coming back. I get up, open the bathroom door, and find it empty. The door to the office is shut and locked. I clench my jaw against the surge of hurt, shutting my eyes and holding my breath to keep it inside. Fine. If this is how he wants to play it, that’s what we’ll do. I got what I wanted. I have to deal with the consequences.
I finish drying off, replace my bandages, and towel-dry my hair, brushing it out and winding it into a braid. We missed dinner. I put on some clothes, strip the sheets from the bed, and hunt down the washing machine.
He emerges from hiding when I’m scooping rice out of the pot, then topping it with the stir-fry. I point to the stove. “Food if you’re hungry.”
The buzzer on the washer goes off, and I transfer the sheets to the dryer. He’s tense, that tic jumping in his jaw, lines around his eyes, his mouth crimped at the edges. Regret rolls off him in a heavy, desolate wave, ready to swamp everything in its path.
I ignore him. I pick up my plate of food, find my book, and climb up on a stool. Immature, I know, but I’m past caring at this point. This is very much a “thanks, I’ll call you” moment, awkward as hell and pissing me off too.
He hasn’t moved from his spot near the hallway. “Since you’re standing, would you mind getting me a beer?” I ask, attention on my book.
A rustling, and then he’s at the fridge, opening it and handing me my beer. “Thanks.” I put the book down and use the edge of the counter to remove the cap.
“You know, that’s what bottle openers are for.”
I shrug. “Counter works for me.” I go back to my book and my stir fry, anger a low rumble in my belly.
“Cass—”
The anger spills over, and I choke it into submission. “No.” I meet his gaze. “I am not having this conversation. You could have stopped at any time, and you chose not to. You wanted that as much as I did, and honestly? We’d still be there if I had my way. You’re the one with the problem, so you deal with it. You do, maybe we’ll do it again.”
The sooner I finish eating, the sooner I can get out of here. Anger, hurt, and humiliation are all simmering below the surface, and I want to escape to the beach, wait them out until they’ve faded to nothing. I stare at my plate, willing it to empty.
I am keenly aware of him, his eyes on me, his body across the counter, just out of reach, the heady connection still arcing between us. This sucks. I anticipated awkwardness, but nothing like this. Nothing like a longing so physical it’s painful. I would have been happy to stay in bed, wet sheets and all, until hunger drove me out of it. Instead, Nick’s remorse threatens to smother me.
I have never felt more alone.
I drain half the beer and pick up my fork, only to have it taken from me. “I was using that.”
“Not anymore.” Nick’s mouth is a thin line, little more than a slash above his chin. He comes around the counter, picks me up, and throws me over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.
“Nick. Put me down.”
“Sure.” He stalks down the hall into the bedroom and tosses me on the bed hard enough to make me bounce. He frowns. “Where’d the sheets go?”
I glare at him. “Washing machine.” He catches my ankle as I try to crawl off the bed. “Whatever the hell you’re doing, you’re going to want to stop.”
He pulls his shirt over his head. “Nope. We’re going to do this until we get it right.” He makes a “hurry up” motion with his hand. “You want to keep the shirt, you might want to take it off.”
I cross my arms over my chest instead. “What exactly do you mean by ‘this’? Because if you’re talking about sex, I’m not all that eager to repeat it.” Parts of it, yes, absolutely yes. After the ending? No, not so much.
He drops to his knees on the bed, crowding into my space. “I am,” he says quietly. “I fucked up, and I’m sorry.” He moves forward, farther into me, pushing me onto my back. “So let me try it again.”
I bring my hands up to his shoulders, ready to shove him away. “Why should I? How do I know you won’t react the same way?” It hurt the first time. I don’t want to know how it’ll feel the second time.
His gaze softens, and he rubs his thumb along my bottom lip. I twist my head to the side to get away from his touch, but all he does is move to stroke my jaw. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “If you don’t want this, I’ll leave.”
No, don’t leave. I don’t want to be alone. I’m tired of always being alone.
I can’t think straight with him touching me. I stroke my hands up from his shoulders to his hair, lace my fingers through the strands, and bring my mouth to his.
Chapter 20
I wake alone the next morning, the pillow beside me cool. The room’s empty, and I pull on the first thing I find, which happens to be Nick’s discarded T-shirt from the night before. The man himself is seated at the kitchen counter, a cup of coffee in front of him, attention on the phone in his hand. He looks up, his scowl giving way to a faint smile before he drops his gaze again. “We’re leaving in a half hour.”
So much for a good morning kiss. “Is my presence required at the office?” I pour myself a cup of coffee and take a cautious sip. I twist my mouth in a grimace at the bitter taste. A little over boiled. I dump a couple of spoonfuls of sugar into it and stir.
“I don’t know who they were after last night, you or me. Or both of us. But there’s data stored at the office I can’t access here.”
I frown. “Really? You store that information on your secure server? Where anyone can access it?”
“It’s all the aboveboard stuff,” he says wryly. “Marc and Steven both held positions in our businesses over the years. It’s a good place to start, and you can use the secure connection to access information on the family’s remote server. You know, where we hide the bodies.”
Considering we’ve made next to no progress, I don’t have much ground for complaint. I finish my coffee and head to the bedroom to dress, locking down the memories of last night, wondering if we’ve taken a giant step back instead of forward. His regret after the first time was tangible. It’s not there now.
So what the hell is going on? His behavior doesn’t provide any more clues when we leave the condo and walk downstairs to the garage. No matter how many sidelong glances I sneak as he focuses on the road, his expression doesn’t change. His face is like a blank wall, and while I want to break it down, I’m a little afraid of what might be on the other side.
“Do you do this all the time?” We’ve been driving for twenty minutes with no sign of a tail. The way Nick’s been going, turning left or right at random,
doubling back, our forward progress gradual, only someone who’s been right on our bumper the entire time would be able to keep up.
“I don’t normally have to worry about whether someone in my family wants me dead.” He makes a sudden right turn, throwing me into the door. “You okay?”
I rub my elbow. “Yeah. Did you see someone?”
He glances in the rearview, hands clenched on the wheel. “Not sure. Hang on.” He whips the car through a series of tight turns, ending in an alley so narrow the light of day barely penetrates. He stares at the rear view mirror as one minute becomes two, then three, then four. On minute five, he cracks open the door and slithers out of the car with a terse “stay here.”
Oh hell no.
I unhook my seatbelt and follow him to the mouth of the alley, back the way we came. There’s a gun in his hand, held close to his leg. “Back to the car, Cassidy.”
“No. Got a spare?”
“No, which is why I told you to stay in the car. Because otherwise you’re going to have to start running now.” He fires a few rounds, and I sprint back to the car as a loud pop sounds over shouts and screeching tires.
I’ve barely made it into the passenger seat, intent on scrunching down as low as possible, when he squeezes through the driver’s side door and slides in behind the wheel. He shoves the car in gear and races for the opposite end of the alley.
“Tail?” I ask, fumbling for my seatbelt.
“Tail. Hold on.” He spins the wheel hard to the left, and we shoot out into traffic, narrowly missing getting hit by an oncoming bus. “Managed to blow one of the tires on their car, but there might be more of them.”
I grip the door handle as he weaves through traffic, tearing around a corner, then another and another until he slows several blocks later and pulls to the curb, scanning his rearview for signs we were followed. Me, I sit and try to remember that I need to breathe in order to live.
Game of Shadows Page 15
