by Roni Loren
He gave me a squeeze. “Don’t feel bad. That’s my way. You’ll get used to it.”
I laughed and leaned into him, all the weirdness from earlier dissipating. Yes, Pike and I had hooked up. Yes, I thought he was one of the hottest men I’d ever laid my eyes on. But at the core, we were meant to be friends only. I felt it that first night, and I felt it now.
And after the emotional roller coaster I’d been on with Foster the last couple of weeks, being with someone who didn’t make everything in me turn inside out was probably just what I needed tonight.
Even if it wasn’t what I craved.
Chapter 17
“The fucker wouldn’t talk,” Foster said, staring out at the dark road in front of him.
“Shit.” A full sigh came through the speakerphone. “I thought—”
“Yeah, so did I. He said he’d only talk if I was there, but then he backed out at the last second. He told Agent Long that he didn’t have anything to say now. Someone either got to him in the prison, or he was just spinning stories in the first place.”
“I’m sorry, Foster.”
He leaned his head against the headrest, feeling beat down. “The FBI isn’t going to dig much further now that there’s no new information. They’re spread too thin to be wasting time on a cold case. I need you to take over with what little the guard overheard from this guy in the first place. He threw out a few nicknames, maybe start with that.”
“Will do, boss,” Bret said without hesitation. “I’ll see what I can find.”
“Thanks.” Foster turned into the parking lot. He’d be working with Bret for years now and knew the relentless private investigator would turn over every new rock even if they continued to find nothing under them. “Keep me posted.”
“Of course. And Foster?”
“Yeah.”
“Let me handle it and take a break. You sound like shit.”
“It’s midnight. Of course I sound like shit.” He swung the car into his normal parking spot.
“Don’t be a smartass. You know what I mean. Go get drunk or laid or something. You’ve been in a crap mood every time I talk to you lately.”
“Good night, Bret.”
He hit the Off button without waiting for a response. No way was he going to tell Bret that his perpetual foul mood had nothing to do with the investigation. The case had been part of his life for as long as he could remember—dead ends were part of his existence. Frustrating and disheartening but nothing new. No, he knew exactly what—or who, rather—had turned him into some Mr. Hyde version of himself.
Foster glanced up at the darkened window on the third floor of the building in front of him. He’d done the right thing with Cela. Taking her up on her offer for a fling would’ve been selfish. He’d seen how wide her brown eyes had gone when she’d realized he didn’t just want to dish out a little spank and tickle—that he wanted to own a woman. She’d been shocked at the prospect . . . and appalled. Not that he’d been surprised. Most people wouldn’t respond positively to what he truly desired. He’d learn to accept that a long time ago. And he couldn’t change it, even if he wanted to.
And, boy, were there times he wanted to and tried to. But he’d learned that even if he could quell that side of himself, it was only a temporary fix. He’d tried to adjust his needs with Darcy, had been easy on her when he wanted to be rough, had watered down the experience so as not to scare her away. But it’d been the worst way to go about it. He’d created a farce of a relationship where neither of them was getting what they wanted, but no one was talking about it.
Foster knew he could’ve given Cela the piped piper song and dance, could’ve softened the extent of what he was seeking, made it more palatable. He could’ve spent a few more days in her bed, constantly reeling himself in. But he was done with painting pretty pictures that only showed the surface of something. He was walking away from her to protect her from something she wasn’t ready for and to protect himself from attaching hope to a hopeless situation. She was too young and inexperienced. And she was leaving. End of story.
Of course, his dick hadn’t gotten the memo. Even staring up at her window like some pathetic stalker had his cock growing hard. “Fuck.”
He yanked the keys out of the ignition and pushed open his door. This day needed to be done. And he had to schedule some time to go back out to The Ranch. The last time had been a bust. He hadn’t been able to muster up interest in anyone after his talk with Cela. All his thoughts had stayed there with her in her apartment—those dark eyes and her paint-smudged cheeks. But he couldn’t be walking around this wound up anymore. He didn’t just need sex; he needed to beat someone—to tie a sub up and channel all his frustration into those exquisite moments where all ceased to exist except his dominance and a woman’s utter surrender.
