by Elle Pierson
“I was so – Rage doesn’t even describe it.” Mick closed his eyes for a moment. “The bastard was out on bail. I wanted blood.” His short laugh wasn’t even on the same scale as amusement. “All my mother’s fears confirmed. Her unpredictable raging bull of a son. I think she thought I would actually kill him. I’m not sure if she was worried for me at all, or if she was thinking what it would do to her standing at the club.”
Sophy could take a reasonable guess.
“Someone beat me to it,” he said grimly. “He was behind with his payments. His supplier wailed into him with a sledgehammer. I was picked up for questioning, held for an hour or two. Not a great day for my parents.”
Looking at his expression, she could imagine the scene that had ensued.
“I came out of a “discussion about my future” in my father’s office, and cut off my nose to spite my face. I’d been planning to apply to uni, study commerce. In their eyes, I was nothing but brute force, a liability to the family image. I thought, “Fuck them, then. I’ll go after a physical, active career, and I’ll make a success of it.” I signed up for the Army the next day.”
He jerked his chin, twisted slightly away from her in a short, instinctive movement. “Sean’s idea. I was prepared to do anything from mercenary work to illegal cage fighting. I left that room feeling like the thug my father branded me.”
And he’d gone on to get the degree he’d wanted, to build a life for himself.
He was an amazing man. And she loved him.
And she wasn’t ready for any of this.
“Your mother…” she said softly, pressing the bridge of her nose into the hard muscle of his bicep.
“Basically shivers in terror if I look at her.”
Her fingers curled tighter around his waist. “I’m sorry they can’t see you.”
He was absolutely still and silent for a long time. Finally, his chest moved in a convulsive shudder. The confession came out grimly, bleakly. “If I’d got there first, I wouldn’t have held back.”
Sophy grabbed his bristled chin, pulled his reluctant face down to hers, saw torment there. Shame. “Good,” she said firmly, and at last his arm came around to hold her.
Night had fallen by the time they reached her hotel and Mick had walked her up to her room. She stood leaning against the door in the empty corridor, watching him. He looked tired and a bit pensive, but he managed to smile.
“And you thought the courthouse would be the fun part of the weekend,” he said lightly.
“I don’t think “fun” is quite the right word for this weekend,” Sophy replied, taking and twisting his earlier phrase. “But I’m glad I came.”
He touched his thumb lightly to the point of her chin, and borrowed her own response. “Good,” he said.
He flicked his sleeve back and checked his watch. “I should get going. I have a meeting with Ryland’s local business manager first thing in the morning, and you have an early flight. What time do you have to be at the airport?”
“My flight boards at ten to nine. I have a ride booked for quarter to eight, and my most mind-numbingly annoying alarm tone programmed for seven.”
“Send me a text to let me know you got back all right,” Mick instructed, back to the bossy, as he straightened away from the door.
She rolled her eyes, and gave an exaggerated sigh like a put-upon teen. “Whatever.”
She caught the brief flash of his dimples before his smile closed over hers. The kiss was light, easy, affectionate. His hand came up and caught in her hair, traced the line of her ear, curved around her jaw. She slid her hands up his chest, enjoying the expensive silk feel of his dress shirt, played with his tie, wrapped her arms around his neck.
On both sides, it was only meant to be a kiss goodnight.
Then somehow, his breath was hot against her shoulder, his lips were warm against her neck, her hands were pulling at the hem of his shirt, stroking under the strip of leather belt. He slid both hands around her ribcage, lifting her toward him, and she wicked her fingers up the line of his spine, pulling a hoarse noise from his throat.
Palms gentle on either side of her head, he pulled her back to look down into her face. His grey eyes were a solid glazed black, and a streak of red slashed up each sharp cheekbone. “Sophy,” was all he said. Nothing else.
In answer, she wordlessly fumbled for the door handle, grabbed him by the buttons and tugged him inside the room. It was a graceless, heartfelt stumble across the thick carpet to the bed, their mouths fighting to cling through the obstacles of shoe removal, neck strain, and poorly situated coffee tables.
