Entice (Hearts of Stone #2) (21 page)

He knows what I want; he can feel the evidence all over his fingers. But I know he means more than sex. He made it clear he wanted more from the first night we slept together.
 

I take a moment to gather my thoughts, which are clinging over the edge of a blissful cliff. "I'd say…someone who doesn't want to change me, or make me something I'm not."

"That's me," he says, bringing his thumb to stroke my clit as his finger remains inside. "I can give you that."

"Owen," I breathe at the jolt of ecstasy shooting through my core. In an attempt to gather myself, I turn my face to his and crane my neck to reach his ear and whisper, "You're going to make me come. And that man's going to hear."

Owen smiles, but doesn't stop. His strokes pull on my orgasm, stringing it along further even as I desperately try to hold it back. I shut my eyes and tilt my head back onto his shoulder, gazing up at the black sky. "You're going to regret this," I hiss.

"No, I won't," he whispers.

I bite down hard on my lip again and when I take in a sudden, trembling breath, Owen releases his hold on me, pulling his hand away. It seems all my blood is pumping into my clit, which now throbs painfully in dissatisfaction.

"I fucking hate you," I whimper, grinning.

"Wait for it," he says.

"For what?"

No more than three seconds pass after my question when the sky overhead erupts into a brilliant array of colors. Being in the bay during the New Year's Eve fireworks show is like landing in the middle of an explosion. The sounds clatter and echo around us, reverberating against the buildings in the distance and rolling back toward us like waves. Owen's fingers come over me again, faster and more furious than before. The orgasm that seemed to have dissipated roars back to life in an instant. I turn my face to his again, feeling utterly helpless under his touch, unsure of how I'll keep from screaming out loud. His lips close over mine just in time, and the trembles of my long, satiated moan, trickle into his mouth, muffled and safe from prying ears.

He kisses me, long and with purpose. And when he pulls away again, hands smoothing my dress down carefully, Owen brings his lips to my ears and says, "Here it is in black and white, Emily. I've wanted you for a very long time. First, I wasn't brave enough. Then we weren't in the same place. But now we are. You're here. I'm here. And I want to be your man."

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Well past midnight and nearing the end of our drive back, Owen takes an unexpected exit and pulls the car over. He parks along a side-road bordered by an empty parking lot and an office building, abandoned this time of night. The only sounds are of the highway nearby.

"You doing that…is distracting me," he says in a deliciously strained voice.

"What is?" I ask.

Owen's zipper is undone and my hand is firmly wrapped over his long, hard shaft. Stroking it.

He groans and tilts his head back onto the headrest. "I can't even see the road anymore."

"Good thing you pulled over then," I say, leaning over to run my tongue over his length. He sucks in a breath and lays a hand on my shoulder, caressing me, urging me on.

"I got us a room," he says, breathing heavily. "It's not far from here. We can make it."

I peer up at him. "Can we?"

He shuts his eyes in resignation and I take him into my mouth. His body tenses and relaxes in waves as I work my mouth over him, pulsing, tasting, and using a hand to pump the part of him that I can't fit into my mouth. I'm incredibly turned on by the way his body reacts to me and, peering up, his face strains under the sensations I'm delivering.
 

For the first time, Owen is at
my
mercy. It's my turn to show him what a slow burn feels like. To squirm under the need and feel helpless in the wake of someone else's touch. I weave my tongue over him, massaging him, and guiding him deeper into my mouth at faster intervals. Until his breathing reaches an all time desperate rate.
 

"
Wait
," he hisses, eyes closed. "Ride me."

I pull him out of my mouth and take him into my hand, stroking as I reach into my purse for a condom. My eyes feast on the sight of his impressive cock as my hand glides the thin, latex material over it.
 

The air around me is electrified by the anticipation of taking him into me as I pull off my underwear and, hiking up my dress, climb over him. Our movements are frenzied, his hands fly to my waist as I slowly lower myself down onto him, relishing every inch until my thighs touch his and he's as deep inside as he can go.

