Who’s running this show, Mari? You, or your ovaries?
I close my eyes, take another swig of my drink, and close that drawer, too.
Ryan relaxes onto the sofa. He watches with cynical interest as I open and close the rest of the dresser drawers. “If you’re lookin’ for my gun, Angel,” he drawls. “I’m wearin’ it.”
I smile at him. “Hammerless slimline .38 strapped to your left ankle. I know.”
The laser-beam look he gives me would slice a lesser woman in two, but I merely smile wider, enjoying myself, and stroll over to the teak armoire. I swing open the door.
A row of white dress shirts, spotless and crisp, like the one he’s wearing. Dark-wash jeans, also like the ones he’s wearing, hang next to the shirts. On the floor are three pairs of shoes, black leather Ferragamos, same as the ones he’s wearing, and a lone pair of flip-flops. I turn and look at him.
“You have very specific taste in clothing.”
“And women.”
He takes a drink, watching me over the rim of the glass. One arm is stretched casually over the back of the sofa. His legs are spread wide. He takes up a lot of space just sitting there. He fills up the whole room. I’ve never met a man with so much presence.
The necklace, Mari. Eyes on the prize.
I turn away from Ryan and stroll into the bathroom, thoughtfully swirling what’s left of the bourbon in my glass.
Razor, comb, shaving cream, toothbrush, and a tube of toothpaste are laid out on the marble bathroom counter in a straight row. Though I know he showered and shaved before dinner, there isn’t a stray hair or drop of water in sight. All the towels hang, perfectly folded, from their racks.
“You’re freakishly neat,” I observe aloud.
“Or maybe the maid came in and straightened up during dinner.”
I look at him over my shoulder. “Without tripping one of your alarms? I don’t think so.”
The corners of his mouth tip up. I can tell he’s enjoying our strange little game as much as I am.
“Finished with your inspection yet?” he inquires, so casually he almost sounds bored.
I glance at the laptop on the coffee table.
“You said no work,” he reminds me. “And that”—he tips his head at the laptop—“is all work.”
I know exactly what I’ll be firing up as soon as he passes out. The urge to know more about him feels like the nail-biting habit I had when I was a kid. Irresistible. Obsessive. Something you know isn’t good for you, but you’re helpless to stop it.
“You’re right,” I say lightly. “No work. Take out your wallet.”
He chuckles. “It’s in my back pocket, Angel. You wanna snoop in it? Come and get it.”
I hesitate. I don’t believe he’ll harm me, but this is dangerous. Being physically close to him is dangerous. It makes me think of hot kisses and big, rough hands and the pulse between my legs like a little heartbeat when he touches my skin.
I take a moment to fortify myself with one last swig of bourbon, then cross to him and set the empty glass on the coffee table. I expect him to stand, but he just looks up at me, a glint of mischief shining in his blue eyes.
Son of a bitch.
I lift my skirt and straddle him.
Which of course is what he wanted, evidenced by the smug-as-shit smile he gives me.
“Well, howdy, sweetheart,” he drawls. He leaves the one arm stretched out over the back of the sofa, but settles his other hand on my bare thigh. It’s heavy and warm, and feels strangely possessive.
“Howdy yourself.” I reach around, trying to stuff my hand under his butt so I can get to his back pocket. It’s almost impossible. I can wriggle my fingers just past his hip, but he’s too heavy to make much headway otherwise.
Naturally, he doesn’t assist by adjusting his weight. He just smiles at me while I struggle.
“Never had a woman fondle my ass on the first date,” he muses.
“I’m not fondling, cowboy, I’m investigating. And you’re not helping, by the way.”
“Why on earth would I help when it’s so much fun watchin’ you work?”
His gaze drops to my chest.
My dress has a low neckline and spaghetti straps, and I’m not wearing a bra, so my breasts aren’t exactly hidden. In fact, they’re popping out all over, mere inches from his face.
He moistens his lips.
