by Beth Andrews
He had to figure her out. Had to do whatever was needed to gain the upper hand.
Even if part of him was screaming at him to take what she was offering and leave it at that.
“You declined to have a drink with me,” he reminded her. “Refused to even speak to me.”
“Still stuck on that, huh?” She patted his knee. “How about you build a bridge and get over it?”
“You changed your mind when you found out my last name.”
Letting her hand rest on his leg, she raised her eyebrows. “Wow. I’m not sure if you’re giving yourself too much credit. Or not enough.”
He grinned. “Believe me, darlin’, I give myself plenty of credit.”
“Just not everyone else. Or maybe,” she continued softly, “it’s just me you don’t think too highly of.”
What he thought was that she was just like everyone else. No matter how much he wished she wasn’t. He had to question everything. Everyone. He was a Bartasavich.
And he had to know that wasn’t why she was here.
“Weren’t you the one who said people were users?” he asked. “I need to know who you are. Why you changed your mind.”
* * *
IVY WASN’T SURE whether to smack the man upside his too-handsome head or laugh outright. She was practically in his lap, her hand on his thigh, and he wanted to talk about why she was there?
There was obviously something wrong with him.
And, possibly, something amiss with her, as well, since she was enjoying their verbal battle so much. When they finally came together, it was going to be explosive.
A thrill shot through her, anticipation climbing. She could hardly wait.
She smoothed her hand up his leg an inch. His muscles tensed, and he grabbed her hand to stop her from exploring any farther.
Too bad. She liked the feel of him. Solid and warm. She sensed there was an edge to him underneath the expensive clothes, a power he kept carefully contained.
She couldn’t wait to be the one to make him lose that control. “The beauty of a situation like this is that I can be whoever you want me to be.”
“I want you to be honest.”
She almost scoffed, but then she looked at him, really looked, and saw that he meant it. He was attracted to her, yes, that much was clear, but he wasn’t going to give in to his desire. Not until he got what he wanted.
Silly, stubborn man.
But he wouldn’t be the only one who was going to lose if he sent her on her way. And really, telling him what he wanted to hear wasn’t a big deal. She was still in charge. Still the one deciding how much to share. And how much to keep hidden.
It didn’t have to change anything, didn’t mean there was anything between them other than sex. Uncomplicated, no-strings-attached, possibly mind-blowing sex. A one-night stand between two virtual strangers who would go their separate ways in the morning.
That last realization cinched it. She didn’t have to worry about opening up, just the tiniest bit, to a man she’d never see again. Nothing she told him would matter after tonight.
“There’s more to you than you let on,” she said.
He frowned. “Excuse me?”
“You wanted to know why I changed my mind. You think it’s a game, and it’s not. Well, maybe not completely.” Her throat was parched, so she took a long drink then set her glass down. Tugged her hand from under his. “I had every intention of keeping my distance from you. I thought you were exactly as you seemed. Arrogant. Bossy.” She pursed her lips as she considered him. “Entitled. Uptight—”
“I get it,” he said, his tone all sorts of dry.
But he didn’t correct her or try to claim he wasn’t those things. She could appreciate a man who knew his strengths as well as his weaknesses.
“As the night went on you surprised me. You didn’t flirt with other women after I turned you down, which makes me believe you weren’t out to get laid.”
His laugh was a quick burst of sound that scraped pleasantly against her skin. “Let’s not get carried away.”
She returned his grin. “You weren’t only out to get laid. If you were, plenty of women at the party would have been willing to give you anything you wanted. So I knew you weren’t just out to scratch an itch. Plus, you did your best to keep your mother sober—and off the dance floor—and you tolerated her thick-necked date, which means you feel responsible for her well-being or, at least, her reputation, and care about her feelings. You sat with your father for almost an hour, which means you’re patient.”
And she didn’t even want to think about what it said about her that she’d noticed how long he’d sat by the wheelchair, talking to the uncommunicative man. How upset he’d seemed.