"Damn," he whispers, hands closing tightly over me as he guides my rhythm. I'm overwhelmed by how badly I want him, even as he weaves in and out of me.
 

He pulls one of my breasts from the low neckline of my dress and brings his mouth over it, tongue teasing over my nipples. I moan out and wind my hips.
 

There's something empowering about giving myself to Owen, knowing all the while he worships every second of it. Knowing I've been in his fantasies for longer than he's been in mine. Watching his face contort with the waves of sensation that part his lips and fog up his eyes as I ride him vigorously.
 

And I feel like I'm dancing, winding my hips so easily and freely, swaying to the sounds of the groans rumbling from his throat and the moans that rise from my own. I ride him straight into an orgasm, nearly collapsing over him in fits of moans. He's not far behind, holding me firm against him as his hips jerk toward me a few more times before he groans out in relief. And the sound is so delightful, his sudden, rough thrusts so titillating, it yanks another orgasm out of me. My hips move without my consent, rocking to the pulses of ecstasy that rip through me in a blinding glare of light.
 

It's not until Owen pulls my shoulders back, too soon and too abruptly, that I realize the blinding light isn't a figment of my imagination or the product of an intense orgasm.
 

There is a very literal light pouring into the car and illuminating every inch of our surroundings. Lights from the police cruiser parked behind us.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

I plant my feet carefully on the ground, palms clenched. The same palms that apparently turned on Owen's hazard lights. An accidental move that drew the attention of the police. But what I'm focused on is not falling over and looking like a drunk. I'm not drunk, just dizzy with nerves. Police officers in general make me anxious. It doesn't help that the cruiser's headlights bathe over me like a spotlight, shrinking my pupils and making it hard for me to see anything.

As though realizing that, the officer in front of me makes a cutting motion with his hand toward his cruiser. The headlights cut out, switching to the dimmer parking lights. I can finally see a little better without the exaggerated brightness.

The man that stands in front of me, examining my ID card under his flashlight, is a decent looking twenty-something-year-old with short blond hair and a serious expression.

A breeze sweeps in, making me hyper-aware of my panty-less state. I'm still wet and throbbing with lingering sensations. Owen is beside me now, hands hanging loosely at his sides, expression unreadable.
 

I think idly of how there are special kits for law enforcement to test for gun residue on someone's hands. And I wonder if there's a kit to test peoples lips to confirm they've been mouth-fucking someone in a parked car. And, well, literally fucking someone in a parked car. Which, I'm sure, has to be a misdemeanor. At the very least, it's a charge the average person wouldn't want a judge reading out in the deafening silence of the shocked courthouse.

I plead not guilty, your honor. I was under the influence of a sexy motherfucker
.
 

The cop fixes his stern brown eyes on me and asks, "Ma'am, do you know this man?"

I nod. "Yes. I do."

He examines my ID card again. "Have you been drinking tonight?"

"No. I have not."

"What do you do for a living?"

"I'm an attorney. Not a prostitute, if that's what you're wondering."

I shoot a sideways glance at Owen, standing silently beside me and staring deadpan at the cop, who seems to be avoiding his eyes.
 

And I wonder, bitterly, why
I'm
getting all the questions.

As if hearing my thoughts, the cop straightens and points his flashlight at Owen. Owen blinks and turns his face away from the light, visibly annoyed. My stomach sinks. I'm sure Owen's unapologetic expression is only going to make this worse for the both of us.

But the cop's lips turn up and he shuts off the flashlight. He pushes the button of the radio on his shoulder and says, "Miller, get out here. You're gonna love this."

I pull my shoulder back, feeling alert, and uneasy at not knowing what the fuck is going on. The second cop, who I assume to be Miller, approaches from the police cruiser.

When Miller sees Owen, his face lights up and his hands clasp together in feigned shock. "
Well, look at this
. Mr. Perfect caught red-handed."

Owen rubs his face, impatient. "Don't be a dick, Miller. You're embarrassing my woman."