It’s such a simple thing, yet utterly seductive. I imagine those lips latching on to one of my nipples and drawing it into the wet heat of his mouth. Lust rips through me, razor sharp.
His gaze flashes up to mine. It’s blistering hot. “Your heartbeat just went all catawampus, darlin’.”
“Your lips are so—”
My face goes molten hot.
“So what?” he prompts, holding perfectly still.
I swallow. The heat between us is like a current on a circuit, cycling back and forth on a loop, growing hotter and brighter with every breath. My answer comes on the barest of whispers. “Sensual.”
His hand tightens on my thigh, but otherwise, he doesn’t react. Even his voice remains unruffled. “And you say I’m the one with a dirty mind.”
“I can’t help it if you have an abnormally pretty mouth,” I say, staring at the subject in question.
“Pretty?” he repeats, offended.
“Sulky and pretty, like a girl’s.” I manage to make my tone lighter, more in control, but he’s looking at me like his control is quickly unraveling.
“Now you’re just bein’ mean,” he says gruffly.
I touch a finger to the bow of his lips, then follow the curve down to the corner of his full and perfectly sculpted mouth. “No,” I say, my voice faint. “I’m not.”
Our eyes lock. Heat flashes over my body. Goose bumps erupt over my skin.
“Tell me you feel that, too,” Ryan whispers. “Tell me I’m not crazy and you can feel that.”
Seconds tick by in silence as we stare at each other. Ryan’s expression is that of a man trying to solve a fascinating, frustrating puzzle.
He abandons his drink on the back of the sofa and slides both hands into my hair. Then he pulls me closer and buries his nose in it, inhaling deeply, combing his fingers through the strands. I allow it and concentrate on quelling the tremor in my body. I dig my fingers into his shoulders and breathe in and out with my eyes closed, every nerve in my body primed to his touch.
This is unprofessional. And dangerous. You don’t do this. You never do this!
“I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do,” Ryan murmurs against my neck. “You’re in control of this. Tell me to stop, and I will.”
His intuition is preternatural. How does he know what I need to hear right now? Somehow I’ve got to make my mind go blank. Think of Reynard. Think of the necklace. Think of how close you are to being free.
Then I can’t think at all because Ryan slowly pulls my head back, exposing my neck. He skims his lips from my earlobe down to my collarbone, inhaling at the base of my throat.
“Fuck, I love the way you smell.”
His voice is guttural with desire. I bite my lip to stop the groan from escaping.
Using my hair as a tether and the circle of his arms to keep me in place, he trails his nose down my chest and nuzzles it into my cleavage. His breath is hot against my skin. His erection is hard against the back of my thigh. I lose my fight with the tremors, and a shudder runs through me.
I’m strung so tightly that when the tip of his tongue touches my skin, I jerk.
He makes a masculine sound deep in his throat and flexes his hips. I barely resist the instinct to rock against the bulge in his jeans.
Barely.
I sense that he’s smiling, but I can’t look down to check.
Soft kisses press against the swell of my breasts. He’s being so gentle. So slow. It’s maddening.
“You’re panting, Angel,” he says, tightening his arms around me. “Do you want me to stop?”
“Y
es. No. Yes. Fuck.”
His laugh is soft and dark. “Hmm. I’d say you need more input before you can make an informed decision.”
Right through the filmy material of my dress, he gently bites my hard nipple.
It feels incredible. I moan like a porn star.
Still in perfect control, he releases one hand from my hair so he can squeeze my breast. He suckles my nipple through the fabric. I whimper helplessly as fire roars through my veins.
He drags the neckline of my dress down. Warm air caresses my breast. Then I feel his hand, rough and strong, cupping my flesh, then his tongue and lips, hot and decadent, draw against my nipple.
Lost to the sensation, I arch into his mouth.
He makes that sound in his throat again and sucks harder.
My shaking fingers slip around the back of his neck. He releases my hair and cups both my breasts in his hands, nosing the fabric away so I’m bared to him. My chest rises and falls rapidly with my labored breathing. Then he goes back and forth between my breasts, licking, sucking, gently biting my nipples and the flesh around them until I’m certain I’ll pass out.