“You came to my room because I’m a good son?” he asked, clearly not buying it.
Except it was the truth. Just not all of it.
She edged closer, her knee pressing against his. “I realized it was unfair of me to make assumptions about you based on how you looked.”
People did that to her all the time. They saw her face, her body, her clothes and thought they knew her.
She’d long ago stopped trying to get them to see her as something more than her looks. Why bother? It wouldn’t change anything. It was easier to play along.
“And in doing so,” she continued, “in walking away from you, I’d miss out on seeing where this attraction between us led.”
One corner of his mouth turned up, making him look younger. More approachable. But the heat in his eyes, the way he watched her reminded her that he was still a dangerous man. A potent one. “So you’re admitting the attraction was mutual from the start.”
“I don’t deny the obvious. But now it’s your turn.”
“My turn to admit the obvious?”
Keeping her eyes on his, she shook her head slowly. “Your turn to make the next move.”
CHAPTER FOUR
CLINTON STUDIED HER, as if he was trying to get inside her head, see into her soul. As if he wanted to know her thoughts, feelings and secrets.
She’d chosen to share a few of those with him, but the rest were hers to keep.
Such as how hard it had been for her to come here, to knock on his door. How she wasn’t sure which had been a bigger mistake—refusing him earlier or changing her mind. How scared she was that he was going to send her on her way.
How she didn’t want to be alone tonight.
But he couldn’t know any of that. She kept her expression clear. Waited while he looked his fill, while he made up his mind.
“You’re trouble,” he finally said.
Tension burst out of her in a short laugh. That was his big revelation? “So I’ve been told. What’s wrong with a little trouble?”
He looked at her as though she’d asked what was wrong with a little nuclear war. “I don’t do trouble.”
But he was getting closer to it. Literally. Leaning forward, he wrapped his big hands around her upper arms. Pulled her gently toward him.
“No?” she asked softly, her heart racing.
He shook his head, his eyes dark with want. “I fix things. Make the trouble disappear.”
She’d noticed. Had watched him put out one small fire after another at the party, taking care of his parents, getting the busty blonde who’d been hitting on his brother to back off. Dancing with his niece when she pulled him onto the dance floor.
Ivy let her gaze drop to his mouth, linger there as she ran her tongue across her bottom lip. “Do you really want me to disappear?”
His fingers tightened, his nails digging into her skin. Though it killed her not to touch him, not to close the distance between them and press her mouth against his, she kept her hands in her lap. Stayed perfectly still. She’d meant it when she’d said the next move was his. He may not like playing games but he was participating willingly in this one. And far be it from her to take away the man’s belief that he had the upper hand.
As long as she was the one holding
the best cards.
His hands slid up her arms slowly, across her shoulders. He stabbed his fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck, his thumbs nudging her chin up. Her mouth parted. Her breathing quickened.
He tugged her forward. Later, much later, she would worry about that. About how he’d turned the tables. How, instead of coming to her, he was bringing her to him. But for now, with his palms warm against her cheeks, all she could think about was his touch. His kiss.
His head came closer, his features blurring. She wanted to shut her eyes, to lose herself in sensations, but she couldn’t look away. He paused when their mouths were inches apart. The air surrounding them stilled. Thickened. All she could see was his face, all she could hear was the blood rushing in her ears.
All she wanted was him.
His breath washed over her, and she made a sound in the back of her throat that could only be described as needy. Dear Lord, he hadn’t even kissed her yet, and she was already acting like a fool, her brain fogged with desire. It was humiliating, needing him this much. It was dangerous, being this weak for a man. If Ivy wasn’t careful, she’d lose her good sense and her pride.
She couldn’t make herself care.
She lifted her hands to his chest, curled her fingers into his shirt and yanked him to her.