Sophy landed on her back on the mattress, dress around her hips, legs looped around Mick’s thighs, one arm trapped beneath his shirt, the other bent in a particularly awkward position under her own torso. They were both laughing a little through hoarse breaths. It was all just so – fun.
And constricting.
She was intent on removing his shirt – it was a crime against beauty that the man wore one at all. She didn’t initially notice the pressure of his weight or the changing pattern of her breathing until Mick lifted his head and his hand fell away from her zipper.
“Sophy?” A frown crossed his brow, and he swore suddenly. “Are you…”
“Not an attack,” she wheezed slightly, letting go of him with reluctance to push up on her elbows. “I’m usually okay in…situations like this. Honestly,” she said firmly, finding his mouth again in a fervent, limb-liquifying kiss. A renewed flicker of heat pushed at the creeping doubt in his eyes. “We might just have to switch up positions a little.”
She hadn’t finished speaking before Mick had whipped them both upright, turning her in his arms and pulling her back against him. She could feel the rise and fall of his chest as his lips trailed from her cheek to her neck.
One large hand linked with hers, pulling her arm up to rest against the curve of his shoulder, holding her fingers there, while the other slid beneath the hem of her dress. “The moment you can’t catch your breath,” he murmured, “you call a stop.”
His teeth scraped the hollow of her throat, and she shivered. “Not being able to catch your breath,” she managed to utter, “is not always about asthma.”
She could feel his smile against her skin.
Her mind was starting to drift into very pleasant realms as she tightened her grasp on his heavy fist, but out of nowhere words drifted forward from the buried depths of her memory, circling and enlarging until they intruded on her conscious thoughts.
A low, deep, beautifully even contralto voice uttering awful, ugly words. “I’d probably give him another go. If he stayed in the back or the lights were off.”
Her whole body momentarily seized up in a rush of cold anger and despair. Then she moved, startling a grunt from Mick, probably out of concern for the risky placement of her left kneecap in his lap. She turned and shoved, flattened him to the bed, trod another woman’s spite into the ground. Palms at his jaw, fingers spread over his ears, she kissed him, and kissed him, and kissed him, face to face, eyes open, mouth curved.
Heart terrified.
His teeth nipped at her lip before his mouth moved from hers, trailing kisses down her jaw, his tongue playful against her throat. Fingers stroked lightly up her thighs, raising shivers down her spine and forearms. She could feel him, hard and thick, between her legs, and her hips started an unconscious rocking movement.
The tight coil of tension was already building in her pelvis, and her thighs clamped against his lean hips as her body fought dual instincts, wanting to press closer, desperate to retreat from the uncomfortable tightness.
Her breath stuttered in her chest, and he froze for a second, his face tucked against the curve of her shoulder. His stubble was a rough rasp of sensation. Sophy made a quick, impatient sound, almost a crooning, and reached down to cup him firmly, tilting her palm to take his weight, applying pressure that made him swear harshly into her damp skin.
The muscles of his belly
compressed as he jerked upward, delving one hand into her hair to pull her mouth back to his. Mick’s kiss was gentle in contrast to the possessive glide of his hands down her body, his tongue flickering over the roof of her mouth in teasing circles. His fingers smoothed the fabric of her dress then gathered the hem, pushing it back up above her hips.
She raised her bottom in response to his coaxing tug, and he hooked increasingly impatient fingers into the sides of her panties, sliding them down her legs. Without breaking contact with his lips, she shifted to the side, seized the scrap of lace and tossed it aside.
Her own hands were greedy as they returned to the wide planes and grooves of his chest. She could feel his heart thumping under her palm. His skin was not merely warm, but hot, and smelled clean and soapy. Smoothing the tangled hair away from her cheek, he kissed the hollow beneath her cheekbone, murmured something soft and sexy into the grooves of her ear.
