Detained (8 page)

“Because I don’t care what your name is, and I want you to.”

God, he might expire in those eyes, at the touch of her warm soft skin. “I’m not just staying for dinner.”

She wasn’t smiling, but she reached up and undid a button at the neck of the dress. “I don’t intend wearing this all night.”

He saw cleavage, the edge of a plain black bra. He saw the night spread out as a feast of pleasure. “Is that a dare?”

Now she laughed. “No, it’s a fact.”

“I need to know another fact.”

“You don’t get my name unless I get yours.”

“No names. No recrimination. No regrets.”

“Spoken like a gun runner.”

He huffed a laugh. “I’m not a pirate. I need to know where you draw the line. What’s too much?”

“Are you clean?”

“Right.” He grinned. There was no bullshit to this girl. “Yes. I have to be to use the services of a very fine pleasure house.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and toggled the screen, used the Wi-Fi in the room to print the report. It identified him by number for privacy reasons, but it’d have to do.

She spun around looking for the source of the whirring, walked across to the desk in the corner and picked up the print out. “Very efficient.” Her eyes went down. “But hardly current.”

“It’s current. It’s been a while.” She didn’t hide her surprise. “Are you on birth control?”

“Yes. Pills in the drawer by the bed.”

Roadblocks cleared, he was starting to feel light-headed. “What can’t I do to you?”

She closed her eyes, swayed slightly. This was getting to her too. “Don’t hurt me.”

Fuck, that gave him a lot of room to play in. And hurting her was the furthest thing from his mind. He wanted to make her scream, but not from pain. He knew men who got off on that, women who craved it. Not him. Life was painful enough. True pleasure too infrequent.

He moved to the bedroom doorway. No more hesitation. He was insensible to anything but his lust now. He wanted her writhing under him on the big bed, the city spread out behind her. He pulled his polo shirt over his head, and tossed it on the sofa. His body wasn’t pretty, but he was in good shape. Her eyes popped at the full view of the scar on his pec, the thick burn mark across his ribs and the tattoo banding his bicep.

“We eat later.”

They faced off, a mass of expensive furniture between them, but she was already inside all of his senses. His fingers tingled. He could smell the roses, but knew she’d smell of vanilla, her own scent, not bottled perfume. There was something easy listening playing on the stereo but it was the wrong mood. It should’ve been the organised chaos of heavy metal to match the thumping of his heart. This wasn’t going to be a delicate moment. It wasn’t going to be forgettable. It was Jimi Hendrix or Nine Inch Nails.

The anticipation of stripping her naked and tasting her skin was making it hard to stand still. But the way she was looking at him, like she knew this was her last chance to change her mind, kept him fastened to the plush pile.

She moved, skirting around the sofa, stopping just out of reach. “What if I hurt you?”

“Not possible.”

“I don’t mean physically.”

Could she hurt him in other ways? Had any woman truly hurt him? Only Jiao came close, but that was absence, not hurt—a habit lost, not another permanent scar.

“Not possible.”

“Cocky.”

He grinned. It was the perfect description.

“Arrogant.”

Now she was really warming up. “You know me.”

“Not all of you.”

He unlatched his belt, popped the button on his chinos. “I’m not stopping you trying.”

Her hand came up to the buttons on her dress.

“Leave that for me. Come here,” his voice crackled like he’d been on a three day bender.

“Didn’t anyone teach you ‘please’?”

“It didn’t stick.”

He brought his hand up and curled his fingers in a come here gesture. Her gaze went to his hand, she flushed. Was she remembering what he’d done with those fingers inside her? Was she as aroused as he was? He could be on her in less time than it took to swallow. Instead he turned and walked through the doorway into the bedroom.

“They must often change who would be constant in happiness or wisdom.” — Confucius

He was a pirate. He was a gun runner. He was an opium pusher and a slave master. He was everything in a man Darcy normally avoided. Arrogant didn’t come close to describing him. Cocky was an endearment. But she could hardly breathe from the excitement of hearing the thud of his shoes hitting the floor in the bedroom, and the sound his zip made as he ripped it down.

He expected her to come to him, but he was letting her choose.