Yes, she thought as their mouths met. This was what she wanted. The flash of heat. The heady desire. His kiss was hard and hungry, his lips firm. Beneath her hands, he was solid. Warm. She’d expected finesse. Control. After all, he had both in spades. But what she got was an answer to her own desire, one that matched it. A heat that threatened to consume her.
His fingers tightened on her hair, the bite and tug ramping up her excitement as he tipped her head to the side to deepen the kiss. She slid her hands over the hard planes of his chest, up to his shoulders. Down his arms. He tasted of whiskey and smelled like heaven. She wanted to rub against him, imprint the feel of him on her skin, absorb his scent into her pores.
She pushed him back, trapping him between her and the back of the couch. His hands raced down her back, then smoothed up her torso, his thumbs brushing the sides of her breasts. She shifted, lifting her leg only to give a grunt of frustration when her skirt trapped her. Not breaking the kiss, she rose onto her knees and pulled the material up her thighs, then straddled him so they were connected, chest, belly and pelvis. He lifted his hips, had the hard ridge of his erection pressing against her.
She playfully bit his lower lip, then ran her tongue over it before fusing her mouth to his again. He felt wonderful. Even better than she’d imagined. All lithe muscles and carefully contained strength and power.
She couldn’t wait to make him lose that control. To be the one to unleash that power.
He pulled her shirt out of her waistband, slid his hands under the fabric, his nails lightly scraping her spine. She tore at his buttons, her fingers clumsy. Frantic. One button snagged, and she jerked it clear, leaving it to dangle by a string. She worked the rest free, shoved the shirt down his arms, where the sleeves bunched at his wrists.
Breaking the kiss, he sat up and yanked the shirt off, tossing it aside. He leaned back, the ridges of his abs bunching, his pecs well-defined. She smoothed her hands over his shoulders. Combed her fingers through the springy golden hair covering his broad chest.
She kissed him. His lips. His cheeks and chin, then along the sharp line of his jaw. His cologne was intoxicating, the taste of his skin enticing. She nipped at the pulse that was beating rapidly at the side of his neck, then slid lower, her belly brushing his hard length as she worked her way down his chest. She flicked her tongue over one nipple, and he groaned, so she repeated the action on the other side. Opened her mouth over it and rubbed it with the flat of her tongue. His breathing quickened. His hand shot to her head, his fingers digging into her scalp.
With a satisfied smile, she trailed her mouth lower. She swirled her tongue, tasting his skin, then leaned back so she could watch her forefinger follow the light trail of hair disappearing into his pants. She dragged her finger up to his belly button then added a second for the return trip. Up and down again, two fingers became three. This time when she went up, she laid her hand flat on him, felt his muscles jump under her touch.
She lifted her gaze to his. He watched her through hooded eyes, his chest rising and falling rapidly. She drew her hand down, down, down. When she reached his pants, she raised the heel of her hand, her fingers skimming over his belt buckle before she settled her palm on him.
He inhaled with a sharp hiss, pushing himself harder into her hand.
Indulging herself for a moment, she cupped his impressive length, reveling in his groan. She slid down to kneel between his legs, her fingers at his belt, loosening the buckle, eager to feel the heat of his skin, the weight of him.
He stood suddenly, in one smooth move, and she squeaked and grabbed hold of his shoulders as he lifted her. His hands went under the backs of her thighs, urging her to wrap her legs around his waist as he strode toward the bedroom.
She complied, looping her arms around him and threading her hands in his hair as she pressed her face against the crook of his neck. “I was just getting to the good stuff.”
“Bed.” The word was more of a growl than actual speech. She lifted her head. Grinned. She’d reduced the man to barely decipherable, monosyllabic grunts.
She shouldn’t be so pleased, but damn it, she was.
He stepped into the room, shifted her weight to one arm and flipped the switch on the wall, turning on the lamp next to the king-size bed.
“For what I want to do to you, cowboy,” she murmured, flicking his earlobe with her tongue, “we don’t need a bed.”