Her dress came easily over her head, and their hands tangled at his belt buckle. Their laughter was short and ragged. The expensive wool of his dress trousers was sent sailing to join her chain store panties in a neglected crumple.
At the first slide of their skin together, Sophy couldn’t hold back a slight whimper, which caught and pitched higher when his palm slid up her back to brace her shoulder and his mouth closed over an unsuspecting nipple. Her hips jerked against him again, seeking the wet slide and hard friction of his erection, and her fingers opened and closed against the side of his neck like helpless claws. He sucked hard, nuzzled tenderly, and she cried out again.
His voice was deep, rumbling, soothing, muttering broken endearments and endearingly filthy observations to the valley between her breasts. His fingertips played with the indention of her navel, stroked the curve of her hip, ran teasingly through dark curls. The pad of his thumb parted her, found her, rubbed, flicked, and she wrapped both arms around his neck, pressing her face into a taut tendon to stifle her sounds.
He sat up to open her thighs wider, wrap her calves around him, brace his thick, muscular forearms against the small of her back. They tightened and pulled her toward him as he made his first smooth thrust, shoving deep, taking her slighter weight and supporting her against the push of his own strength.
Sophy ducked her head, closing her eyes and leaning the top of her head against his collarbone. She held tightly to his shoulders as their hips bucked together, finding a rhythm that pushed her higher and wilder. Her hips were rocking from side to side as well as forward to meet his thrusts, striving to end the relentless spiralling pressure. The angle wasn’t quite right.
She jerked her head to the side, frowning unconsciously. It felt so good, and so frustrating.
With a suddenness that brought her head up and her eyes flying open, Mick pushed her forward and back flat against the mattress. His eyes were intense and dark as he looked down at her, the movement of his pelvis unceasing. He braced on his elbows, keeping the bulk of his weight from her, and slid his hands back under her shoulders. His mouth met hers again, and Sophy lifted her legs, wrapping them high across his back. The new position drove the coiling tension of nerves into overdrive, and she made a stifled cry against his lips. Her heels scraped down his jolting body, digging into the hollow of his spine.
Despite her asthma and the current pop culture fascination with tantric poses and spanking, she had always been a missionary girl.
Her arms reached back and over her head, her palms pressing against the headboard. Forcing her eyes open, she saw the flash of Mick’s dimple as he returned again and again to kiss her. There was a slippery sheen of sweat on the backs of her thighs, and her heart was thumping, but her lungs seemed to be holding up, thank God. Wild horses wouldn’t drag her from this bed to the emergency room.
Mick shuddered against her as his climax took him, and she brought her arms back to hold him, almost protectively. Before his body had begun to relax, his hand was slipping back between their torsos, between her legs. He circled and rubbed with strong fingers, while his other hand cupped her face, bringing it to rest against his neck, until her orgasm shattered and she bit down hard against his jaw.
They lay there, still intimately joined, sweat sticking their bodies together, breaths coming in rough pants. Their hands sought each other, coming to rest against the pillow, on either side of her head.
Their fingers linked.
She woke up in a patch of sticky sunlight and clammy sheets. A heavy arm was draped across her torso, one large hand spread over her upper stomach, just below the fall of her breasts.
Yawning, she stretched, smiled, and touched a light fingertip to the closely shaved hairline. Her palm smoothed over his head where it was buried in the pillow. The skin of his scalp was warm beneath the roughness of stubble.
The sleepiness fell from her in a slow drift that sped to jolting alertness as realisation replaced dream. She froze, her fingers unconsciously tightening on him.
Well, fuck.
No pun intended.
A chaotic multitude of emotions was warring in her head and stomach: anxiety, excitement, dread, happiness, love, anxiety…
“Sophy.” The bed shifted as Mick rolled to his side. He nuzzled his face in the curve of her neck for a moment, breathing her in. Warm lips moved to her arm and the upper curve of her breast. They had closely matching scars on their sternums, only his was the result of a guerrilla knife attack and hers was from a septic cat scratch.
