by J. Kenner
Her palm flew out and struck him hard against the cheek.
"Fuck you, Spencer Dean. Fuck. You." Tears glistened on her lashes. "I was right beside you for years before that show was even a twinkle in your eye, but when it did spark, you wanted it, and don't you dare deny that, because I know. I know because I'm the one you told. And I was faced with a horrible, awful Hobson's choice, and I did what I thought was right, dammit."
"You protected me."
"Yes." She sniffled, then wiped her nose on her sleeve.
"You shouldn't be the one protecting me. I should be protecting you."
Her laugh bubbled out, the sound rough with tears. "Oh my God, what are you? A Neanderthal?"
"Where you were concerned, yeah, I guess I was."
He saw a sparkle in her eyes, and the hint of a smile touch her lips.
"I should have been there," he continued, taking her hand, the connection electric. "You shouldn't have had to deal with all of that alone."
"Nice in theory," she said, as he stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. "Under the circumstances that would have been a little hard in practice." She met his eyes, her lips slightly parted, her breath coming hard.
"I'm sorry," he said, and though he wanted to say more, he couldn't. Not yet. He didn't need the words, he needed her. And so he pulled her to him, settling her on his lap, and lowering his mouth to hers. She met him greedily, teeth clashing, mouths searching, hands groping. He couldn't get enough of her. He wanted to claim her—had to claim her. Had to let her and her father and the whole damn world know that she was his, goddammit.
Roughly, he pulled her down until they were both on the ground, Brooke soft and yielding beneath him. His knee was between her legs, and he was as hard as stone. Her hands tightened in his hair, pulling him more firmly against her.
He deepened the kiss, losing himself to the feel of her and the fantasy that, somehow, this moment could fix everything. As if there was magic in it, and if he could simply kiss her long enough or well enough, he'd never lose her again.
"Please," she said, her hands going to his fly.
He groaned and almost came right then—and in the same moment, his senses returned. They were on a fucking hill, in a city park. And as gorgeous as the sunset might be, there was nothing romantic about taking her in the dirt like a damned teenager with hormones on overdrive.
"How much do you want to see the sunset?"
"What?" Her voice was heavy, lost in a sensual haze.
"Leave now, we miss the sunset. Your choice."
"Screw the sunset," she said, making his heart swell. "Take me home."
Chapter Fifteen
As far as Brooke was concerned, riding on the back of a Harley was about as potent an aphrodisiac as anything ever invented. And as for the uses of vibrators in foreplay...
Well, a motorcycle put them all to shame.
Which explained why the moment she and Spencer were through the front door of her small, comfortable house, she had him up against the wall, her arms around his neck, and her crotch grinding against his thigh. Shameless, maybe, but she knew what she wanted. Him.
It had, frankly, been too damn long.
“Well, hello to you, too,” he said, but she was in no mood for teasing, so she shut him up with a kiss.
Spencer, to his credit, got the message right away. One of his hands slid down to cup her ass, then the other moved up her back underneath her T-shirt, his palm warm against her skin.
“Off,” she begged. “Please, pull it off.”
He knew what she meant, and his hands moved just long enough to grab the hem of her shirt and pull upwards, tugging it over her head and tossing it carelessly on the floor. She reached back, unfastened her bra, and wriggled out of it.
Then she took Spencer’s hands and pressed them over her breasts, sighing with pleasure when he groaned in delight. “Do you have any idea how much I adore your hands?” she asked.
“At least as much as I adore every inch of you.”
“Oh, sure. Show me up.” She started to laugh, but the sound turned into a strangled gasp when he used his thumbs and forefingers to pinch her nipples, then capture her mouth with a hard, demanding kiss.
She opened to him, drinking in the masculine taste of him, melting under the raw sensation of his beard against her lips, her cheek, her chin. Most of all, losing herself to the heady pleasure of knowing that he was hers. To tease and touch and take.
He pulled back, dragging his teeth over her lower lip as he broke the kiss. She whimpered in protest, but he silenced her with as simple command to, “Trust me.”
Since she did, she closed her eyes and let her head fall back, losing herself to both the sensation of his touch and to the wonderful, mind-blowing knowledge that the universe had turned right-side up, and they were truly together again.
With a wicked, torturous slowness, he kissed his way down her neck, over her shoulder, and then on to her breast. She expected him to go lower, but he paused there, his tongue taking over for his hand as he sucked and teased her nipple, making threads of electric pleasure cut through her like lightning in a thunderstorm.
As his mouth performed that magic feat, his fingers explored further south, moving lower over her abdomen and leaving her skin hot and tingling in the wake of his insistent touch.
While his tongue and teeth teased her nipple, his fingers attacked her jeans, opening the button with expert skill. He tugged the zipper down, then slid his flattened hand into her skinny jeans, so tight that once he’d cupped her sex, he could only move a finger. But those movements were made with all the skill of an expert.
His fingertip teased her clit as his mouth ravaged her breast, and his other hand shifted up to hold her tight around the waist, keeping her steady as the heat of rising passion spun and whirled inside her, a hot wire of pleasure running from her nipple to her clit.
She was close, so very close, and though she knew he wanted her to go over, she didn’t want that. Not yet.
