by Maya Banks
“Ari. Honey. Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispered.
“I didn’t know,” she whispered back, shock still reverberating through her body and mind.
His lips curved into a half smile. “You didn’t know you were a virgin?”
Her hands wouldn’t remain still. They glided up and down his arms and up the slope of his neck, her enjoying every bulge of muscle, each hard ridge.
“That’s not what I mean,” she said, giving her head a small shake.
He groaned. “I need you to be still, honey. I’m trying very hard to rein myself in, but if you keep that up, I’m not going to be able to hold back.”
“I didn’t think it would really hurt,” she said, stilling her hands and body so she was in complete accord with his. “I mean in books it never hurts. It’s always this glorious . . . thing. I honestly figured the whole hurting thing was a myth to discourage girls from having sex too young.”
He feathered a kiss over her furrowed brow and let out a sigh. “I ripped in to you with all the finesse of a rutting bull. Of course it hurt.”
She gave an experimental wiggle, gauging the now not so burning sensation. Or rather the burn was still present, but it was a good burn. She rubbed against him like a cat, locked her arms around his neck and then raised her legs to loop over the backs of his, solidly linking them, keeping their bodies connected so there was no question of him pulling out.
He was right where she wanted him to be and she wanted the edge back. That flying sensation, the about-to-catapult-right-over-the-edge free-falling spiral of need, want, lust and desire, all inexorably wound together in a seamless, never-ending chain.
“Okay now?” he asked, an edge to his voice that told him her movements had done to him precisely what he was doing to her. The wait was agonizing for them both.
“Yeah,” she whispered against his neck, turning her mouth to nuzzle and inhale. She began to nibble at his throat and then ran her tongue over the slight bristle of his evening shadow as she worked her way upward to his jaw and then she licked and scraped her teeth on a path toward his ear and when she sucked the lobe into her mouth, he let out a long hiss and he finally, finally moved.
She let out an honest-to-God moan when he withdrew with agonizing slowness, but the genuine tenderness in his care of her was utterly heartwarming.
“Hold on to me,” he husked out.
His hands slid down her curves, plumping and molding her breasts, weighing the slight swells in his palms before continuing their downward trek. They skimmed her sides, slid underneath her hips and then he cupped her behind and lifted her, adjusting the angle so that this time when he entered her, he went deeper, touching parts of her that caused her eyes to widen and her mouth to round into an O.
A really big O. Corny pun absolutely intended.
“I think I just figured out what a g-spot is,” she said in wonder.
His chest rumbled with laughter and his teeth flashed as a grin widened his face.
“I feel like a virgin as well,” he said in a rueful voice.
She reared back, planting her head deep into the pillow so she could look at him. “Not to completely mimic you but why on earth would you say a thing like that?”
He smiled again and playfully tugged at several thick strands of her hair, wrapping the tendrils around his fingers while squeezing her behind with his other hand, both gestures of obvious affection.
“Because this is the first time sex has been fun.”
He sounded as confused as she was about sex, which was pretty hilarious given she had zero experience and he’d probably been around the ballpark more than once. Surely a man wasn’t this great at sex without a lot of practice.
But she drew absurd pleasure from the fact that she was his first anything. However, realization dawned that he seemed baffled by the fun aspect.
“Sex isn’t supposed to be fun?” she asked in puzzlement.
“Oh yeah. It is,” he said, his voice laced with satisfaction. “You make a compelling argument for it being very fun. It’s just that I’ve been called brooding and intense and supposedly chicks are into that. I can’t say I’ve ever laughed while having sex. But you’re so damn cute.”
He chuckled as he said the last and nudged her chin affectionately and then pushed his hips, wedging himself deeper, momentarily rendering her speechless as euphoria swamped her. She danced along a razor’s edge, the very thin line between pleasure and pain as his fullness invaded her, stretched her.
Her inner walls rippled and clutched greedily at him, trying to prevent him from withdrawing each time he began easing back. She no longer cared about the vague discomfort because the sensual haze surrounding her, whispering through her veins, was as potent as any drug ever manufactured.
“You undo me,” he whispered as his lips brushed against her ears. Said so lightly that she wasn’t sure whether she’d truly heard them or if she’d merely imagined them.
She clutched the back of his neck and pulled him to meet her mouth, sucking his tongue inward just like her body sucked his cock deeper and deeper with every thrust.
“Need to get you off,” he said gruffly. “I want you there when I come. I want to watch you experience it all for the first time.”
Finally.
He was going to give in to her desperate need. He was finally going to give her the relief she needed so badly. Her insides clenched in anticipation and he groaned, a raw, tormented sound of a man at his very limit.
“Tell me what you need,” Beau demanded. “Let me get you there, honey.”