I’ve never felt quite so lavished. So worshipped. The desire to squirm on his lap to find some relief for the ache between my legs is almost irresistible.
“Talk to me, Angel,” he murmurs, circling his thumbs over the rigid nubs of my nipples. “If you want me to stop, now’s the time to say so, because next I’m gonna get you on your back and get my face between your legs and eat your pussy until you scream my name.”
Mierda santa. My body wants that so much, a riot breaks out inside me. My brain is battered with lust hormones wielding hammers until rational thought is all but impossible.
“I…I want…please…”
My voice is the husky tenor of a phone-sex operator. I don’t recognize it at all.
“That’s a yes if I’ve ever heard one,” mutters Ryan. In one lightning-fast motion, he flips me onto my back on the sofa and kneels between my spread legs.
My dress slides languidly down my bare thighs and pools around my waist. Ryan stares down at me like he’s been electrocuted.
“Sweet Jesus, woman,” he whispers. “You’re beautiful.”
Out in the dark night sky, thunder booms. The breeze picks up, fluttering the pages of a magazine on the coffee table. And my heart aches like it might be dying.
No one has ever looked at me like this. Like I’m a wild, endangered animal that needs to be treasured and protected if it’s going to survive. He might as well be a penitent kneeling in front of a cross for all the reverence in his eyes. The fervor in his gaze is religious.
He slowly slides his hands down my spread thighs. When he reaches my waist, he circles it and squeezes, learning my shape. Then he pushes the dress up past my hips, exposing my stomach all the way to my ribs, the entire time staring down with intense concentration.
He traces his index finger lightly around the tattoo near my left hip. His questioning gaze flashes up to mine.
“Dragonflies live a short life,” I whisper, mesmerized by the ardor in his eyes. “They know they have to make every moment matter.”
His eyes are piercing. “I’ve heard that a dragonfly landing on you is a dead loved one coming to visit.”
My heart twists so violently, I suck in a breath. I turn my head away and close my eyes to hide.
Ryan lowers himself onto me, resting his weight on his elbows. He murmurs into my ear, “Okay. Sore spot. We won’t go there tonight.”
The way he says “tonight” lets me know he has every intention of getting it out of me in the future, however.
But there’s no future here. This is one of those unexpected things that pops up randomly in life. A fleeting spark between two strangers, a moment in time that’s special exactly because it’s so short.
Things like this aren’t meant to last. A few hours of pleasure in a lifetime of pain is the best we can hope for.
It dawns on me that I’m being offered an incredible gift.
It doesn’t really matter that I’m here on a job and my initial intention was only to use him as a pawn to make my play. It doesn’t matter that I’ve never crossed this line before, or that I’ll never see this man again after tonight.
What matters is that this connection—this strange and beautiful thing—is real. Ryan makes me feel alive. He makes me feel special. He makes me feel seen, something I never truly am.
I’m a fool if I let him slip through my fingers when I could have a memory that could sustain me through all the dark times to come.
The decision made, I relax on multiple levels. I exhale my final resistance, take his face in my hands, and look into his beautiful eyes, the blue of opals and clear summer skies.
“No, we won’t go there tonight. But let’s go everywhere else, Ryan. Let’s go all the places we need to go. Let’s do it all.”
There’s a long, tense moment where he doesn’t respond. He just stares at me, searching my face. Then a smile curves his lips, dangerous in its intensity.
“There you are,” he says softly.
“You only have a few hours until I turn into a pumpkin,” I warn him. “Make them count.”
He chuckles. “Goddamn, I love a bossy woman.”
“Then you’re in luck, cowboy.” I pull his face toward mine. “Now shut up.”
When I kiss him, he’s still smiling.
Six
Mariana
There are kisses, and there are kisses. Slow, deep, and incredibly hot, this one wins best in show. Only seconds in, and I’m helplessly squirming.