He slammed his car door behind him and headed into the building. For now, he was going to have to settle for a hot shower and a cold bed. He trudged up the stairs, unbuttoning the top two buttons of his dress shirt before he even hit his door. Hopefully, Pike was already asleep because the last thing he felt like doing was answering questions about the failed trip out to the prison. And he’d need to be quiet because he’d originally planned to spend the night in the small town where the prison was located, so Pike wasn’t expecting him.
Foster turned his key in the lock and quietly opened the door, blinking in the darkness of the entryway. He could see the blue flicker of the television still on in the living room. He sighed. Pike was forever falling asleep on the couch with the TV still on. It was like the guy had an aversion to his own bed. Foster stepped into the kitchen, setting down his keys and his wallet, and toeing off his shoes. He was about to head down the hallway to turn off the TV when he heard Pike’s hushed voice and a soft answering laugh. A feminine one.
So Pike had a girl over. That actually could work out in Foster’s favor because then Pike wouldn’t be inclined to shoot the shit with him. He’d have to pass by the living room to get to his bedroom, so he continued walking. But when the female voice responded to something Pike said, Foster froze in his spot.
Cela?
“So it’s all about dominance?” Pike asked.
“Mmm-hmm,” Cela replied. “If you’re not in charge, it won’t work.”
Foster went icy cold, everything inside him crystallizing and cracking. Pike had Cela over on a night he thought Foster was out of town. Cela was laughing and talking about Pike being in charge. The day from hell had just turned into a waking nightmare.
“I can be dominant.”
Foster couldn’t handle another word. He rounded the corner and found the two of them sprawled on the floor, propped up on pillows like they were at a fucking slumber party.
“Just make sure you project calmness. He’ll sense if you’re not and act up,” Cela said, her back to Foster.
“Will he—shit.” Pike noticed Foster standing there.
Foster crossed his arms over his chest, trying not to let any emotion peek through his expression. “Sorry to interrupt.”
Cela’s head moved like it was on a swivel, her eyes going big in the flickering TV light. “Foster.”
Pike pushed into a sitting position. “I thought you were—”
“Yeah, well, plans changed,” he said, unable to keep the bite out of his voice. “And seriously, Pike, sneaking around behind my back? At least have the balls to tell me you want to fuck her.”
“Foster!” Cela gasped and scrambled upward.
“Whatever. I don’t fucking need this tonight. I’m going to bed. Try to keep it down.” He turned around and strode toward his bedroom ready to charge right through the solid wood of his door just to take the edge off his anger.
“Dude, calm the hell down,” Pike said from behind him. “It’s not—”
He slammed his door, blocking out the rest of Pike’s sentence. Asshole. All the
girls in the world Pike could have, and he was going to mess with the only one that Foster couldn’t bear to imagine with anyone else.
There was a hard knock on his door. “Come on, man. Let me in.”
But Foster just ignored him as he unbuttoned the rest of his shirt, one of the buttons popping off completely in his haste to get in the shower and a block out everything outside. But right as he tossed his shirt on the bed, there was another knock on the door, this one not as heavy but just as urgent.
“Foster, open this door right now,” Cela demanded.
He turned toward the door, surprised at the ire in her voice. He’d heard her nervous, he’d heard her confused, and he knew exactly what she sounded like when he drew his tongue along the shell of her ear or up her thigh—but never had he heard her angry. Despite knowing it was a bad idea, he stalked to the door and swung it open. There she stood in her wrinkled pink scrub pants and a T-shirt, cheeks stained with color, and hair a little wild—looking as enticing as he’d ever seen her.
“We don’t need to do this, ang— Cela.” He caught himself right before he called her angel.