Hell—no he wasn’t.

He’d wound her up like a toy programmed to respond to his commands. Knowing that should’ve made her feel sick. She didn’t hand her independence to anyone.

She heard a drawer open and close. He’d checked for her slide of pills.

He’d lied.

He had to know her name. She’d told him where she worked. He’d have used that. Figured out the rest. A man this used to being in control wouldn’t risk not knowing who he’d put up in his complimentary suite.

She went to the doorway of the bedroom. The quilt was puddled in a cloud on the floor. His pants were draped over the arm of a chair. He was propped up on the pillows, in the middle of the bed where she’d slept last night, the sheet pooled around his waist. She couldn’t look away from the straight line of his broad shoulders, the hard ridge of muscle in his chest that fell to ripples down his abdomen.

The two bedside lights blazed and he looked at her with pure expectation in his eyes.

“You’re a liar.”

He didn’t expect that, but only a flick of his chin gave it away. “Everyone lies, gorgeous. What do you think I lied about?”

“You know my name.”

“I know a whole hell of a lot more dangerous information about you than your name. I know what you look like when you come. Like you could fly.”

He spoke like a poet, like a lawyer. Like a man who knew the measure of words, not one who’d struggled to learn to read. He didn’t deny it. He was a liar and God knows what else, but she couldn’t wait to crawl across the wide expanse of bed and have his hands on her.

“I didn’t lie to you about anything that can hurt you, gorgeous.”

“What did you lie about?”

“I’m a gun runner.”

“I’m serious.”

“No lie, you’re beautiful.”

“That’s irrelevant.”

“Not from where I’m sitting. Are you going to let a little thing like me being untrustworthy stop me from making love to you?”

“I should.”

“You won’t.”

“Are you always so sure of yourself, of what other people will do?”

He didn’t answer, but a lopsided grin spread across his face.

“I think I hate you.”

“Not yet you don’t. Come here now.”

“It’s too bright.”

“I told you I wanted to see you.”

“You gave me darkness last night.”

“That was last night. I’m a liar and I’m inconsistent.”

“I need my head read being here with you.”

He sat forward, braced on his hand, the muscles in his forearms bunching. “Do you want me to go?”

Darcy’s tongue was cement rendered to her palette. She forced a tight instruction out. “Stop.” She could do this if she knew he’d listen. If she had some control of her own.

He sat back, stretched his arms out along the line of pillows with a lazy grin of triumph fixed on his face.

She moved to the side of the bed. “Arms behind your head.”

He laughed, voice thick and smooth like heavy satin, but complied, lacing both hands behind his head, and slumping down on the pillows.

“Is it a problem I’m giving the orders?”

“It’s an unexpected pleasure.”

“I want to touch you. I don’t want you to move.”

“And what do I get for being so co-operative?”

“Me.”

“Gorgeous, I’ve had you since the virgin chicken.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“That’s why you’re wet for me. Strip.”

He was right. Darcy’s hands shook. She wasn’t sure she could undo the other buttons without needing help. She wasn’t sure of anything except being with him was inevitable, and delicious, and stupid. His look burned her skin, made it zing like the first rush of a too hot shower. She fumbled the remaining buttons undone, let the dress fall to her feet and stood there in her mismatched underwear.

“I want you naked.”

She couldn’t do it. She knew her body wasn’t fashionable. She had hips and a backside. And despite the yoga she wasn’t toned to magazine image perfection. The family joke was tables had better legs. And his body was incredible, even with the scars that marked him. And the room was too bright. She went to turn off the light nearest her.

“Leave it.”

Hand on the switch, their eyes met. He repeated, “Leave it.”

She turned it off.

“Fine then—but the bra goes.”

“So you do know how to compromise.”

“I know how to win. Do you want me to do it for you?”

She did. She didn’t. She saw nothing in him to suggest he didn’t like what he saw. She unhooked her bra, let it slide down her arms and watched his eyes flare with satisfaction. Then she leant across and switched on the light. “You win.”

His grin stood in place for the word ‘always’. “Come here.”

She knelt on the bed, then crawled across to him, aware of his eyes eating her up. “I’m going to touch you now, but you’re not to move.”