She had something else in mind.
“Wait,” she said, her voice raw with pleasure, her head light with need. “I want you inside me. Now. Fast and hard. Please, Spencer, help me get out of these damn jeans.”
“Whatever the lady wants,” he said, his hands moving with lightning speed to her hips to tug the jeans down.
Since it was May, she’d been wearing sandals, and she kicked those off easily as her own fingers found his fly and began going to work on the button and zipper.
He moved to help, starting to pull them down, but she stayed his hand. “No. You stay dressed. Just me. Naked for you.”
He lifted a brow. “I like a woman who takes control.”
She almost laughed out loud. “Good,” she said, then kissed him hard before she eased back to the small table onto which she tossed her mail. He must have seen her purpose reflected on her face, because he flashed a wicked grin, then took her by the waist and lifted her.
And then, once she was seated, he put his hands on her knees, spread her legs, and dropped down to kneel in front of her.
That, frankly, wasn’t what she’d had in mind. She wanted it hard. She wanted him to fill her, to pound himself inside her. To shake the table and make the pictures rattle on the wall.
But when his beard scraped her inner thighs, and he slowly stroked his tongue over the length of her sex, she had to concede that his plan had merit, too.
His tongue played her expertly, and she arched back, her hands clutching the edge of the table, her breath coming in staccato bursts as the familiar pressure built inside her, a warning of a coming explosion.
“No,” she whispered, wanting the explosion, but also wanting more. “Spencer, here.” Her fingers twined in his hair, and she tugged him up. “I need you inside me.”
She saw the raw heat flare in his eyes, and knew she had him. And when he eased his cock out of his open jeans and moved toward her, she inched to the edge of the table, spreading her legs even wider in invitati
on. Needing him. Needing them.
“I don’t have a condom,” he said, his voice raw.
“It’s okay. I’m on birth control. Please,” she added. “Don’t stop.”
“Never,” he promised, and to her relief, he took her fast. His hands cupped her ass, holding her steady as he eased into her, slowly at first and then with deep, powerful thrusts that filled her to the core. Again and again they rocked together, their bodies joined as one as she clutched him around the neck, holding tight and riding hard.
She felt his body stiffen when he was close, then had confirmation when his voice rasped in her ear, telling her to come with him. To go over. To please, dammit, come with him.
And then, as he exploded inside her, she felt her own body let go, and she shattered into a million pieces, tied to earth by Spencer’s strong arms that kept her tethered.
After, she was limp as a rag, but she managed to hook her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck as he carried her to the bed. There, she snuggled close, her back against Spencer's body, her rear tucked in perfectly against his hips. He had one arm around her and was holding her close, the steady rhythm of his breathing soothing her. She felt warm and safe ... and, despite the lingering pleasure, she also felt worried.
"Spence?"
"Hmm."
"This thing with my dad—there's nothing he can do about Richie since the Governor can't take back clemency once he's granted it. But if he decides to release all that stuff about your record now that we're seeing each other again, will it hurt you?"
She could feel him stiffen and wished that she'd waited until morning. Then he propped himself up on his elbow and urged her to turn around and face him. "I am what I am, and it's not as if keeping it a secret will change that. But no, I don't think it would matter. Not for the show, if that's what you mean. Just more fodder for the social media machine."
She nodded, at first accepting the answer, pleased that her father's machinations wouldn't get him kicked off the show or banned from doing Mansion Makeover, a show he'd told her about one afternoon at The Fix. "I want to bring our place back to life," he'd said, and she'd told him that she could think of no one better to do that.
But as she lay there in the cradle of his arms, she couldn't help but wonder about his tone. I am what I am.
She played the words over in her head, then closed her eyes, finally understanding the pain and frustration she'd heard in his voice. "You are, you know," she whispered.
"What's that?"
"You are what you are. You're talented and kind and smart and sexy as hell. And I—"
"Brooke." Her name was sharp and spoken like an order.
She rolled over to face him.
"It's okay," he said. "I know where I come from, and it's a long way from your father's world."
"Spencer," she began, but then paused. She knew damn well that he'd grown up being painfully aware of his background. A scholarship kid in a ritzy school. The kid brother of a convicted killer. The child of a father who had to scrape to keep a roof over their heads.
She also knew that the difference in their social statuses had bothered him. But they'd never bothered her, dammit. And he should know that. They'd talked about it over and over before their aborted wedding—but maybe he'd believed that was why she'd walked all those years ago.
If so, now he should know better.
Besides, he'd made something of himself, so whatever his issues with his past, that's exactly what they were. Past.
Surely that wasn't what she was hearing in his voice now. Spencer knew better than anyone that he'd pulled himself up.
Which meant that this was about what her father saw, and Judge Hamlin wasn't a man inclined to look beyond the barest of facts where his little girl was concerned. So, yeah, Spencer had every right to be irritated.
"What?" he pressed, and she realized she'd gotten lost in her thoughts.
"Nothing." She ran her hand along his beard, feeling his whiskers rub against her palm. "Just that I love you." She paused, realizing what she'd said. "Oh—Spencer, I—"
"Didn't mean it?" She heard the forced humor in his voice.