“The hell we don’t!” She pushed past him and into his room without invitation. “You can’t just walk in and throw out accusations when you don’t even know what’s going on.”
“Well, it’s not that hard a puzzle to put together.”
She gave him a disbelieving look, then put her hands to her temples and let out a diatribe in Spanish—his shy neighbor switching into some fiery Latina mode he didn’t know she was capable of. “You’re so—ugh. I can’t even believe you’re acting like this. Pike got a freaking dog, okay? I’ve been here all night trying to help him get everything set up for Monty, to teach him how to train him.”
“He did what?”
“If you had taken the time to ask the question or see the kennel in the corner, maybe you could’ve saved yourself from lighting into Pike and insulting me.”
“Insulting you?”
She held her hands out to her side, exasperated. “Foster, you just accused me of being the kind of girl who would sleep with you and then sneak around with your best friend. Why not just call me a slut and call it a day?”
He cringed. “I didn’t—”
“Speaking of which,” she continued, apparently not in the mood to listen to an apology. “What right do you have to come stomping through here like you have some right to me anyway? You walked away. You said good-bye. Who I hang out with is not your business.”
He raked a hand through his hair. “You know why I walked away.”
“Right. Yes. You’re the Big Bad Wolf, and I’m innocent Little Red Riding Hood. Got it. Let me go find my freaking picnic basket.”
She moved to walk past him, hair whipping behind her, but he grabbed her wrist, halting her. “You know it’s more than that. Don’t act like it’s a small thing.”
Those chocolate eyes held challenge as she met his gaze. “Isn’t it, though? So you’re a little kinky. Whatever. Big deal.”
“Whatever?”
She gave a petulant little shrug, and he wanted to turn her over his knee right there.
“Okay, fine.” He kicked the door shut behind him and tugged her in front of him. “You want to play this game, angel, and know what I’m really like? Want to see what you think is such a little issue? Because I’ve had a real bad day, and there’s nothing I’d like more right now than to fuck that notion right out of you.”
That got her attention. Her eyes darted to his tight grip on her wrist, and he could feel her pulse hopping against his thumb. “Foster.”
“Am I scaring you yet, Cela?”
She glared at him, but he could see the flicker of trepidation there, the bravado faltering. “You’re trying to.”
“You’re right,” he said, leaning in and pressing his lips to her ear, the part of him he’d held back from her rising to the surface and taking hold. “Because I like that, angel. This kind of fear gets me hard.”
The soft intake of breath was barely audible, but he felt her body stiffening, every muscle going taut and still. She closed her eyes and swallowed hard. “I’m not scared of you.”
He huffed a dark laugh, the quiver in her voice giving away her lie. True to form, he was hard as hell behind the fly of his jeans.
“Sure you’re not.” He pressed a palm to the side of her face and kissed her temple. “Go home, Cela. Sorry I jumped to conclusions tonight. It won’t happen again.”
He stepped around her and walked toward his dresser to pull a drawer open and find a pair of boxers to sleep in. He didn’t want to look back, didn’t want to watch her walk out. He’d had a hard enough time with the first good-bye. But when he lifted his head, Cela hadn’t left the room, she’d simply turned his way and was staring at him in the mirror.
He frowned at her reflection. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t want to leave.”
He turned around to face her. “Cela—”
“Why don’t I want to leave?” She closed her eyes and shook her head.
Her words caught him off guard, the desperation in her voice—the want. He let his gaze drift down her body, taking in the quick rise and fall of her chest, the shadow of her nipples pressing against her top, the restless shifting of her body. The sight wrung the breath right out of his lungs.
The fear hadn’t run her off. It had triggered something else entirely—something that had glued her feet to the floor. Cela was completely and utterly turned on.
Every impulse in Foster’s body rushed past his better judgment, and good intentions died a quick death. This he couldn’t walk away from.