His step faltered—not a lot but enough for her to notice. His fingers tightened on her legs. “We do,” he insisted as he carried her across the room and followed her down to the mattress, “for all the things I’m going to do to you.”
Her stomach churned. From excitement, she told herself. Okay, and maybe just the tiniest bit of fear, but not because she was afraid he’d hurt her. Because she was afraid of not being able to keep control.
He kissed her again, his mouth voracious, his hands seeking. She tried to get her control back, to keep the power firmly on her side, but his mouth was hot and hungry. He made it hard to resist responding with no care to the little sounds she was making, to how her hands were clutching him, how her head was spinning.
He tore his mouth from hers, and she almost cried out. Tried to pull him to her again, but he resisted, began working the buttons of her shirt, sliding them through the holes one at a time, his moves slow and controlled. His eyes followed each new inch of exposed skin.
She reached to help him, to hurry him—and he lightly slapped her hands away. Gave his head a quick shake. “Mine.”
The one word, grumbled and insistent and possessive, went through her, making the hairs on the back of her neck rise.
Mine.
Her arms fell to the bed, as if boneless. Panic suffused her. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, not with his hands on her, his palms skimming her rib cage as he opened her shirt. Not with that word echoing in her mind.
Mine.
He slipped a finger under the front clasp of her bra, tugging it away from her skin, stroking his knuckle between her breasts.
“I’m not yours.” She winced. Her words had come out in a croak and not the flirtatious, aren’t-you-cute-to-think-so tone she’d wanted. She swallowed. Tried again. “No delusions of grandeur, remember? I don’t belong to any man.”
He kept up with the stroking, his other hand lightly holding her waist. “No, you don’t belong to me. But right here, right now, you’re mine.” He flicked open her bra and she wasn’t sure whether to be amused, impressed or irritated he did so with one hand. “You’re mine,” he repeated gruffly. “Just for tonight.”
She wanted to argue, she really did, but he slid one hand up, taking his sweet time, until he reached the edge of her
bra. He separated the cups, pushing them aside, exposing her breasts to his hungry gaze. Then his hands were on her, and all ability to speak disappeared. He held her, his palms large and warm against her breasts, and she prayed he couldn’t feel the hammering of her heart. That he didn’t suspect what he did to her, how weak he made her.
With a moan of appreciation, he lowered his head and licked one nipple before taking it in his mouth and sucking hard. He worked her other breast, his clever fingers pinching and tugging until she was gasping for breath. Until she was squirming beneath him.
She touched his head, loving the feel of his hair, like cool silk, as the strands slid between her fingers. He kissed his way down her abdomen, held her hips as he dipped his tongue into her belly button. Her heart raced, her skin heated and became overly sensitive to his touch, to the light abrasion of his whiskers, the feel of his lips, the rough pads of his fingers.
He pushed her skirt up in that same slow way—as if savoring every moment with her, every touch of her skin, every sound she made—bunching the material at her waist. His eyes narrowed as he reached out and lightly traced the edge of her black lace panties.
“Pretty.” His voice was a low hum that seemed to reverberate inside her.
Hooking his fingers in the sides of her panties, he pulled them down. When he reached her feet, he lifted her right ankle, took her shoe and the panties off then repeated the action on the left. She wanted him to hurry, needed them to get back to where they’d been in the living room, was desperate for that flash of heat, the bite of hunger.
She started to sit up, only to have him settle his hand between her breasts and gently push her back.
“I want to look at you.”
She opened her mouth to remind him of the lesson she’d given earlier, about not always getting what he wanted, but then she noticed that while he kept one hand on her ankle, as if he couldn’t bear to break contact, the other was fisted. A muscle jumped in his jaw, and she knew he was as affected as she was.
Smiling to hide her nerves, she eased back. But it was torture, lying there while his gaze raked over her. She’d never felt so exposed. So vulnerable.