"No," she said fiercely, hoping like hell that he wasn't going to pat her on the head and tell her that her feelings were sweet but unreturned. "I meant it. I mean it. But I hadn't intended to say it."
She licked her lips. "It's okay if you don't feel the same. I mean, I never really stopped loving you. I just had to get to know you again. You—" She swallowed, her voice breaking on a sob. "You hated me for a while. That's a lot to get past."
"It is," he said gently. Then he kissed her, soft and sweet and so full of love that it made her feel like the most powerful, beautiful woman in the world. "And I love you, too."
She closed her eyes on a sigh. "Thank God," she said. "It would suck to be alone in this."
They both laughed, and he rolled over, pulling her on top of him. She straddled him, then leaned in for a kiss. "Can I ask you something?"
"Anything."
"Why are you doing the show, really?"
"Because of you."
She blushed with pleasure. "Liar."
He chuckled, then pulled her down so that they were skin to skin, her head nestled under his chin. "Not at first, I'll admit that. But now—even if I had to give up the Drysdale Mansion, I'd stay on the show."
"So it's all worked out? You'll end up with ownership of the house after Mansion Makeover airs?"
"Am I a brilliant negotiator, or what?"
"I'm impressed," she admitted, then drew in a breath, thinking.
"What?"
"Well, I—oh, hell. Did you talk to an attorney before you signed the papers?"
"An attorney? Well, Gregory looked over the series contract. That's my agent. And Amanda's doing the real estate deal. Why would I—"
"Because it would suck if the IRS got the mansion," she blurted, rolling over and sitting up as she spoke.
His brow furrowed. "It would," he agreed. "Do you know something I don't?"
"I thought—I mean, Daddy suggested... Oh. He was bullshitting again."
"What did he say?"
She waved her hands, annoyed with her father anew for making her worry about Spencer's solvency. "I don't remember exactly. Tax problems and money laundering allegations. All sorts of craziness."
"And all true," Spencer said, his voice as hard as his features. "Just not me."
"Oh." She crossed her legs and pulled the sheet up. "Color me confused."
He pushed himself up to a sitting position, his back to the headboard. "You still see much of Brian?"
The unexpected question hit her with the force of an avalanche. Her chest tightened, and her throat closed up. She clutched the sheet tight in her fists and forced herself to breathe normally. "No. We—um—don't really talk anymore." There. The truth. Some of it, anyway. And at least her voice sounded normal.
"Consider yourself lucky. Rat bastard screwed me."
Me, too. The thought came unbidden, but she didn't voice it. Instead, she asked, "What happened?"
"What happened is I hired Brian as my financial advisor and he screwed me nine ways to Sunday. It was a huge fucking mess there for a while, but my credit's clear now. My bank account, however, is pretty damn empty."
"My God."
"Who would have believed our boy Brian could be such a shit, right?"
She licked her lips, but didn't answer. She could believe it. Boy, could she ever.
"Did you go to the cops?"
He nodded. "I did—but I'll be honest. It was a close call. Brian's damn lucky to have any bones in his face."
She swallowed, quite certain that wasn't meant as a figure of speech. "Why didn't you?"
One shoulder rose and fell as he made a derisive noise in the back of his throat. "Because it was on me, too. I trusted him. Gave him way too much control. And I didn't pay attention. I'll toss the law at him under those circumstances, but since I was negligent, too, he got to keep h
is face. But damn, do I wish I had another excuse to put the fucker in the ground."
Her chest tightened. She knew damn well that if he ever found out the truth, she'd be that excuse.
"My turn, Angel," he said, his voice laced with gentleness. "What happened to you?"
Her blood turned to ice. "What do you mean?"
"You can tell me it's none of my business if you want to, but if we're going to keep sleeping together, then I think maybe it is. Am I right?"
She studied her fingernails.
"It's okay." He laid his hand over hers. "I'm not going to push. But if someone hurt—"
"I was roofied." She looked up to see pure rage burning in his eyes, seeping into his skin, so thick it seemed to come off him in waves.
He pulled his hand back, then clenched it into a fist so tight that when he relaxed, she saw the indentions in his palms. "Who?"
One word, and yet it held all of her pain. And the promise of painful retribution.
She thought of Brian. Of what Spencer had just told her. "I—I don't know."
His brows rose.
"I was at a party," she lied. "There was a guy and he was chatting me up. Then he got me a drink and—"
She pressed her lips together but kept her eyes wide open to fight back the tears. Stupid, foolish tears after all this time.
"Did he tie you up? I saw how you looked at the bed," he added hurriedly. "In the hotel."
She shook her head. "No. At least, I don't think so. He didn't—hurt me."
"The hell he didn't."
She laughed mirthlessly. "Well, you know what I mean. I didn't have cuts or bruises. And I didn't catch anything."
"He raped you."
"Yes." He stole her control. Violated her trust. Destroyed a friendship.
For a moment, Spencer simply breathed, and she saw the pain in his eyes along with the hint of tears. And seeing it, she almost lost her shit all over again.
"I'm okay now," she said, taking his hand, giving him back the comfort that seeing his anger and pain had given her. "Truly."