Oh-so quietly, he let the words pass his lips. “Tell me your safe word, angel.”
She stood there for the longest time, eyes closed, fist balled; but then as if it were being spoken by some force outside herself, she said, “Tequila.”
And the soft-spoken word was like a gunshot ringing in his ears, signaling the starting gates opening. Everything that had been building in him over the days since he’d been with her, every frustration, every long night, poured into his veins, fueling him. Tonight would either scare her away from men like him forever or it would prove him wrong about what she was and wasn’t ready for. Either way, the time for debate was done.
Tonight, she’d be his.
Chapter 18
I couldn’t open my eyes. Couldn’t move, really. Everything in me was in full-fledged panic mode—red lights flashing, sirens sounding.
But I was locked in place. Dying.
Dying for Foster to touch me. Dying to see this secret part of him. And dying to know why, when every part of my good sense said to run, my body had decided to wave the white flag.
“Eyes on me, Cela,” Foster said, his firm voice breaking through the quiet of the room and the sound of my own harsh breathing.
I swallowed past the dryness in my throat and forced my eyes open, finding a shirtless Foster leaning against his dresser, his arms braced on each side of him. The muscles in his shoulders rippled and flexed, as if his hold on the piece of furniture was the only thing restraining him from charging me.
“You have five seconds to walk out if you don’t want to be here. One . . .”
My heart was beating so fast, my chest hurt—like actually hurt.
Foster pushed off the dresser and took a step forward. “Two.”
Never had I felt like this. Not even when Dalton Roarke, the hottest guy in my high school, had kissed me with tongue during a skit in drama class. I thought I’d pass out back then, but that light-headedness was nothing compared to being under Foster’s purposeful gaze.
“Three.”
I wasn’t going anywhere. I knew it. He knew it. I shook my head.
“Two.”
He was arm’s length away now, and I could see a glimmer of his own tr
epidation behind the intensity. If I wasn’t scared before, that put me right over the top. On some instinctual level, both of us knew he was opening a door that couldn’t be closed again. This would be the before moment in our relationship—if you could even call it a relationship. Once he took that last step, we’d be entering the after. But I was mired in the quicksand already. For good or bad, I was a willing victim in whatever tonight brought.
Instead of saying one, he moved into my space and cupped my shoulders. The energy humming through him seemed to seep through my skin and make everything inside me crackle with tension. “Cela.”
“I’m still here,” I said, my voice a tremble of a thing.
“So you are.”
But I couldn’t tell if he was at all happy about that fact. I glanced at his neatly made bed—dark blue striped comforter, pristine white sheets and pillows—the bed he’d fucked other women on. Women I’d heard whimper and mewl from my side of the wall. The thought made my stomach twist, and not in a good way. I closed my eyes and took in a long pull of air. What was wrong with me? Any guy I slept with would’ve screwed other girls in his bed. That’s how beds worked.
Except mine. He’d been the only one in my bed, the only one to leave the faint scent of his cologne on my sheets.
When I opened my eyes, I saw that he’d followed my line of sight to the bed. He looked back to me, and I expected him to lead me there. Instead, his lips curled at the corner. “You wear your thoughts on your face, angel.”
“I—”
He pressed his hand over my mouth. “Enough talking. I think your mouth has gotten you in enough trouble tonight.”
I stared up at him, my words clogging in my throat and my thoughts splintering.
When he was apparently convinced I wasn’t going to say anything else, he dropped his hand from my mouth and tugged at my T-shirt, yanking it over my head. I didn’t have anything sexy beneath. I’d thrown on comfortable things after getting out of the shower and coming back to help Pike with Monty. But it didn’t matter, because Foster clearly wasn’t there to linger over lingerie. He unsnapped my bra and tossed it to the side, leaving me naked from the waist up. He cupped my breast greedily and with his other hand, grabbed my hip to drag me against him. His erection was a hard promise, the straining denim of his jeans brushing my belly.