I wonder briefly how many women it must’ve taken for him to perfect his technique, then decide I don’t care. For tonight, his talented mouth is all mine.
It’s so good, I bite his lower lip and sink my fingernails into his back, desperate for more.
He laughs softly against my greedy lips. “Easy, killer. What’s your rush?”
“It’s been too long. And you’re delicious.” I’m panting. Close to begging. Long-dormant nerve endings are waking up, ravenous with hunger, like vampires at dusk.
“Right back atcha, Angel. But we’re not rushing anything.” His eyes are dark, so dark they’re almost black. His voice drops to a growl. “I’m gonna savor you, inch by inch.”
I shiver, thrilled by the sound of that, and he laughs at me again. My eagerness pleases him. His smile is devilish. We both know he’s got me exactly where he wants me.
For now.
“Okay,” I say. “But hurry up.”
He puts a finger over my lips and proceeds to ignore my demand.
He starts at the sensitive spot just below my earlobe, investigating it with his lips, gently stroking the skin with the tip of his tongue. Then he moves his mouth slowly down my neck, pressing soft kisses every half inch, cradling my head in his hands as his lips go to work on me.
My eyes drift shut. This is heaven. I have to remember this. I have to sear this memory into my mind so I can take it out and admire it later on.
I make a small sound of desperation. He quietly shushes me. His hands glide to my shoulders. His fingers toy with the straps of my dress.
He rests his cheek on my chest for a moment, listening to the clamor of my heart. It’s terribly intimate. I know my heartbeat sounds like gunfire. My cheeks burning, I turn my face to the cushion and clench my hands to fists.
“No hiding,” he whispers, lifting his head. “There’s no hiding from me now, Angel. It’s too late for that.”
I don’t open my eyes or indicate I’ve heard him. When his hand slides around my throat and gently squeezes, my lids snap open. My entire body tenses.
Instantly, he releases his grip on my throat. His eyes search mine.
“Don’t restrain me,” I say, my voice shaking. “I can’t stand that.”
A furrow appears between his eyebrows. He considers me in silence, then speaks gently. “Thank you for tellin’ me. Do you want to stop?”
A spike of
pain pierces my heart.
Passion, I can handle. Though it’s unexpected, it’s welcome. This gentleness, though, this tender attention to my emotional state… What the hell is this? I’m not familiar with this from a man. I have no idea what to do with it. It’s terrifying.
Finally, I answer. “No. Just don’t hold me down.”
I’m rewarded with a string of the sweetest kisses all over my chest, just above where my heart is frantically beating. His voice is both soft and rough when he speaks. “Anything you don’t like, just tell me, sweetheart. I only wanna make you feel good.”
I’m dreaming. This can’t be happening. Obviously, I took a bad fall somewhere and am lying in a hospital bed in a medically induced coma.
This man is a mercenary. He was trained by his government to hunt, maim, and kill. His paranoia is such that he carries a concealed weapon even on vacation and rigs his hotel room with spy gear like something out of a Bond movie. He obviously knows I’m not being truthful about a lot of things, yet he’s handling me like a fragile piece of expensive china. Like a treasure.
Like a gift.
Desperate to get my pulse under control, I exhale raggedly. Against my skin, Ryan makes a husky coo of support. He knows I’m struggling. If he keeps this up, I’ll crack wide open.
He presses kiss after kiss to my chest, shoulders, and neck. His hair tickles my cheek. He’s heavy and hot on top of me, but I like the way he feels. I like the way he smells, clean male and soft musk. I like the way he tastes, and the way he tastes me.
I like everything about him.
Mierde! What the hell is wrong with me?
“Open your eyes,” he commands.
I look at him. He stares back at me with piercing intensity, like nothing else exists in the world except us. Enunciating every syllable, he says, “You can trust me. You have my word.”
The promise hangs there between us, dangerous as a lit stick of dynamite.
I want him to take it back. Promises are even more dangerous than explosives.
Wicked Intentions: The Wicked Games Series, Book 3 Page 5