“I don’t know!” she cried. “Just don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
Every muscle, every nerve ending, every single cell in her body was taut, tension coiling about to . . . almost . . . oh God, it was happening.
She hurtled through the air, the rush so exhilarating that it was akin to a downhill ski race, slick like snow, out of control. Faster and faster. Higher and higher.
The room blurred around her. The bed shook. There was a faint thudding sound that grew louder and the bed vibrated beneath her while Beau thrust into her from above, driving her deeper into the bed, covering her like a blanket with himself. Skin to skin. No barriers. No separation. Just time standing still for one brief moment when everything else drifted away and nothing or no one could intrude, could break the tangible connection between heart, mind and soul.
He filled her. Not just her body. He completely and utterly filled her. Her heart. Her soul. He filled her with hope. With confidence. With the knowledge he wouldn’t fail her. That he’d protect her from the outside world and would shelter her from the storms of life.
Her small hands pressed into his shoulders, her fingers curling and turning white at the tips as she held on for dear life. A painting that hung on the wall came sharply into focus and she stared because either it was a lot lower than it had been before or she was much higher.
It was then she realized the entire bed was levitating. Laughter escaped her.
“You’re not supposed to laugh right after a man just gave you the best orgasm of your life,” Beau said dryly.
His eyes gleamed with mischief, telling her he’d been intentionally arrogant in his assumption. But he was also right.
She grinned up at him. “I feel like we’re in The Exorcist. You know, the whole bed levitating bit.”
He kissed her, the soft smooching sound echoing softly through her ears.
“Or maybe we just rocked it so hard that our sexual energy was raising the roof. Literally.”
Her shoulders shook and then she hugged him to her just as the bed settled gently back onto the floor, jarring them just enough that it shook her hold on him. Her smile was likely permanent now. Never in a million years had she imagined her first time to be so earth-shattering, and her expectations had been high. And wrong, for that matter.
So good fiction was apparently just that. Fiction. At first she’d felt extremely let down, and well, she’d felt stupid and naï
That falsification jolted her back to awareness and her “permanent” smile just went south. She glanced up at his passion-laced eyes, uncertainty, something definitely not new to her, crowding in and dimming the aftershocks of something truly wonderful.
Beau’s body came down over her, concern flaring in his eyes. “Ari? Did I hurt you again? Was I too rough?”
“No,” she hastened to assure him. “I was just being silly. It’s nothing to worry over. It was wonderful.”
She was absolutely sincere in that regard. But Beau continued to study her intently, his stare probing, looking beyond the denial she’d hurriedly issued.
He bore his weight with one arm pressed into the mattress so he wasn’t too heavy and he had shifted his weight to her uninjured side so no pressure was exerted on the wound. With his free hand, he smoothed several wild strands of hair that lay haphazardly over her damp, flushed cheek.
“What were you thinking?” he softly prompted.
She sighed and made a face. “I’m not the most self-assured person and you’re going to think me completely absurd. But I was thinking about the fact that I was actually something special or at least unique to you. Because you said I was the first you had fun with. Then the thought expanded to the idea that men like you never have to worry about enforced celibacy and in fact you likely have to beat back the women wanting to get with you.”
She bit her lip, loathing having to admit the last. It was one thing to harbor secret thoughts. They were her own and she never had to worry that anyone would know her weaknesses. But Beau wanted access to those thoughts and the idea gave her hives.
His expression was still puzzled but he stared pointedly at her, obviously waiting for her response, and just as obviously knowing there was more.
“I got this really giddy feeling like a sixteen-year-old high school girl who just got asked to prom by the hottest guy in school. I thought to myself he could have his pick of women and he chose me. As soon as the thought came to me, I realized that you didn’t choose me. I threw myself at you, all but begged you to have sex with me and then made you feel guilty for turning me down. Basically making this a pity fuck . . .”
She flinched at her choice of words. They sounded stark and crude and she was surprised by them. That she’d actually voiced the last bit. The expression had wafted through her mind just as she’d mentioned him turning her down and just spilled out before she could think better of using it, and now she was ashamed at her language because regardless of his reasons for making love to her, it had been beautiful, soul-stirring, and she’d reduced it to a crude euphemism.
“Pity fuck?”
The words sounded strangled. Anger radiated from him in strong surges and she immediately regretted blurting out her thoughts in a single unguarded moment, a mistake she couldn’t take back and one that could very well completely wipe out an exquisite coming together of hearts and souls.
“Do you honestly not see yourself?” he asked incredulously.
He shocked the crap out of her by easing out of her aching, hypersensitive, swollen tissues and then simply scooped her up and carried her into the bathroom. Naked.