That seemed to offer some sort of metaphor for her life she was going to choose to ignore.
“Good morning,” he said, raising his head. His voice was a sleepy, throaty mumble.
She managed a smile, hoping her face was displaying post-coital shyness, not morning-after terror.
He frowned, destroying any illusions as to her acting abilities. “Are you okay?” he asked, coming up on one elbow.
He wove gentle fingers into her snarled mass of her hair, sifting it back from her face, forcing her to creep out of hiding. His eyes looked intently, searchingly into hers. There was a shade of doubt there that she found she couldn’t bear, despite the wariness and the unspoken questions digging claws into her throat.
Rescuing an arm from the tangle of blankets, she held her hand to his cheek. It was rough and earthy with a thick layer of stubble. He smelled so good – warm skin overlaid with a whispered hint of cologne. She rubbed her thumb against his dimple.
He dragged the backs of his knuckles down her own cheek, bent to press a kiss to the corner of her mouth. “I’m going to have to be really crass and skip out before breakfast,” he said quietly, watching her closely. “I have a meeting in Manukau in considerably less time than it will take to drive there, and I have to get back to my hotel for a shower and a change of clothing.”
“That’s okay,” Sophy returned huskily, and hoped that he couldn’t hear the underlying “Thank God”.
She desperately needed time to think.
“I’m not late, am I?” she asked, holding the covers against her bare breasts and struggling upward to look at the bedside clock, as he rolled out of the bed and pulled on his pants.
Mick looked up from his zipper and reached for his shirt. “You’re fine. It’s not quite seven yet.”
He laced his shoes, slipped his phone into his pocket, and paused. He watched her as she sat in a crouch, the sheet held modestly under her chin, hair in her eyes, lashes still at half-mast.
His expression was difficult to read, but it altered as a blush spread over her cheeks, becoming more tender. He leaned over and kissed her once, lingeringly, on the mouth. He ran his fingers down her bare arm. “Fly safely,” he ordered softly, and then he was gone, closing the door quietly behind him.
Sophy dropped back among the pillows and stared at the ceiling. She felt as if someone had picked her up and moved her to a new square on the chessboard when she wasn’t looking. Everything still looked familiar, but the view was different and she wasn’t quite sure where she was, or if she was happy to be here.
The flight home was free of turbulence, but her immediate neighbour was a nervous flier who kept up a running commentary from take-off to landing. Sophy couldn’t be wholly sorry for the distraction. She felt like there were home truths looming that she wasn’t quite ready to face yet.
Melissa had texted to say that she had a Sunday night date to the roller derby, so wouldn’t be able to pick her up, so sorry, kisses. It sounded wildly improbable, given her cousin’s total disinterest in doing anything remotely athletic, but Sophy had no problem getting the courtesy coach into town. It was one of the few advantages of living in a hotel zone.
She was dropped off with a stream of tourists just one block from the house, and walked home with her bag slung over her shoulder. When she arrived at her front door step, she was greeted by ecstatic spasms from Jeeves – and the sight of another mystery box.
One arm around the dog’s neck, trying to fend off an unsavoury French kiss, she grabbed the carton and yanked it open with more impatience than caution this time. It was a complete set of her favourite oil paints. She rarely did much painting, mostly because she tended to go through gobs of the stuff and her preference was for a particularly expensive brand.
She ran her hand over the row of tubes, tracing the rainbow progression of colours. With everything that had happened with Mick, she’d all but forgotten about her unknown benefactor.
Her peaceful existence suddenly seemed to be inundated with men.
The sound of a ball hitting the concrete and the squeak of sneakers drew Jeeves’s attention, and he ran to the fence to bark his displeasure. Sophy rose to her feet and saw her teenage neighbour shooting hoops in his driveway.
She started to wave, then stopped and leaned over the fence. “Kenji,” she called. “Have you been out here for long? You didn’t see anyone drop off a box at my house, did you?”