My eyes widen at Owen's words, but Miller doesn't bat an eye and carries on as if he didn't hear him. "I was wondering what you were doing with all your leave days. Guess we finally have an answer."
 

The gears in my brain turn slowly as I piece together what those words mean. The blond cop, standing closest to me, begins a horribly failed attempt to suppress a growing snicker, which finally bursts out of both him and Miller in the form of hysterical laughter.

Owen looks on the verge of laughter, too, as he shakes his head. "Fuck you guys."

I think this is the first time I've ever heard Owen curse.

Miller gathers himself and addresses me for the first time, taking a few minutes to give me a sympathetic smile and a moderately chastising speech about taking sexual activities indoors. I'm only half listening to him, too preoccupied by the vision of Owen as I picture him in a police uniform. Radio at his shoulder, his thick, muscular arms on either side of him, hands lingering close to his belt, at the ready. The image fits him so perfectly that I wonder how I didn't see it before.
 

Owen's a cop.
 

I'm too distracted to listen to the conversation that follows between the men. I'm gazing at Owen, unabashed. And when his eyes fix onto mine, it's not a fleeting look. It's a full-on stare, like he's peeling away my layers and not worried about who notices. I'm consumed by those hazel eyes, which sometimes lean toward green other times toward honey.
 

This man brings me to my knees with the simplest of looks. He's honest and sexy and unbelievably good-natured.

This man is mine. All mine.

CHAPTER THIRTY

I'm not the only one who has an eventful New Year. Lex doesn't come home New Year's night. I would worry if it weren't for her simple, albeit slightly cryptic text:

[Emily…thank you. See you tomorrow-ish.]

I can only take that to mean things with Leo went well. Can't say I'm not surprised. What I wouldn't give to have been a fly on that fall, hear what he could have possibly said to her to keep Lex from running in the other direction at warp speed after his grand reveal.

The weekend that follows is an intoxicating and exhilarating fog of Owen. He starts back at work on Monday after having taken a few weeks off to settle his father's business. Monday is also the day of my interview. So, since I'm not moving into the loft until the following weekend, Owen and I spend the weekend together at his apartment.

Guilt squirms in my stomach at the thought of having Owen all to myself for two whole days. But he insists it's not an issue. Landon spends nearly every weekend with his aunt. It's easy to see why Landon prefers hanging out with his cousin than with the father he doesn't know and can't seem to connect with.
 

Owen and I talk about all of this, on and off, never letting the mood get weighed down for too long. Still, I read the layers of hurt underneath his casual references. He and Landon are finding it impossible to connect with each other, both pushed into an awkward and untimely relationship.
 

There are many other things that Owen doesn't say explicitly but I can read between the lines. It seems Landon's mother never talked to him about Owen and so the kid was left to assume his father wasn't in the picture by choice. The kid's grandparents were the ones to break the news to him that his father didn't know and that once he did, he wanted nothing more than to be part of his life. But by then, it seems, the damage had been done.

Owen's sister, Callie, is a few years older. She's an oncologist and—if the fact that she owns a house in Del Mar complete with a guesthouse is any indication—the woman's pretty well off. Lucas moved into her guesthouse after he discharged from the hospital.
 

Something about Lucas' recovery doesn't ring true to me. A heart attack requiring his children to rally around him with such force, making him quit his job, sell his loft, and move into a guest home to keep a closer eye on him? It all makes me suspect there's more to the story.
 

I don't ask Owen what's really going on. Our conversations still have a layer of protective coating over them as we test the waters, tentative. Unsure yet how far into topics we can submerge ourselves without going in too deep, too quick.
 

I immerse myself, instead, in him, in our weekend together. Because, as he points out, we won't see as much of each other once he returns to work. His schedule is demanding and mine is about to get hectic as well.

Our weekend has a distinct feel of a honeymoon in January. And by the time Sunday evening rolls around, we accept, with a frustrating reluctance, it's time to leave our self-made paradise of his king-sized bed and face the real world.