He gently set her down in front of the mirror and stood behind her, forcing her to look at her reflection. Color stained her cheeks as she took in her disheveled appearance.
She had the look of a woman who’d just been thoroughly made love to. Lips swollen. Eyes still glazed from the remnants of her mind-blowing orgasm and yet they glowed brightly, making them appear particularly brilliant in the lower lighting the bathroom cast.
He framed her body between his hands, one on either side of her, allowing his palms to roam freely up and down her and over her curves, to her breasts, holding them from underneath, thrusting them upward so there was no possible way not to see the puckered, taut crests, also swollen from his tender ministrations.
“You’re beautiful,” he said hoarsely. “But you’re the most beautiful in a way you probably don’t think. I’d say it’s obvious you don’t see yourself the way I do. The heart of you.”
He laid his hand over her chest, splaying his fingers possessively.
“Let me tell you what I see.”
She held her breath, yearning. So filled with hope and yet afraid to allow herself even a kernel of it when she could so easily be crushed by his rejection of her.
“I see a beautiful, loyal, brave young woman who places the people she loves before herself and her own safety. Not many people would be as selfless as you are. You gave me a gift, Ari. Do you realize how humbled and absolutely gutted I was that you chose me to be your first? And yet you don’t think I chose you? That I gave you a goddamn pity fuck?”
She winced upon hearing her words thrown back at her again. Because now, in light of his reaction, and all that he was doing in an attempt to reassure her, it would look as though she’d been chasing compliments from him. Ultimate female manipulation. And it made her cringe, not to mention feel hugely embarrassed and if possible, even more self-conscious.
“Not only do you sell yourself short and do yourself a huge disservice, but you do the same to me to even suggest I’d use my body as an object of pity. That I would pour my soul into making love to you, as you deserve to be made love to. I get that you struggle with confidence. But do not ever show yourself such disrespect in my hearing—or any damn time for that matter. Because you’ll just piss me the hell off.”
She swallowed and slowly nodded just as he leaned in to nuzzle her neck. Even as ultrasensitive as she was after her orgasm, her body reacted violently to his touch. To the sizzling heat that erupted between them when they got into touching range.
He rained kisses down the entire curve of her neck until he got to the top of her shoulder and then he simply pulled her backward, her back flush against his chest, and he wrapped his arms securely around her.
Their reflection presented such an intimate, erotic, picture in the mirror that she instantly committed it to memory, never wanting this memory to fade, to always be able to bring it sharply back into focus. Because it was one she’d never forget. A night of so many firsts for her.
He rested his chin atop her head, staring directly at her in the mirror, his gaze seeking. Evidently satisfied by what he found or that at the very least he had found what it was he was looking for in her expression, he gave her one last squeeze and then turned her around so she faced him.
He cupped her chin, his thumb whispering over her cheek. There was no anger or judgment in his dark eyes. Just unwavering resolve. Comfort and warmth spread through her limbs, infused into her bloodstream and rapidly pumped to the rest of her body. Euphoria once again wrapped her in its intoxicating embrace and she relaxed in his hold, allowing her body to mold itself to his. A perfect fit.
“Look at the mirror, Ari,” he murmured, his lips brushing the hair just behind the shell of her ear. “See how beautiful you are. Really see.”
Reluctantly, she turned and complied with his gentle request and what she saw surprised her as she looked at herself through objective eyes, as though it weren’t her, but another woman. It was as if it were the first time she saw herself without the self-imposed filter.
She looked . . . beautiful. More importantly, Beau made her feel beautiful. And desirable. Like a woman he chose, not someone he was “talked” into making love to. Now, away from that vulnerable moment when she’d been stripped bare and was so raw and exposed from the power of their lovemaking, she knew just how ridiculous her original thought—fear—had been.
Beau was not a man easily manipulated. For that matter manipulated at all—by anyone.
She wanted to apologize, but it would only make things worse and that the best thing she could do was simply acknowledge what he saw and what she now saw.
A beautiful, thoroughly made love to woman who’d just lost a piece of her heart to a man she’d only known for a very short amount of time. But at the same time, she felt as though she’d been waiting for this moment her entire life.
EIGHTEEN
BEAU quietly left the warmth of his bed the next morning, glancing at Ari every so often to ensure he didn’t wake her. She needed rest, and well, he needed . . . distance. Objectivity. Because the night before had permanently altered the course of his relationship—his supposedly objective, professional relationship—to a woman he damn well should have kept his hands—and various other parts of his body—off of. Maintained a strict level of professionalism. Not compromising his perspective and preserving the contractor/client strict level of impartiality.