He made a growl sound, a rumble from his chest, but sat still. She pulled the sheet back, peeling it slowly away from him, till she could see all of him. The jut of his hipbones, the flat of his belly. He had another burn scar on his thigh, tightly muscled calves, high insteps and squared-off toes. He had an erection that made her gulp and every interior muscle clench.

“I’m not feeling any touching,” he said.

“Patience.” She knelt at his side. She was gathering herself before she lost herself.

“I’m not known for it.”

She swept her eyes back to his face. “I might’ve guessed that. But you do know about restraint. You were restrained last night. You wouldn’t let me touch you.”

“If I remember rightly, you were restrained, and I wouldn’t let you argue with me. You’ve got ten seconds.”

“And then what?”

He laughed, his hands came down from behind his head to line the pillows again. Ready to pounce. “You want me to tell you or show you?”

“I want you to sit still.”

“Obedience isn’t my thing either.”

“No kidding.” She shifted to sit across his thighs. Put both hands on his ribs and smoothed them up and over his pecs to his shoulders. She leant forward and put her lips on his collarbone, her nipples grazed his chest, the light blond hair there creating a delicious itch.

“You want to sit a little closer, woman.”

She licked across his collarbone to the hollow at this throat. “I want to do this in my own time.”

His head kicked back against the pillows. “That wasn’t my plan.”

“Got somewhere better to be?”

He snickered, “I’m almost right where I want to be.” He pushed down on the bed so she was bounced further up his thighs. She had to grasp his arms to stop falling into him.

“You’re the devil.”

“I’m working on it, angel.”

“Sit still.”

He groaned. “You’re pushing your luck.”

She knew it. His body was vibrating under her hands, hot under her lips. She put her hand to his face, traced her thumb over the white line under his chin, then followed it with her tongue. He brought his head down and caught her lips in a wet kiss, but let her pull away.

She slid up his body so she was exactly where he wanted her to be and the air came out of him in a slow swoosh. He had both fists full of pillow and his eyes were black bright with desire.

She rocked against him, his hardness and heat. Her own restraint in tatters; her body arched, breasts thrust high, breathy sighs her only language. She forgot he was dangerous. Forgot she was reckless. Forgot her own name. All that was burned away. All she was left with was rolling flickers of electric sensation. Every nerve ending sparking, every muscle firing with pleasure. If he touched her she might become smoke, but burning alive would be glorious.

In one fluid movement he palmed her hips, pulled her down harder against him and flipped her on her back. Part of her wanted to resist, to cry out at the injustice of his disobedience. She wanted to take him, master him, but he was too big, too strong, too everywhere, and her ability to think had dissolved to nothing.

She was made entirely of feeling. His lips and hands and tongue, the racing sound of his breathing and the bite of his fingers. He did what they’d both wanted, and had held back from last night. He was all about her. Wringing reaction from her body with every stroke, press, pinch and thrust.

A spiral of intensity built inside her. It dragged in every thought and emotion she’d ever had and wrapped them tight, stirred them up, blew them apart. She fought it, tried to wait the force of it out, let it wash over her, but he was relentless. He took her to the edge with his fingers, with his tongue, and when he finally entered her she was wild with the need of him, scoring his back with her short nails, biting the skin on his neck.

Beyond the tremors, in the soft comedown, in the silence that held only their panted breath, she played her fingertips though his thick hair. He was heavy, but she knew he was braced on his elbows so not to crush her. He’d made her feel new-forged, but he hadn’t lost himself. He wasn’t relaxed, he wasn’t at peace. Under her hands his muscles were still rigid. She was amazed and grateful and worn out, like she’d done a yoga marathon. But she was also resolved. She needed food, she needed sleep, and then she was going to unravel this man like he’d done to her. Take away his anchors and make him float, give him wings so he could fly too.

“Hold faithfulness and sincerity as first principles.” — Confucius

She needed to sleep, but he needed to feed her first. She was everything and more than he expected. She’d let him open her soul up; see everything inside her, all of her without covering, without pretence. It humbled him. She was something else. Nothing he’d experienced before. It could become a problem.