Hell, who was he kidding, though. He might think he needed to distance himself, and he might acknowledge that’s what he should do, but it sure as hell wasn’t what he wanted, and he was at least honest enough with himself that he wouldn’t make up excuses or try to rationalize his breach in the professional code of conduct he and Caleb insisted their security specialists maintain at all times.
He was a flaming hypocrite and he didn’t give a flying fuck. Which meant he was in way over his head.
He hurriedly dressed and walked into the kitchen to prepare a cup of coffee, needing the infusion of caffeine to penetrate the haze of contented lethargy that fully encompassed him. What he wanted to do was remain in bed with Ari, his body solidly wrapped around hers so she awakened in his arms, warm and sleepy, that drowsy, contented look in those beautiful multi-colored eyes.
But he had work to do and a hell of a lot of catching up to do. The clock was ticking and they were working on a tight deadline. Every passing hour that Ari’s parents remained missing heightened the chances of them not being safely recovered.
If it were him, and he was the sort of bastard who’d use a vulnerable woman’s greatest weakness against her, he’d kill one of her parents, send her the evidence and then tell her if she didn’t meet their demands she could kiss the remaining one goodbye, too. And he’d take out the father, since he’d be a greater threat than the mother.
It would destroy Ari. It was something she’d never recover from, and he’d bear the weight of that responsibility—his inability to follow through on his promises—for all time. Ari would never forgive him, and he’d never forgive himself.
As he stirred in a dash of sugar in the strong brew to cut the sharpness just enough to make it palatable, his cell phone rang. It was a ringtone assigned to a noncontact, and as he pulled up the phone to check the incoming call, he frowned when he saw “blocked” on the screen.
Normally he wouldn’t answer an unidentified caller with at least some means of tracing the call but given the current status of his latest case, he couldn’t afford to miss anything.
“Hello?” he clipped out, forgoing his usual greeting of “Beau Devereaux.” No sense giving the caller any information he—or she—didn’t already know, and if it was a wrong number, he hardly wanted to relate his name that now had his number attached to it and showed up in the caller’s phone log.
“Mr. Devereaux, you have my daughter, and it’s imperative you keep her safe and out of sight. The people after her will stop at nothing to get to her.”
Beau’s forehead wrinkled, anger nipping at his nape as he tightened his grip on the cell phone. “Gavin Rochester? What the hell? Do you have any idea how frantic your daughter is? What the hell is wrong with you? You’re putting her through hell.”
“I’m not Gavin Rochester,” the caller said wearily. The man sounded fatigued and after Beau’s initial anger, he caught the thread of fear in the other man’s voice. “Ari Rochester is my biological daughter.”
Beau was on full alert now, automatically turning to ensure Ari wasn’t coming up behind him. After ensuring the coast was clear, he strode to the security room, gained access and then secured the door behind him.
The room was soundproof, and all the video feeds tying in the entire security field around—and inside—the house were displayed on the monitors. His main concern was Ari, so he made sure he was standing facing the image of her still curled contentedly in his bed.
“What do you mean her biological father?” Beau demanded, returning his attention solidly on the caller now that he was assured Ari was in his line of view. “Swear to God, if this is some crackpot call I’ll track you down and feed your own testicles to you.”
There was an uncomfortable silence as the other man seemed to be gathering courage—or at the very least the right words.
And then another thought occurred to Beau. How in the hell had this person, no matter his wild claims, gotten Beau’s private cell phone number. A number that only a few people had. His brothers. Dane and Eliza. Zack. Not even Anita had access to this number. He had a work cell and a personal cell. His person cell rarely got used since most of his brothers’ or the other single-digits people who had the number also happened to be co-workers, so usually it was just easier for them—and more natural—to punch in the number to a phone he’d answer no matter what he was doing or what time of the day the call was placed. Although last night? He’d have thrown it through the damn window if it had rung.
“How did you get this number?” Beau asked, his quick temper already displaying signs that his patience was waning. Fast.
The man also demonstrated his impatience with the flurry of questions from Beau. Ignoring them all, he simply plunged ahead.
“You’re right in that Gavin Rochester is her father. It’s a well-deserved title. He earned it. The last thing I want to do is to hurt Ari. I was young, cocky, arrogant. I’m sure you know the type.” The man claiming to be Ari’s father—bio father—cracked or rather his words did.
Indeed Beau did because he’d been that kid while in college, and he was pulled to others who displayed the same traits. While Beau had been saddled with a hell of a lot of responsibility at a very young age, college had been his form of rebellion even as he continued to shoulder a hell of a lot of responsibility for his family.
“Yeah,” Beau said faintly. “I know the type.”
The other man plunged ahead as if giving Beau no time to process much less question. And there were a lot of damn questions brimming in Beau’s mind. -->
